I Was That Kind of Drinker

a request and some new dance moves

I am beginning my newsletter this week with a request. A good chunk of my subscribers are family and friends who have known me for decades. They are my people. My people who raised me, grew up with me, befriended me, celebrated and walked alongside me during life’s highs and lows. They watched me achieve some big goals, shelled out accolades and heartfelt recognitions when timely and stood shoulder to shoulder with me in my drinking years. If you are reading this and you knew me then, if you loved me then and you love me now, I ask you to please read this piece from

Laura McKowen

. I ask that you read the entire thing. Because I was that kind of drinker. Because I have never been able to put to words the hold alcohol had on me. Now I have those words. Laura gave them to me (to us) and I want to hand them off to as many people as possible. I want to hand them to my people. The people I love yet never quite know how to explain all this to succinctly. I hope they read them, hold onto them and then come back and read the rest of my piece below.

I have tried so many times to articulate to close friends/family/even my own spouse, how/why I know I am a “problematic drinker”. Why I needed to stop for good. Why I am so disciplined with my sobriety. Why I need to protect it, keep it right sized and centered in my life. And it is because, at the end of my drinking career, alcohol had such a grip on me.

As Laura puts it:

What I want to tell you is much bigger: whether you’re thousands of miles from home or in your own living room, on the train or at work, in a good marriage or a bad one, in a job you love or one you loathe, if you drink the way I did (and this is not about how much you drink or how often, but what happens to you when you do, and the importance you place on it) none of the contexts or circumstances of your life matter all that much because at the end of the day, drinking owns you. And when drinking owns you, you’re not capable of actually experiencing anything. You’re not present in any moment.

In other words, wherever you go, there you aren’t.

Alcohol was at the very center of every Venn diagram of my life. It entered the room way before I did. The truth is, I was never quite in the room.

Every pit stop for food, whether it was after one of my kids’ sporting events or just a bite with some friends, it had to be someplace that served alcohol.

Going to the movies with my kids, tickets needed to be De-LUX because, well -popcorn with a side of booze.

Sidelines of my kids’ games - Yeti with booze.

A trip to the beach, cooler stuffed to the gills with icy boozy beverages. Drink in my hand, feet in the sand.

After a long day at work my stressed-out self, before even peeling my coat off, would be at the ice machine prepping my glass so that I could fall into it. Instead of falling into the arms of my kids or my husband. I chose alcohol. It came first.

This is not about how drunk I got when I drank (often I maintained just the right kind of buzz). This is not about the havoc alcohol wreaked on my body, mind, and heart (even though it did a number on all three). This is not about some rock-bottom life altering scary moment that made me re-evaluate. I didn’t have one of those (thank God). This is about the mental energy my brain gave to alcohol. The planning, wanting, needing, manipulating to get it. That was the scariest part of it all. Alcohol hijaked my attention. If there was a pie chart breaking down where my thoughts went each day, the biggest slice went to “when is it acceptable for me to pour that/get that drink?” It owned me.

And every part of my being knows that if I ever returned, if I ever tried to tip toe my way back into drinking, even with the sturdiest of guardrails and moderation tactics, it would put me right back into that chokehold as though no time had passed. I’m not willing to take that risk. I’m not willing to lose myself again. I like the person I found on the other side.

And yet.

I am still grieving alcohol. The loss of it.

No part of me craves a drink. It is not that kind of trigger. It is the comradery that comes along with drinking that I miss. That is what I mourn.

Just last weekend I had a girls’ night away with 3 of my closest high school friends. In January, I will have three years of continuous sobriety. It is common knowledge in my circle that I don’t drink. There was no expectation that I would drink. No raised eyebrows. In fact, one of my friends even brought a packed cooler full of the most gorgeous variety of NA beverages (so thoughtful!) Going out with friends whom I used to party with does not jolt me. I can do it now. This was, however, the first time it was an overnight thing. Away at a hotel. My concern was not - will I be triggered by their drinking? It was - did they hold back because of me? My mind ran away with the thought loop of -what would the night have looked like if I was still in the throes of it? Would they have let loose more? Was I the wet towel that made the night a tad lame? And then, I start with the narrative of - ugh, get over yourself Allison. Stop being so self-absorbed.

The thing is - I become so self-conscious when I am flung around in a world that can dance safely with alcohol. When I know that I cannot. My feet don’t move that way. I have two left feet in a world that can waltz. I miss the days when I thought I could waltz.

There is a saying in sober circles. It works if you work it. Sobriety is so much more than not drinking. It is a practice where the goal is the process, not the outcome. In grieving the loss of what was (and what can never be) I have found such strength in community with other sober people. I have learned to be consistent so that I don’t get complacent.

Here’s the dance I am learning now.

I am learning that I can have more than one dance partner. I can still sway along with old friends to familiar songs, and I can learn new steps (new lyrics) with new friends.

I am learning that I can write new songs and new stories, set my own pace and find true rhythm. Writing here on Substack is part of my practice. Call it a new dance routine, if you will. And in this dance, if I stumble and if I fall, I now have other people who get it. Who understand the music that needs to play in this room. Who understand when I can’t take one more minute of the music. The people who can hold both.

One of those people is a friend named David. He is a gem who has maintained 30 plus years of sobriety. Just the other day he said to me, “I don’t force my sobriety down anyone’s throat. I just show my sobriety to others.” David shows his sobriety by living it. By practicing it. By seamlessly dancing with it. He has those moves memorized and will show you. And you will appreciate watching. After he said it, I thought of the old writing adage, “show don’t tell.” This is a skill writers work on continuously, as they craft and mold their stories. A touchstone we revisit time and again. Show the reader. Don’t tell.

This may be the first time I made this connection. In my journey, there was a point in my sobriety where I gently landed in peace and freedom. The landscape became vivid. It still is. And the aperture expands. It leaves a lasting impression that stays with you just like a good book. Just like a dance you can’t take your eyes off of. Or an essay you can’t shake. The one you want all your loved ones to read. So that they understand. So they can truly see you. So that you can show them your new dance.

If something spoke to you here, would you consider sharing it or passing it on? This weekly letter is my new labor of love. Your word of recommendation helps grow my reader community and helps expand my heart.

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