Misadventures with Euphoric Recall

Memories Can Be Deceiving

When most people quit drinking, they don’t really want to stop. They do, and they don’t. It’s not often done without reservations. The drinker, in this case me, doesn’t completely want to give up their little security blanket.

For a long time, Tito’s tucked me in at night. Tito’s watched whatever I wanted to watch on TV. Tito’s didn’t care what I ate for dinner. Tito’s didn’t pressure me with deadlines. Tito’s didn’t fire off nasty emails at midnight. Tito’s didn’t judge me or tell me that I had to be anything other than what I was. Tito’s even came with little knit-sweater holiday koozies.

In case you hadn’t guessed yet, vodka was my poison. I’m told that’s where a lot of us end up. Clear means it’s more filtered and not as bad for you, right? It couldn’t possibly give you hangovers, right? Vodka especially doesn’t smell when you follow it up with coffee before work…

Lies. All lies. And stupid lies at that. Vodka is easy to drink straight and warm. And you can get it cheap and put it in water bottles. That is why we end there.

I’m always surprised no one ever said anything to me in the office at the end. I had to drink in the morning just to make it until the afternoon. They probably never said anything because then they would have had to actually help me and then wait until after treatment to give me the boot.

Those days were dark and filled with terrors. It took a lot to get me to quit the first time. I had intentionally started to fall apart in front of my parents. I’d started taking anti-depressants because, of course, depression was my problem. Lexapro and copious amounts of Tito’s are not friends.

My parents were in town, and I made it abundantly clear that I needed help. If I continued to hide it, I probably wouldn’t have lasted long. My body was falling apart. Everything hurt and was bloated. Substance abuse is ugly. It’s a sick disease that eats away at your sanity and then comes for your soul.

I had no more energy left to hide it. I’d spent so many years covering it up, juggling my lies while trying to hold down a job and a series of progressively more damaged relationships. Everything was held together by duct tape, spittle and vodka with a splash of soda.

Detox was my near-death experience. I remember heroin patients looking at me like they were shocked I was still alive. They were hooked on harder stuff and giving me the pity.

I remember trying to take a shower on day three. A nurse asked me the day before if vodka was my last drink — because she could smell it oozing from my pores. My legs were shaking badly as I washed that Tito’s off.

I begrudgingly agreed to do a harm reduction program when I was discharged, and I started to open up. I started to be honest. I did Marijuana maintenance (not a good idea)…anything but the booze I told myself. I didn’t want to go back to where I was. I never wanted to be back there again.

Can You Put that in a Pint Glass?

I started a new job a month later. To celebrate my start date (and two other employees), the whole office served champagne on my very first day. I watched the tiny bubbles dance their way to the top of the rows of full flutes. I wanted that golden liquid as I watched it sparkle against the sunset, but I stayed away.

There were too many work functions when I had to buy my whole team booze. I didn’t drink, but I was resentful, sitting at a table while they pounded drink after drink around me. The head of the group decided that he didn’t need to attend, but that I had to represent management and pay.

I made it through the holidays with family. Tito’s being crushed the entire time by those around me, but I kept it together. After six months, I considered myself safe. It was the longest I had ever gone since high school.

And then I allowed others to convince me that one every now and then was fine. But I had rules now. I could only drink in celebration. There would be no more drowning of sorrows or softening of stress. And above all else, there would be no Tito’s. But drinking once every two months became twice every one. The wine I’d been drinking turned back into the clear stuff. It was so familiar. The taste. The burn. The daze.

Work went downhill — not the quality just the situation. It was the wrong job at the wrong time for someone with raw emotions. The people were caustic, and all the hours in the day were never enough. Maybe you could say that I wanted to give myself an excuse for use. I got it and then some.

I found myself on vacation at my family’s place in Vegas, playing my first round of golf since Christmas. Everyone had drinks but me. I was playing with my headphones in because someone from work needed to talk. I decided that day that I wanted to hit the Strip. I hadn’t gambled in a few years.

The next day I was loose on the Paris casino floor, watching the roulette wheel turn. I gave myself a half hour to play before lunch. My goal was to lose $300 as fast as I could. I always play the inside numbers; the money can go fast. But I hit a $5 chip on the very first spin.

I’ll get a vodka soda I thought. It’s time to celebrate. One became two. My $300 became $600, and I went off to lunch triumphant, showing off my stack of black chips. I didn’t drink with my parents; I couldn’t in front of them. But I decided to stay on the Strip and play some more.

I decided I needed a real drink now — not one of those puny little free well vodkas. If I was drinking, then Tito’s it would be.

“Oh, can you put that in a pint glass? Yeah, I’ll pay extra.”

I had two more of those. My $600 became -$600, and then rushed up to $1,300. I was drunk when I got back, and I know my parents weren’t pleased. From there, rehab was only about a month away — after a complete meltdown and a week of hard binge drinking. Right back to where I was before.

The Euphoria Is an Insidious Lie

As I sit here right now, I can feel the wild swings on that roulette table. I can remember the sounds. I can feel my jittery hands laying down chips, trying to beat the spin and place my final bets. I can remember the taste of the vodka soda in the big glass. I can recall how loose I felt and how much fun I had in the moment.

But here’s the thing: None of that is true. It’s a memory I invented to lure myself back to my security blanket.

The truth is that I have pictures on my phone that I barely remember taking. I definitely don’t remember getting home. I do remember getting into an argument with my mom because I had started to sober up by then. I know I didn’t even try to determine how pissed they were that night because inside I was ashamed and I didn’t want to know.

All I was doing was escaping from myself. Like many others, I had tried to reclaim that civilized, neat and glorious level of inebriation. The problem is that it never existed. I was chasing a memory that I invented in my mind. There was never any glorious drinking. Sure, I may have sipped fancy wine, smoked hash in a hookah and played chess all night in college.

I was just romancing the bottle. I granting myself more reasons and excuses to reinforce the pleasure pathway I’d burnt into my brain. There’s nothing sophisticated about those nights. They ended up sloppy with slurred words and stumbles home. There was no higher meaning to any of it. Just empty, reckless pursuit of pleasure.

I don’t need any of that. In fact, I’m glad that the cloudiness is gone. When you don’t end every night drunk, you have a lot less to regret. There’s no creeping anxiety in the early morning — no lingering guilt about what I might have done. I don’t need to piece anything together. Instead of covering my tracks, I can use my brain power to be productive in a way that’s actually fulfilling.

All the hard work I’ve done in different groups and individual therapy helped me discover myself again. I don’t need to hide from my own shadow under masks or chemical intoxication. The things I can feel without my security blanket are real. Sometimes they’re raw, but sometimes they’re expansive and ecstatic. But above all else they’re clear, focused and true.

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