Alcohol, Cocktails and Other Adult Band-aids

There was a time when I was drinking, but it wasn’t socially and I wasn’t happy. A household where the adults are slapping adult band-aids on the problems isn’t going to be a healthy one. Let’s unpack all the alcohol and cocktails, shall we?

A history of trouble

When was that and why? That answer is easy. The time in my marriage to mr horrible spent in New Jersey.

I went from collecting unique and rare bottles of wines from my travels to stocking cheap bottles of local wines. I had a fully stocked bar and six packs of beer, at all times in my house. The inventory never lasted for a long time and there was a lot of turnover. Perhaps much of my weight gain may have been the fact that I was drinking so many of my calories?

State of inebriation

My miserable experience has shown that any time spent in the state of New Jersey is best spent in a state of inebriation.

Couple that with a failed marriage, being friendless and alone. As I coped with keeping silent on the adultery that was happening around me waiting for the court date of my divorce. It was a good thing I rarely left the house because it had to be afternoon in some part of the world!

Unless I had errands to run I didn’t leave the house. By the end of 2012 I had been cut off financially by mr horrible forcing me into a indentured servant form of house arrest. I wasn’t going anywhere unless he allowed it basically.

My children either rode a bike to school or caught the school bus so being sober wasn’t a requirement. If I had managed to not drink during the day, which was possible during the weekdays because mr horrible would leave for work uber early, I didn’t have to see him most of the day.

It was, however, a freaking guarantee that if his arrival home was imminent, I had begun drinking at least an hour or two prior, cushioning the blow of his return from work smelling like the sweat of cavorting with another woman in the back of his or her car.

Apologies to all women future and past

I retract any statement I may have ever made in my youth where I stated any disgust for a woman who sought to drown her sorrows at the bottom of a glass.

I can commiserate with the activity now and see how easy it would have been to slip into the arms of alcoholism. If it wasn’t for the ounce of self-respect I had left, and the love of my children, I probably would have succumbed. Drinking heavily was a band aid to my problems. It kept me from having to deal with my emotions, and that was fine.

I couldn’t heal while sleeping with the enemy. How did I survive living in hostile territory? I look back to my time in the enemy camp and I wonder how I ever made it through.

I received a disturbing phone call the other night. It was the late night ramblings of mr Horrible as he slurred his way into the phone conversation, all pretense of polite conversation gone, as he demanded to speak to the children. Granted, it was the Sunday night on a three day weekend, and he didn’t have work the next day and they didn’t have school and we were all awake, but really? He is still doing this?

The high functioning alcoholic

Something I struggled to reconcile was the heavy drinking he did during the first seven years of our marriage.

After the violence, the belligerent yelling, the emotional abuse and his alcoholism had taken it’s toll, he swore he was going to quit, and he did. For four years he was dry and it seemed like the relationship was going to work out. I knew that our marriage was on shaky ground again, but was in DEEP DENIAL, when he started to drink again. It began innocently enough “tasting” my glass of wine, then pouring himself a little bit.

Dead inside

I think inside I had given up subconsciously because I didn’t stop him and I didn’t ask him why. By the time we moved to New Jersey, he was back to his rum and cokes and buying beer and vodka the way people buy milk and bread. I knew things were bad but my mind was in shock, and I didn’t speak up, I just died inside.

This was all a flash back. I don’t like when he calls all liquored up because he rambles on about how much he misses them, makes the kids feel guilty because we missed his call earlier. He should have called back knowing we can’t call him back if he is calling my cell via Skype, duh! Yada, yada, yada. He is pathetic.

I know he is drunk because he’s not a night owl and the only time he stays up past 9pm is when he is too drunk to notice it has gotten late. I know all of this and it irritates me to the core. It reminds me that for a time I had succumbed to the numbing balm of alcohol to soothe my battered soul. I don’t like any reminders that I may have had anything in common with mr horrible…

Alcohol is not a band-aid

I still enjoy a glass of wine, and the occasional beer. I can drink them to savor the flavor, relish the refreshing taste of a well made Corona-rita at the Mexican restaurant down the street. The bottle of wine lasts longer now, finding a home in my refrigerator door for days if not weeks.

A six pack of beer can be enjoyed through several dinners instead of one binge drinking evening session of “forced family time” with mr horrible, pretending I didn’t know about him and his married girlfriend. Pretending I didn’t want to break the bottle on the edge of the coffee table and plunge the jagged edges deep into his carotid artery.