Dear Mom,

Today I am starting my letter to you with a story. Stop me if you’ve heard it before.

Once upon a time, there was a teenager who had a bit of a drinking problem. On the eve of one of the local high school’s scheduled late arrivals, when school started hours later than usual making it a half day that often had some sort of art component to the lesson plan, this teenager got super drunk. 

It’s me. I’m her. This is my story.

Ok, so let’s set the stage. I was at a friend’s house with another friend. So, three teenaged girls total. We sat on the driveway of said friend’s house and passed around a bottle of whiskey. It could have been a brown rum, but I think it was whiskey. A small bottle of something I picked up with my fake I.D.

We were talking. It was a more intimate, personal talk than I was used to having with friends at the time. And the more we drank the more I revealed my inner demons to them. The more I opened up about a deep sadness I had at that moment in time. So soon after the traumatic death of my brother. 

We continued drinking. The time passed. My curfew was getting closer and closer. I called you and asked if I could spend the night. You said no. 

We kept drinking. Kept talking. I kept calling. Begging. You were consistent in your disproval of my desired sleepover. 

Maybe it was because Dad was out of town and David was off at college. You were alone. I’ll never know why you stuck to your answer. There was no way I was staying out any later. I had to come home.

At that point, I was very drunk. We said our goodbyes and I was asked to drive home the friend whose house we weren’t currently at. I said yes of course. I should have said no. She lived on a  tiny road in the woods that was surrounded by trees and only had space for one car at a time.

After I dropped her off, I turned back. As I drove down her road, my car bumped a tree. I didn’t know what had happened at the time. I wouldn’t know the damage until the next morning.

I then drove the four miles or so home.

I smoked a cigarette while I drove. I also drove with one eye closed to avoid seeing the double lines that were present with both eyes open. At one point I dropped my cigarette in the car. I then leaned down and dug it out as I continued to drive with one eye shut.

Somehow, I made it home without killing myself or anyone else. No cops. No one noticed.

I parked my car on the side of the street in front of our house. I then walked up the street to a neighbor’s house and puked all over their lawn. Sorry to whomever woke up that day with a pile of vomit in their suburban manicured grass.

When I walked inside. You were waiting. You followed me through the house. Yelling. Questioning what was wrong with me. Why I was acting weird. “You’re drunk!” You kept saying.

“No, I’m just sick.” I kept answering. “I think I have the flu.”

You followed me as I went toward my room. You watched me as I fell up the stairs. You yelled more. I lied more. And then, I went to bed.

The next morning, it was late arrival. I had already gotten approval to take Dad’s Jeep to school so that I could carpool a whole group of friends. When I left, I wanted so badly to hide the smashed side mirror of my car but in my severely hungover state I couldn’t figure out how to park it in a way where the passenger side mirror wouldn’t be visible to you.

All these years later, it is very clear that I could have parked on the other side of the street.

I picked up my friends and we stopped at McDonalds on the way to school which was a custom for late arrival. It was also a custom to get stoned first, but I opted out of that and just happily ate my hashbrowns.

Later, at school I uncontrollably puked throughout the day. Those greasy hashbrowns didn’t sit well in my stomach.

My friend. The one who asked me to drive her home on her tiny road in the woods, told the school nurse that she was worried about my puking. The nurse checked on me and then soon after called you. I was sent home. Doomed to spend the rest of my day in agony.

By the time I arrived home, you had seen my car. And I was promptly grounded for two weeks.

And no one lived happily ever after. Not that year.

The End.

That night was the worst of my drunk driving. In high school. I had one night like that in college where I had to drive with one eye closed. But those were the only two instances. I know, that is hardly the only measurement of being out of control. Trust me when I say, I had countless nights before and after that experience when I got, for lack of a better term shitfaced, and somehow got away with it. And even if you never knew about the majority of my drunken and drug induced nights, you witnessed enough to worry. And worry you did. For years I was problematic. I was a bad kid. I was out of control. And my drinking was a big concern to you.

As you know, and as I’ve written about before, when I first told you I was going to stop drinking, you told me, “Everything in moderation. You don’t have to go from one extreme to another extreme”. And looking back at that statement now, brings me a surprising amount of resentment. After all those years of you judging my drinking. Being worried about my drinking. Commenting on my drinking. There I was, being questioned about my desire to quit.

As teenagers we are seen as problematic when we drink heavily. We’re bad kids. We’re judged. We must be stopped. Hide your good kids from us because we’re ready to corrupt. And then we reach an age when suddenly it’s all more socially acceptable. Like if I don’t drink at the bridal shower or wedding or baby shower or school event, or playdate or family function, then I’m weird. I’m boring. I’m someone to watch out for. To not trust. To question.

At times it has felt like whiplash. Like I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. 

And as I’ve now begun to meet more new people out in the world as a fulltime adult, I’m becoming more aware of the ups and downs of living a sober life. The mixed messages. Which make me feel the need to justify my sobriety to strangers. To feel the need to lead with the fact that I was a heavy drinker in an attempt to not look so pure. So vanilla.

Throughout the years, I’ve had lot of odd responses to my sobriety. In the beginning, longtime friends were uncomfortable. Not sure how to hang out with me anymore. Then there were friends who said things like, “But you’ll have champagne at your wedding, right?” 

I still have new people ask me, “Not even one drink?”

Why does me telling people I’m sober elicit these types of responses?

And as I’ve started asking more questions about how others react to my sobriety, I’m now asking myself what I think of it. What is my sober identity?

I don’t know how long I’ve been sober. Not exactly. There was a two-year stint with sobriety from June of 2014 until sometime toward the end of 2016 after Scotland was born and I decided it was acceptable to have some wine. I then drank off and on for the next few years. Very minimal though. I never really got drunk during that period. There was one night I remember when I came close though. And that was a bit frightening for me. But mostly, I didn’t like the taste anymore. The only drink that didn’t make my tongue hurt was Guinness. Which makes sense considering its super low in alcohol. With even half a beer though, or half a wine or cocktail, my body would feel it. Maybe it was my fibromyalgia flaring up. I’m not really sure. But with any alcohol my skin would hurt. So, one day in late 2020. I think. Maybe it was early 2021. I’m not entirely sure. I stopped. And I haven’t had a sip of alcohol since. 

I wish I knew that date. I wish I could say I’ve been sober for X number of years, months, and days. That could help with solidifying my identity. Instead, I just say, ‘I’m sober’.

Before I first stopped drinking, I worried. I had been in a relationship with Jeremy for three and a half years at that point. We were engaged to be married. What if the sober me was not as desirable as the drinking me? What if I turned out to be less than ideal for my future husband? Would I be less fun? Less entertaining? Less adventurous? What if he didn’t like me as much? Or didn’t love me?

It took a while for me to take the plunge because of that worry. And it took years for me to accept that he loved me even more without the alcohol. 

This relationship was never the real problem. Jeremy has always wanted the best for me. He wants me to be pain free. To live up to my potential. To do what makes me happy. And he will always be my biggest supporter. But I’ll still catch him asking me if I’d like to taste his drink at times. And he doesn’t mean any harm. It’s just habit.

I was recently at an event and found myself defending my sobriety. I said, out loud, “Oh, I used to drink. I drank A LOT. I just can’t drink anymore. I’ve had enough alcohol for a lifetime.” I still don’t quite understand this need to explain the reasoning behind my choice to be sober. Like I have to convince new people in my life that I had a legitimate reason to stop drinking. As if simply not wanting to isn’t enough. And I still get in my head about it. Like when I’m not invited to hang out with adults in my life I wonder if it’s because I don’t drink. Which makes sense in my brain because so many social events revolve around alcohol. Why would you want to bring a sober person to a drinking event? I get that. But it makes me paranoid. Makes me feel like I’m not wanted because I’m no fun. And I worry that my lack of drinking will affect my kids. If I’m not cool enough to hang out with the popular and fun parents, then maybe my kids won’t be included either. And still, I think it’s accurate to say that drinking is seen as cool. And I’ve been so worried to fall out from the cool crowd that I’ve even gone through phases where I take edibles to seem cooler. Showing up to parties with a cannabis drink was a helpful buffer. But I realize now that I don’t want cannabis either. I want to be one hundred percent sober. I want to be comfortable living in that space. 

But I find it challenging to live in the sober space without truly understand my sober identity. I don’t consider myself an alcoholic. I’ve never thought it was fair to use that label considering how easy it was for me to quit. No AA. No rehab. Just didn’t want to drink anymore and stopped. I don’t crave it anymore. I don’t feel like I need to avoid drinkers. There can be alcohol in my home, and I won’t be tempted. All of that leads me to believe that I am not an alcoholic.

And I don’t relate to the alcoholics and the recovering addicts and that world of sobriety. I’ve dipped my toe into that world, but it really isn’t my world. I don’t feel like I belong with them. And I don’t feel like I belong with the people who never drank. Who saw something bad about it always. I might have regrets, but being a heavy drinker is a part of my past and I’m not pretending it never happened. I also don’t feel like I belong in the wellness community where people have swapped their alcohol for tonics and elixirs.

So. What am I then? Where do I belong?

There is a term called Alcohol Misuse. Cute right? Not as dark and gritty as alcoholism or alcohol abuse. Just a dainty version. An unhealthy relationship rather than an abusive one. Maybe that’s it. I misused alcohol in my youth and now I’ve grown up.

Oooh, but that’s a slippery slope. If I am just a person who drank too much when I was younger, then I worry I’ll start to get the idea that it was all just a phase. A long, drawn-out phase that spanned over a decade of being in a constant cycle of buzzed, drunk, blacked out and then hungover. And that could get dangerous if I start to convince myself that I could start drinking because now that I’m all grown up, I won’t be inclined to misuse the drink again.

But wait, if I’m not a true alcoholic with a disease and a real addiction, then why am I so frightened to drink again? What stops me?

Wait. That’s it. I found my identity. I am a sober person who has chosen to not drink alcohol ever again because I. Don’t. Want. To. 

Done. That’s all I have to say. Right? I can get away with that. I have that power. 

And I can have a million other reasons that live inside of me. My fibromyalgia. My distaste for it. My not wanting to lose control. To not lose productivity. To not lose Saturday mornings with my kids. But none of that matters in the big picture. All that matters is that I made a choice. And it’s mine. I am sober because I choose to be. And next time someone asks me why I’m not drinking I am going to firmly say because I don’t want to. 

The End.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel

P.S. I absolutely despise mocktails that taste like ‘real alcohol’. I don’t want to taste faux alcohol. I actually love water. I swear. It’s enough.