Un-Happy Hour

Saint Sober Day

Ah, Saint Paddy’s Day. The time of year known for its’ festive parades, kiss me i’m Irish t-shirts, and green Guinness beer served by the bucket full, has come upon us once again. A magical time shielded by the protection of fairytale Irish folklore, when anything goes and inhibitions are locked tightly away for the day, the week, or the month, depending on where you happen to live.  

This time of year brings back a flood of memories for me, well, a flood of hazy memories at least. You see, every year in Savannah, Georgia, River Street comes alive with loud music, lots and lots of free flowing booze, and a river dyed green just to mark the occasion. A sea of drunk not-so-Irish men and women, but willing to dress the part for the day, cram the streets and local bars hoping to borrow a little luck from the Irish.  

At the ripe old age of 20, I was one of those young women, just hoping to get lucky enough to fool a few bartenders and street cops into believing that I was actually of legal age to drink.  It’s hard to believe that this was 22 years ago, and I can still remember how sharply the Canadian whiskey burned as it slid down the back of my throat and even more disturbingly, how it looked coming back up. Although I had drank before and even been drunk before, I had never had a night quite like this.

At that time, I was smack dab in the middle of an abusive marriage, one that I was still stupidly trying to save.  I was surviving off of very little calories in an effort to please my dear husband, and had lost quite a bit of weight. I had not eaten all day and being the inexperienced drinker that I was at the time, I didn’t realize the danger in plying my undernourished self with liquor on a hot, sunny day. My friends and I, unsuccessful in obtaining any alcohol the traditional way, settled for the next best alternative plan.  In retrospect deciding to get drunk off the liquor we had brought with us in the car prior to heading out for the nighttime festivities, probably wasn’t the smartest of plans. To make matters worse, I had the oh so brilliant idea to chug a large volume of straight whiskey hoping that in doing so, it would help me maintain my buzz throughout the night.  Although my friends tried to convince me to slow down,  I was determined to have a good time and at least for a little while, forget about the life that was waiting for me when I returned home. 

Even back then at such a young age, alcohol equated to happiness. The next few hours were all a bit foggy, but the next thing I clearly remember was waking up in the car, puking my guts out repeatedly, and being watched over by a parking garage security guard.  My friends had helped me get back to the car so I could sleep it off, while they continued to venture out where the action was. I have vague memories of stumbling around the garage trying to unsuccessfully find a bathroom. I was a total drunken mess, covered in vomit, with what I am sure was an extremely high blood alcohol content, and completely miserable.  

Why do we allow ourselves to drink with such reckless abandon on days like these?  Why must a celebration turn into a regretful experience?  One that if you are lucky enough to survive and actually remember exactly what occurred, you will forever think back upon and cringe. 

One would think that after a night like this I would have learned my lesson.  That drinking to excess would be the absolute last thing that I would willingly choose to resort to, to get away from it all. I wish that was how my new love affair with alcohol ended.  Like young puppy love, sweet and intoxicating one day, bitter and regretful the next. If only that one day and night of drunken tomfoolery had been enough to forever set me straight, but, in fact quite the opposite happened.  Something was sparked inside of me that day.  A fire was ignited in my already genetically predisposed brain, the same fire that had been quietly hibernating inside of me, just waiting to be awoken.  Despite all of the embarrassment and the wicked hangover I had the next day, I had actually accomplished my goal. I did manage to forget for a while. I was able to feel numb, therefore feeling no pain in the process, and I did get to be someone else.  That is why alcohol became so seductive and so alluring to me.

Now, at age 42 and newly sober, as I prepared to hit the streets to commemorate the beginning of what will be a two week celebration in the place I now call home, I couldn’t help but think back to that day. The day my life should have and could have so easily ended right there in the middle of all of those people on River Street. 

As I looked around, I stopped for a moment to pause and take it all in.  I couldn’t help but wonder how many of the people around me would wake up the next morning and go on to carry this day with them forever, like I have carried my St. Paddy’s Day story from so many years ago.   Or worse, how many would have this day serve as the catalyst to a lifetime of drunken days and nights until they find themselves ready to change, if ever?  Would any of them wake up and decide that they no longer want to struggle to remember what they may have said or done the night before?  But, mostly I found myself thinking about how incredibly grateful and overjoyed I was to be experiencing this day completely sober.  In the 231 days since I have quit drinking, I have never felt healthier and more happy to be alive. 

So, as the world prepares to embark on a global celebration of Irish culture this month …….What will your story be?