Insanity, defined

5/7/2018    

The insanity of alcohol abuse boggles the mind. My drinking is slowly destroying the trust of everyone around me. I’ve created anxiety and resentment, worry, disgust and dread in those I care about most, all while completely stripping raw any shred of self-esteem I may have had left in me.

One recent week marked a new low.

My pattern has been drinking anywhere from 9-16 beers every other day. I’ve been trying to cut down the amount I drink each ‘drinking day’ but it rarely works. The times when I only have 8 or 9 beers in house I usually end up taking a shot or 2 of straight vodka or—even worse—mix whatever old crap we have in the house with soda to keep my buzz on. Last week that took the form of brandy with orange soda—a disgusting combination however way you look at it-- but a necessary evil when that insane drive to keep drinking takes over your brain.

Sunday starts my drinking week, and on this particular Sunday, my husband “Tom” and our older son left in the family car for Costco at 3:30. Exactly 5 minutes later I hopped in Tom’s car, carefully checking his tire alignment before pulling out so I could put it back identically and he’d never suspect I’d left to get more beer. It worked like a charm.

Monday morning came, and Tom couldn’t find his car keys. “Do you know where they are”? he called to me. I was pretty sure in my stealth I’d put them back on the key rack where he’d left them. “No. Why would I”? I answered.

“I don’t know, did you take my car yesterday to buy beer”? “NO”! I fired back immediately, feigning insult at the mere suggestion. But of course I had done just that, so without him seeing I casually peered into my pocketbook and DAMN IT—there was the carabiner clip to his key ring! I palmed it and went over to the key rack in the kitchen. His keys were indeed there but he hadn’t recognized them without the blue clip attached. Ever so slickly I grabbed them and put the clip back on at the same time.

“Here they are”! I said, and he bought it. He hadn’t seen me put the clip back on it and had no idea I had lied about taking his car to cover up yet another beer run.

It’s hard to understand how low lying and cheating about drinking can take your psyche over time. Because just when you think you’ve reached your bottom you manage to dig yourself a little deeper into despair as you continue to lie to the people who mean the most to you.

Monday was of course a “day after, and full of regrets” day. As always I needed a long nap in the morning to recover from alcohol-fueled restless sleep. And I told myself I would not drink again until Friday. How hard could that possibly be?

Tuesday came around and I was still feeling strong by early afternoon. But sometime after 2 the beast began calling me. Tom had an event to go to straight from work and wouldn’t be home until at least 9pm. Even though the days of when the kids were little and blissfully unaware of my drinking were long gone, knowing Tom would be home late and I wouldn’t have to pull off a “family dinner” was still a huge trigger for me, and just like that I resigned myself to be slave to the beast once again.

After taking my younger son for his doctor’s appointment on Tuesday afternoon I dropped him home and went straight to Target for “food”. Of course my main reason for going was beer.

I was thrilled to come home and discover that both of my teenage sons were taking naps. I quickly unloaded my Miller Lite bottles into the fridge, keeping two in hand to retreat to my favorite drinking place: In front of the computer where I could lose myself in social media and music while drowning my brain in alcohol.

To my shock and horror my older son “James” woke up merely 2 beers into my binge and asked if I could drop him at the school to play soccer at 5:30. It was barely 4 o’clock.

He saw I was drinking but I had to play it cool. I’d stop drinking now, I told him, and by 5:30 I’d be fine to drive him. “Ok fine,” he said. “As long as you blow under the limit. He was referring to the keychain BAC device my husband had bought on Amazon. Sadly, my kids can rattle off all of our State’s DWI BAC limits without skipping a beat. They know the drill.

“Of course”! I said, smiling. But inside I was dying, screaming, and --most of all-- plotting.

Two beers marks just about the time the euphoria kicks in and the frenzy of not wanting to stop begins. Now my plans had come to a screeching halt and my booze brain didn’t like, not one little bit. Ideas on how I could pull off the act and still get drunk immediately flooded my mind.

I clearly would have to stop drinking until 5:30. But that left plenty of time to get back to my party-of-one, hide the empties and sober up a tiny bit before Tom returned! “Can you get a ride home”? I asked my son.

“Why? So you can keep drinking?”

“What? No! It’s a beautiful day today, if you can’t get a ride home can you walk”?

The idea that he would buy my ruse, even for a second, was an insult to his intelligence.
James has always been the more perceptive of my two sons, and when it came to my drinking he had developed the sleuthing skills of a pro. He could hear the “Psst” of a beer bottle opening through earbuds and could smell even a sip of booze on my breath. He could easily tell the difference between “Buzzed Mommy” and “Drunk Mommy” by mentally calculating the level of droop in my eyelids and the slur in my voice. And he knows ALL the tricks in my book.

“Okay fine,” I said. “I’ll pick you up”.

His expression told me he was skeptical but it resolved the debate for the moment and I had plenty of time to figure out a Plan C (C, for Continue drinking). Had he counted the remaining beers in the fridge? I wondered. Would he count them again when he came home? Probably. What if I filled my empties with water and reattached the caps? I thought that could work. Would he make me show my BAC when I picked him up? I had an answer for that too—I would sabatoge the BAC keychain and say it broke.

It seemed there was no limit to my creativity when it came to finding new ways to lie to my family about my drinking.

5:30 finally came around and annoyingly my BAC had gone UP from the.02 it showed 20 minutes earlier to .03. “Still under the limit though, its fine” James resolved, as we headed off to the high school. I figured he’d be done in an hour or so and I could get 3 or 4 more beers down in that time. Since my first 2 beers had pretty much worn off I knew that I could pull off sober 4 beers in as long as I wore sunglasses, and it was plenty sunny outside. Yes! The beast was happy.

Barely an hour had passed and I’d just finished my 4th beer (my 6th beer actually, but the 4th since the re-start) when James texted that he was done. “On my way”! I texted back, and blew into the BAC machine for my own knowledge. It said .16. I knew my real BAC was much less, as these BAC readers are inaccurate unless at least 10 minutes pass after swallowing alcohol. I was more likely at .10 or .11. Both of which are legally drunk. I donned my big blue sunglasses, popped a piece of Trident spearmint gum in my mouth, got into the car and picked up my son.

As soon as I got home I resumed drinking again, knowing that if James asked me to blow for a BAC I could blame it on the inaccuracy of having just freshly swallowed. But he never asked. My plan worked.

Later that evening he told me he was glad I was able to stick to my word to not drink while he was playing soccer. And with that, another little of piece of me died inside—killed by the beast in my brain that puts altering my mood with booze above truth and trust and everything else I value most in life.

My James, my sweet, smart, sensitive boy who, because of my behavior, felt obligated to become my supervisor. He worried about my drinking and what it was doing to my health and to us as a family. And now I had managed to pull off a night of drinking without him suspecting I’d broken his “rules”. Betraying his trust without him knowing somehow felt even worse than if he’d caught me red handed.

I had all day Wednesday to let the reality of my guilt stew in my soul.

Thursday became a repeat of Tuesday. Drinking wasn’t an option, I told myself, and there was no reason I couldn’t hold off until Saturday, when Tom and the boys would be gone all day long at an amusement park out of state. I could even day drink on Saturday, and maybe sleep it off a bit before they came home.

My life had become an endless cycle of planning how to pull off my next binge while upsetting my family the least, and the only way to accomplish that always involved sneaking, hiding, and lying.

Of course by Thursday afternoon I was drinking again.

 

 

 

 

 

My Infancy Debriefing: “What was going on when you were born? What kind of families did your mother and father come from? Was your mom and/or dad and adult child?" (An exercise in overcoming childhood trauma as part of my therapy).

My mother has always said that I was her only “planned child”. Modern translation: I was the “Band-aid” child. My parents—AKA “Alec and Lil”--were both 21 years old when they married in 1961. Good Catholics that they were, they had four children by 1965.

When my mother was 8 months pregnant with her 4th child, my father confessed that he had been having a serious affair with another woman. Three days later she went into labor and delivered my brother, their only son. 

Having no other choice, my mother plowed forward with caring for their children while my father continued sowing his wild oats. It was during this period that she sought the counsel of the local parish’s priest. She was desperately loyal to Catholic doctrine, but also recognized that having more children at that point went against all common sense. The priest told her that, despite the Catholic church’s staunch opposition of birth control as a whole, she had to do what she felt was right in her heart, for the good of her family. With her conscience clear, she went on birth control for the first time. 

About 4 years later, my parents came to believe that all was good in their world once again. Was this a delusion fueled by false hope, or denial, or by (Catholic) guilt? It's anyone's guess--but the affair was ancient history, and the power-couple of Alec and Lil were back in the game. A completely imbalanced, immature, dysfunctional game mind you--but a game nonetheless.  

"A perfect time for another baby!"--said no one in that situation, ever.  Except my parents--they thought it was a fabulous idea.  I was conceived, and born, not long after. 

Their marriage was, of course, not the second coming of Christ they'd hoped it would be. Old doubts gained new traction. Perspective gave deeper roots to resentment. Time and maturity were the kryptonite of my parents’ marriage, it seems, because by late 1973, it became crystal clear to both of them that they were out of options; their relationship had passed the point of no return before I was 4 years old. 

At that time, my father Alec was an NYPD cop who walked the beat in Times Square. This was at the height of the civil-rights movement, as well as the free-love, hippie way of life—with midtown Manhattan perhaps being the epicenter of it all. It was a job only those with very thick skins could endure unscathed. He was not one of those people. 

My dad is a walking paradox. The mystery and excitement of Manhattan drew him like a moth to the flame. Times Square in the 60’s and 70’s was oozing with sex, drugs and experimentation, which was scandalously titillating to him, as was the prestige and valor that went with being a police officer. 

At the same time, he was a pensive, artsy, easy-going mama’s boy who hated confrontation. Where battle-of-wills are concerned, my father takes the medal for having the most consecutive duels with all the different aspects of himself.   

It was a difficult time for any empath to be an NYPD cop, and for my dad, the job ate away at his soul. Everyone agrees that he was a problem drinker during this time. He was never violent or aggressive when he drank—quite the opposite. From my understanding, drinking turned off the emotions that managed to escape his many barriers, and only made it easier for him to avoid facing feelings (of course, avoiding feelings is something he’s always done, and continues to do, despite not having a drop of alcohol in over 4 decades).

If my mother wasn’t born a strong woman, life’s circumstances surely made her one. She is the oldest of four, daughter to two first generation Italian-American parents. There's a full 16-year age gap between she and her youngest sibling. Her childhood, like most, was full of both joy and sadness. 

The joy comes from having lived with extended family for most of her young years, creating wonderful memories with their musically-gifted brood: Dinner tables full of lovingly prepared banquets, and spirits to mellow the mind. And always, a guitar strumming, along with voices harmonizing to barbershop, doo-wop, or The Beatles. 

The sadness, because her brother wound up in jail at 14, and her mother died of cancer at the age of 42. 

Cancer is a monster now, but back then, when treatments were extremely limited, it was Satan himself. My mother was only 21 when her mom died, a mere 10 days before her first child--my sister Ann--was born. Her youngest sister, Joanie, was just 4, and as the life was fading from my grandmother's eyes, my mom promised her she'd always have Joanie's back--a promise she would never break. 

My father was an illegitimate child, which was a pretty big deal at the time he was born in 1941. But as was standard practice of that time, the truth about his biological father and everything that went with that story was pushed under the rug. Until, that is, the rug was yanked from underneath his feet. 

While going through the process of marrying my mother, a birth certificate was required. It was only then, when he was 20 years old, that his mother realized the gig was up, and she had to explain why there was a stranger’s name on his birth certificate. 

As it turned out, she gave a very rudimentary explanation at the time—the man he’d known to be his father his whole life actually was his stepfather. Normally, a disclosure of that magnitude would bring on a tsunami of questions, along with emotions. But that’s not how Alec rolled. 

This revelation about his biological father was huge, for sure. Actually, it was TOO huge, so instead of the potentially introspective, life-changing event it could have been, emotional blockades instantly locked into place, like roller shutters on urban bodegas at night, and nothing of substance could pass through the heavy barricades. 

At any rate, there is no question that I was born after an early rupture in my parents’ marriage that they either thought had been repaired, or that they thought my birth would repair.  But before I turned 4, they broke up for good.