Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 228

You guys,

It was a very long dream, one of those dreams that feels like it takes up most of the night. 

Usually I have anxiety dreams—teeth falling out, not having part of my uniform for the big game, waitressing and I’m in the weeds—but this was a pleasant one. It went back to pre-kids, when Sam and I were in the honeymoon phase of our relationship. What made the dream different from real life was that we didn’t drink anymore—we had figured out then that life was richer without alcohol. In real life this has taken us a lot longer. 

Sam and I rarely drink these days. It only happens a few times a year when we’re with extended family, like when we went to Puerto in June and I drank five nights in a row. It was never more than three glasses of wine and I always stopped early so that by the time I got into bed I felt mostly sober, but it still ruined my sleep and made me sluggish the next day. 

When we went to Hawaii with just me, Sam, and the kids, we traveled for twelve days and I drank a glass of wine with dinner on three nights. I didn't want any more than that because what used to feel like relaxation and enjoyment now felt like I'd just taken a sleeping pill. I didn’t want to feel tired and slow as we headed into bedtime with toddlers. I needed to be alert, on, and ready to read five books with gusto. We hadn't planned to drink at all, but one night we went to a restaurant and as I sat there I thought it might be nice. The kids were tired because of the time change and I was feeling a little stressed out and it was a nice restaurant and let me just peek at the wine list. We each got a glass of something red and there is still something that happens when I take a sip of a red wine I like. A smile forms on my lips and I think, this is nice, this is vacation, this is deserved, this is celebration. But I know the consequence of drinking more than one glass: sluggishness, a poor night's sleep, fuzzy the next morning, a slight but definitely present feeling of depression.

Of course it would make more sense to not drink at all.

I think I was subconsciously battling these thoughts the night before my parents and sisters arrived from New Jersey. How much would I drink during their four-night stay? A little each night?

In the dream, I had a college reunion to attend and went alone. I knew there would be lots of drinking but I didn't even care. I would watch everyone with curiosity and amusement. It felt so good in my body to not drink and to not want to drink.  

At the reunion, I met up with lots of old friends and watched others from afar who I remembered partying with. I got to talking with one girl who I'd known but didn't know well—I think she was a soccer player—and quickly realized neither of us drank anymore. We buddied up and had deep conversations about our new life and we stuck together the whole night as everyone around us devolved into drunken hysterics. I saw people crying, I saw people doing keg stands, I saw people shoving their faces in the way that drunk people do when they suddenly realize they're starving.

The next morning, as soon as I woke up (in the dream still), I felt a twinge of guilt. I'd never texted Sam to tell him about my night. I didn't even text when I had arrived. I think I took the train in, and must have been nervous about directions and meeting up with people so it slipped my mind. 

I sent a happy text, something like, "Morning! So sorry I didn't text, it was hectic when I arrived and I completely forgot!" He didn't respond, which was unlike him, and I wondered why. Something prompted me to check Instagram, and that's when the dream turned into a nightmare. I'd posted dozens if not hundreds of photos. At first I thought my account had been hacked but slowly I knew I'd posted them. They told a story. Some pictures didn't make sense, as if I didn't know I was even taking the picture, as if I didn't know I was posting them on Instagram. A shot of the floor or a wall with nothing on it. There were no captions, no likes. But some showed me with other people, red solo cups, laughter. I didn't remember any of it.

I'd been so sure of my sobriety, so pleased with myself, but somewhere along the way, somehow, I caved and succumbed to the debauchery. How could I have drank like that—drank at all—when I found it so unappealing? But then I joined in. And I blacked out.

I woke from the dream, my shirt damp with sweat, and had a tickle in my throat. I was starting to get a cold. Sam was asleep in bed next to me. He wasn’t mad at me for getting wasted because it didn’t happen. It didn’t happen, I reminded myself. 

I hadn't been sure of my drinking schedule that week but now I decided I would at least not drink tonight. I didn't tell Sam just in case I changed my mind. That's how it goes with drinking. I waffle, contemplate, weigh the pros and cons even though I know the right answer.

The problem with my relationship with alcohol now is that I still have to make these decisions. If I gave it up completely it wouldn't be a thought in my head. I wouldn't have to expend any of my brain space on this. It would be off the table.

The reason I don't—or the reason I haven't yet—is because rules never served me well in the past. I used to have rules around calories and food and running. Like if I ate more than 1200 calories in a day then I'd better run a mile for each extra one hundred calories consumed. Those rules led to a constant berating of myself, and that constant berating led to self-hatred. It was when I let go of the rules around body image that life started to brighten.

Right before my family arrived after 4:00pm Sam asked if I was drinking and I told him no (he’d already said he wasn’t planning to drink at all while they were here). I didn't drink that night and it was no big deal. No one except my dad even started drinking until after the kids went to bed, and by then the desire for drinking was gone, anyway.

The next morning I woke up before the kids and wrote about my dream. I wrote many of the words you've already read, and because I've now written this all out, I feel like I can't drink the next three days in a row, like you'll be disappointed in me or something.

Tonight we're going out to a restaurant where I know they have wine that I like. I plan on ordering a bottle for the table. I plan on drinking two glasses. Most importantly I plan on not beating myself up for indulging.

But what about the next two nights?

See this is the problem. I'm thinking about it too much. I'd rather be thinking about other things worth my time. Not whether or not I'm going to drink, and what I'm going to drink, and how much and at what time. It's stupid.

When my family leaves I will not think about drinking. I'll go back to my life with Sam and the kids and drinking will be gone from my brain and I won't think about it for nearly three months, when we go to New York in October and Sam and I will decide whether or not we'll split a bottle of wine with dinner. 

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Until next week,

Charlie