I Am Not an Alcoholic: Some friends are distancing themselves from me. It hurts, but there is nothing I can do about it

I am coming up to my second anniversary of two years of sobriety. I can’t believe it. How did I do that?
But more significantly, how can I still desire alcohol? After two years? It doesn’t seem fair, but then neither is a diagnosis of cancer or Parkinson’s, or any of the other debilitating chronic illnesses doctors have the sad task of relaying to some of their patients.
I can’t drink a glass of wine. Is that so bad?
People still sometimes say: “Oh, you’re wonderful. I admire anyone who can fight an addiction. It must be so hard?” I accept the third sentence, but not the first two. Why is this? Because it is shameful to allow alcohol to take control, even though it is a psychoactive substance with addictive properties. Drinking is fine, even encouraged, but being drunk is frowned upon. When you think about it, seeing a drunk person slurring their words, unsteady on their feet and being slightly obnoxious is when all our instinctive judgmental minds swing into action. Observers tut-tut disapprovingly in unison.
Very few of us see a vulnerable, lonely person who needs help, not judgment.
So perhaps that is why I don’t feel proud about being sober. For me, if I drink, I am that person. I feel virtuous if I spend a couple of hours in the garden (weeding not reading) or prepare a tasty dinner, or even wash the floor when the stale breadcrumbs crunching under my feet can no longer be ignored – but not drinking?
No, it doesn’t feel like I’ve done something of which I should be proud.
This is not written to deter others’ intentions to give up drinking. But it would be wrong to pretend that I have no urges to drink alcohol. I do. And this admission should not prevent any reader who is concerned about his/her drinking and has decided to do something about it, to make an excuse and say: “What’s the point?”
The points are many and varied:
Frankly, I could go on and on, but we all know alcohol is not good for us. For some of us, who can take a glass of wine and sip it over several hours, alcohol is not an issue, but those people are the lucky ones and I am not one of them.
And if social occasions are sometimes a little difficult for me, then that is what I must deal with and not complain. And, aside from the above list, there are other positives. Being able to drive to a venue and not have to worry about getting a taxi home, especially when it’s raining and they become scarce.
Sometimes, I am asked to drive because my friends want to drink, and occasionally the conversations I overhear can be interesting. My passengers talk over each other on completely different topics yet are apparently able to hear and understand each other. I find this bizarre because I am the only sober person and I can’t understand a word of what they’re saying.
I was waiting patiently for a parking space when a car swooped into my place. “Excuse me,” I said. “I was waiting for that space.” He barely glanced at me before he rudely said: “I got there first.”
As it happens, we were both going to the National Concert Hall to a lunchtime concert. How do I know this? Because I saw him sitting smugly in his seat, while my enjoyment was somewhat impaired due to my concern that my car might be clamped when I returned to it (I had to park on double yellow lines). But I couldn’t have enjoyed the concert if I had swiped someone’s car space. I wonder, did he?
This summer has been strange. Between one day and the next the weather can change dramatically. Any time I have arranged an event (or an event has been arranged) that is outdoors it has been summer and the next morning the persistent pitter-patter of raindrops on the window panes wake me up feeling grateful that today is not the day of an outdoor pursuit.
One of the events was a coffee morning. No temptation there. No reason to don a suit of armour or become selectively deaf to Dolores’s voice. Or so I thought. Knowing that a lot of people would bring a cake or scones or some other delight from a bakery and our hostess would be inundated with patisseries, I brought a bunch of flowers. One other visitor thought the same. She brought a bottle of prosecco.
A lot more people know who is writing these articles, and I have mixed feelings about this. As long as I stay sober, I am okay with people knowing that I can’t have a drink but the fear that I may one day succumb is real, and the shame would be unimaginable. No one likes a drunk, and all the high praise about “being a great person and managing my demons” would disappear like a magician’s rabbit and I would be red-faced and ashamed.
Then there is the authenticity of the articles. Every word I write is true, even the bad bits – especially the bad bits – and now everyone knows. One relative was concerned that, now that he knew, it might impair my writing, stopping me from being honest. This is not so. I write what I feel and I write from the heart. I couldn’t write any other way. As he pointed out, we all have demons, so I am no different from anyone else. It’s just that some people are reading about mine. But maybe that will help others to realise they are not alone.
I hope so.
I don’t think of myself as better or worse than anyone else – I am just me, with all the flaws of being human. I don’t compare myself to others. Whenever comparison thoughts trespass into my mind, I tell them to take a hop, skip and a jump.
We all, each of us, put on masks when we leave our homes. We may on occasion forget our keys, our phone or our wallet (tell me about it) but we never forget our masks. They are an integral part of our very being. It doesn’t mean we are not being true to ourselves but to function in society, we must play a role. It wouldn’t be right to lapse into a tirade of complaints when we meet someone who asks politely: “How are you?” They don’t really mean they want to hear about the plumber who cut through a pipe, which then flooded your upstairs bathroom, seeping down to the kitchen ceiling and destroying your newly laid wooden floor. No, in this instance, you just say: “Fine, thank you and you?”
If we were to complain to everyone we met about our woes, it would not make for meaningful conversations, nor would it improve our situation. That is why we have activities that take our minds off our problems, at least for the duration of the pastime. When we have absorbed something else, the problem doesn’t always have the same significance as it had when we were ruminating.
Of course, talking about a problem with a friend can be helpful, but not with every Tom, Dick and Harry. Because Tom, Dick and Harry will all give you advice on what to do and it will be bad advice. It will be coming from their perspective and not yours.
Sometimes, we just need to sit with the problem and the solution might present itself. Curiously, I feel since I stopped drinking, I have encountered more challenges than in the previous decade. Some of the challenges have involved friends, who without any conflict, are distancing themselves from me. It hurts, but there is nothing I can do about it other than to accept it. I have no answer as to why this is so.
Has my new sense of awareness something to do with it?
I know sea swimming has, in recent years, become a popular pastime with more and more people joining the dawn chorus (it is often early in the morning when it occurs) and, although tempted by the swimmers’ testament that it is not as cold as you think (it is) and the benefits far outweigh any discomfort, I had not done more than think about it until I went to visit a friend in Wexford who swims every day and told me to bring my swimsuit. She said: “I don’t want to put you under any pressure but I will be very disappointed if you don’t get in.”
Hmm, so no pressure.
We sat on the beach for an hour waiting for another friend to join us. During this time, I was looking at the water, which on this beautiful day looked almost inviting. Then there was no more putting it off. I wanted to get in. I walked purposefully to the water’s edge but, when my feet touched the water, I shrank back like a mouse from a cat only to be encouraged by my friends to just walk in. So I did. The next obstacle was to get down. How I was to do this I had no idea. The thought of deliberately torturing myself seemed like a bad idea. However, the shouts about how much warmer I’d feel under water were more than encouraging. And now I can say I am a sea swimmer. If I was exaggerating before, calling myself a sea swimmer after just one swim, what about after two? Yes, I got into the water again. I was in west Cork visiting a few friends (some of whom are swimmers), and I again took the plunge. Like the last time, the day was warm and sunny, and the idea of getting into the water didn’t seem too bad. We found a small cove where it seemed the sun was beaming down just for us.
Life is hard, and, when we accept this reality, we can try to make the best of it. I try to do that with self-care, writing these words, which, as I’ve mentioned before, help me in banishing negative thoughts. When I realise I am ruminating, I stop. It’s hard but, like I said, life is hard.
Whenever I catch myself making comparisons to others, I know that I am on the slippery slope to melancholy. Why would I do that to myself? If you want to be masochistic, go sea swimming, because walking into that cold water seems like torture, but you will reap the rewards.