Un-Happy Hour

After almost a year of therapy, I still can’t quite pinpoint the exact moment I went from what most people would consider a “normal” drinker to a raging, yet secret alcoholic. Perhaps it was in me all along, but I didn’t recognize the signs. I didn’t heed the warnings or listen to what my body and my mind were trying so desperately to tell me. The truth is, I don’t think there is an exact moment that anyone can point to and say, that night, that party, that brunch, or that hangover. That is the one that put me over the edge. That is the exact moment that I reached the point of no return. I think it varies from person to person and is a culmination of events and circumstances. For some, it is genetic and starts the instant that very first drink and the alcohol within it courses through their veins. For others, it is more of a learned behavior, a result of trying to fit in with society. For many, it is a result of years of trying to hide from and forget trauma. The lack of ability to develop, form, and utilize healthy coping skills. For the truly fortunate ones, like myself, it is a combination of all three. Make no mistake, I chose to walk down this path. To run towards the bottle, and away from all of the people and things that could help keep me grounded. Admitting to myself or anyone else that I had a problem, would mean having to give up the one thing that made it possible to get through the day, to fall asleep at night, and to breathe without having to feel the pain that was bubbling just under the surface. It was my solace, my confidant, and my friend. Always welcoming and never judgmental. Somewhere along the way, alcohol became exclusively about escape.