Why Can’t I Quit Drinking

This vignette represents just one of the hundreds of days and nights I spent while abusing alcohol.  On some mornings the hangovers were worse, and I had to go to work. Sometimes the blackouts occurred sooner in the evening. This example follows a typical day for me during the last two years of my active drinking.  

6:00 a.m.–My alarm buzzes.  I hit snooze.

6:07 a.m.–I hit snooze again.

6:14-6:45 a.m.–I repeat the above cycle several times.

6:45 a.m.–I’m awake.  I didn’t die.  My head feels like it’s filled with sharp rocks, my stomach rumbles and teases me with the sensation of nausea, and my eyes feel as dry as a desert.  My heart leaps into my throat: what happened last night?

6:47 a.m.–Somehow I wearily sit up in bed and slowly walk into the bathroom.  My face reveals part of the story:  my mascara ran and formed raccoon eyes which I managed to smear across my face.  I feel a dull pain in my right knee, so I bend over to inspect it.  Purple bruises dot my knee and shin. What the hell, I wonder to myself.  I start to get light-headed, pull my upper body to an upright position, and brace for the dizziness that I know will start in 3…2…1.

6:49 a.m.–I might need to vomit, so I get over to the toilet, my body bent, arms outstretched across the open seat, and I wait for that disgusting sensation of saliva as it fills my mouth.  I look at my reflection in the toilet water.  We meet again, I think to myself.

I want to die right now.  How did this happen again?  Why can’t I quit drinking?

Fast forward to the afternoon:

4:45 p.m.–Most of my hangover has dissipated.  I did manage to take something out of the freezer to cook for dinner.  The kids play upstairs or outside.  I lie lazily on the couch, waiting for my signal (5:00) to kick off the evening ritual.

5:00 p.m.–I turn on the television to watch the 5:00 news.  My mood begins to improve, and I go to the kitchen to open bottle #1 of red wine.  I tell myself that I’ll start cooking in thirty minutes; I just need to cop a little buzz before performing the major mommy duty of making spaghetti.  As I sit on the couch and turn up the volume, I stop and take a long, warm sip of wine.  Just as it always has, the sensation of the wine filling my mouth and sliding down my throat ignites my desire to numb the feelings of boredom and loneliness.

5:30 p.m.–I decide to wait until 6:00 to start cooking.  I’ve finished two generous glasses of wine, and all the jagged edges in my head have smoothed out nicely.  The kids come in the house laughing and screaming.  I don’t mind one bit.

“Mom, I’m hungry,” complains my 6-year-old.

“Dinner will be ready in one hour,” I proclaim to the kids, wondering why I didn’t give myself an hour-and-a-half.

6:25 p.m.–Bottle #1 sits empty on the counter.  I proceed to open bottle #2 and pour myself another big glass of wine.  I don’t think I want to cook dinner anymore.

6:30 p.m.–All three of my kids come in the house, complaining that they are now starving, and they begin to pluck snacks out of the pantry and fridge.  Thank God.

“Are you still making spaghetti, Mom?” my nine-year-old asks.

“Do you want spaghetti, or would you rather have yummy Bagel Bites for dinner?”  I ask them (I am quite the manipulative genius right now!).

“Bagel Bites!” the kids all yell in unison.

6:35 p.m.–I turn on the oven, forgetting to take the baking pans out of their storage space, and top off my glass.

7:00 p.m.–Again, the kids come to harass me on the couch.

“Mommy, I hungy,” my toddler whines.

“Oh, I forgot to put them in.  Let me just owwwww!  Crap, these pans in the oven are flipping hot!  Get back kids!” I yell, and the kids scatter.

7:18 p.m.–The oven timer beeps obnoxiously as I get up to refill my wine glass.  Thank goodness my husband is gone on a business trip.  Not only would Bagel Bites not count as dinner, but he’d be keeping track of  the number of glasses I’ve had. I carefully take out the pan of dinner snacks and place them on the stove to cool.

“Come and eat!” I shout to my kids.

8:00 p.m.  I walk into the kitchen to pour yet another glass of wine, and I notice that all of the Bagel Bites are gone.  Make dinner for the kids.  Check.

8:15 p.m.–I’m out of wine, dammit.  I tell my nine-year-old to watch her brothers, and I hop in my car to go buy just one more bottle.

8:17 p.m.–I decide to go to the liquor store down the road since there are way too many cars at the corner store.  I walk inside, pick out a bottle of $18 red wine, and pay for it with a credit card.  I justify the $18 spent by rationalizing that I won’t look like an alcoholic since alcoholics only drink cheap, under-$10 wine.  Why would an alcoholic buy an $18 bottle of wine when she could buy a $7 bottle?  Again, further proof that I’m a genius.

8:20 p.m.–I am so not an alcoholic, I think to myself as I climb into my car and drive home, focusing intently on the road, and praying to Jesus that I don’t get pulled over or hit anything.

8:25 p.m.–When my car is parked in the garage, I let out a massive sigh of relief.  No police cars or ambulances.  I made it home in one piece, and the kids are okay, as well (I think). Thank you, sweet Jesus.

8:30-9:00 p.m.–The kids manage to bathe themselves; my oldest washes the toddler’s hair, scrubs him with soap, and carefully gets him out of the tub.  I walk in the bathroom as she’s beginning to dry him off.

“Mom, you spilled wine all over your shirt again,” she points out to me.

“Oops, I sure did,” I reply as I take off my shirt and forget to replace it with a clean one.  “Bed time, guys.  Night-night. Oh, and you can sleep in my bed since Daddy’s gone.”  That should make up for the crappy dinner, I think.

9:00-11:30–In my drunkenness, I proceed to call various friends and relatives on the phone, one by one, attempting to have some kind of a conversation with any person. Some indulge me for a few minutes, while others don’t bother answering my call since they know what to expect.  I won’t remember any of the conversations in the morning.

11:35 p.m.–I smoke one more cigarette and walk inside to observe the status of the kitchen:  empty wine bottles, spills all over the counter, dishes piled in the sink.  I’ll deal with it tomorrow.  

The crazy thoughts start flying through my head.  

Do other mommies do this, too?  

What the hell is wrong with me?

Why can’t I quit drinking?

I crawl into my bed, snuggle up to my sweet babies, close my eyes and hope I don’t wake up.

As difficult as it is to write about these events, I know that in sharing part of my story, I can help others who might relate to all or part of my experience.  I am grateful that I no longer have to live my life in such chaos and sickness.

(This post first ran on esperanza.)

About the author:  Laura Cárdenas Schwarz is a 40ish woman/wife/mother with over four years of recovery from alcoholism.  She started esperanza life and recovery coaching, LLC where she helps other women, both in and out of recovery, to discover, define, and develop their hopes and dreams for a better life.  She blogs at www.esperanza4you.com/esperanza-the blog, and you can find her on Twitter @esperanza4you.