It was just a month ago that I realized I needed to stop drinking, and almost at the same time decided to switch to a completely plant based diet. Last week was Thanksgiving, and as far as Thanksgivings go it was somewhat normal and wonderful compared to the non-gathering of 2020. People flew in from other parts of the country. Multiple tables pushed together. Three generations across many different families. Conversations with relatives that I hadn’t seen in a long time. Hours of time preparing, then a crowded and busy kitchen, then a giant meal that was both formal and casual, the mixing of different family traditions into one compiled gathering. The celebration had all the elements that make traditional gatherings both wonderful and difficult.
I arrived at my mom’s house with my daughter hours before the others, to hang out, spend time, and help prepare. When guests started to arrive I felt the strong desire to have a drink - on a typical Thanksgiving, that would mark the beginning of sampling many different wines and interesting beverages over the course of the afternoon and evening. I stayed in the kitchen rather than joining the others in the living room, contemplating the feeling I was having. After a bit, I opened a non-alcoholic beer and drank eagerly as I joined the growing group. Nobody else was drinking anything yet. If I was still drinking alcohol, I’m sure I would have opened a real beer or poured my first glass of wine in that moment, hoping that others would soon follow suit, and feeling a little guilty and awkward at my indulgence. Even with the NA beer, I had a lingering feeling in my gut that I was doing something transgressive or inappropriate, which I don’t think I would have felt if I was having a can of bubbly water. (Sober people can be quite vocal about the evils of non-alcoholic versions of beer, wine, and spirits, which means that drinking them labels you as red flag in the company of fellow non-drinkers, and in the company of non-sober people I suspect it makes them wonder - why is he drinking NA beer? Does he have a problem?).
Meanwhile, the appetizers appeared. A beautiful array of fine cheeses and delicious looking crackers (none of which were vegan), along with homemade quince jam, olives and cornichons. I had a few olives and cornichons and thought about how much I enjoy cheese and crackers. Looking at the incredible array of dishes being prepared in the kitchen, I saw how few of them I would be able to sample with my new diet. Not consuming dairy was a choice that didn’t feel as urgent as not drinking, which means it can feel arbitrary and unnecessary in moments like these. But, just like with drinking, I feel it’s all or nothing. I can’t enjoy dairy in one instance and then go back to being a vegan the rest of the time. I reminded myself of the importance of a plant based diet both for my health and the health of our planet. I wondered if not eating dairy would end up being harder than not drinking over the holidays and questioned my decision to do both of these life changes simultaneously.
After a while the house began to swell. More people arrived. The anxieties of the pandemic have faded - even though cases are surging where we are, they are largely confined to the unvaccinated. With my booster, and the knowledge that everyone invited was fully vaccinated, I didn't feel nervous about COVID. But, I did retreat to the kitchen. Washing dishes, doing small things to help prepare, talking to my aunt (who was doing most of the cooking). From the living room I could hear the voices of my mother-in-law, my wife’s aunt and uncle, my four cousins who are all young men in their late teens and early twenties. It sounded fun. And also painful. This is where I would normally pour another glass of wine, take a deep breath, and head into the fray. Instead, I began to feel myself wearing thin at the edges and eyeing the clock, wanting time to pass more quickly, as if I was working some unpleasant job rather than enjoying the holiday with my family.
Soon, people wanted wine. I thought this moment would be hard for me - the moment wine bottles begin to get opened and people start raising their glasses. Instead I felt a relief - I had brought what purported to be a nice bottle of alcohol free sparkling chardonnay and I was looking forward to opening it. I poured myself a glass of that, and poured regular sparkling wine for others. It tasted surprisingly good and I found it enabled me to participate fully in the ritual of that first glass. Many guests had no idea I wasn’t drinking, and I didn’t have any of the awkward moments of having to decline someone offering me wine or explaining to anyone that I wasn’t drinking. It almost tasted too real - I went back and double checked the bottle to make sure I had, in fact, purchased alcohol free wine and not mistakenly bought regular wine. The label was clear. Maybe it’s a fraudulent label? The thought crossed my mind. They couldn’t get away with that, could they?
What I noticed is that the warm, comforting feeling of alcohol moving down my throat and into my body was absent - but I didn’t miss that. Also absent was the craving to pour another glass as I started to reach the end of the first one. I found it was very nice to hold the glass, to be able to toast, to have something to smell, and to sip slowly - a complex beverage that I could savor. It made me feel more present. But, it also had a “take it or leave it” quality about it. I wasn’t guarding it, or coveting it, or jealously wanting to consume “my share”. An awkward truth about my drinking - if I brought a nice wine to a party I would experience a feeling of loss as I watched others drink it, almost a sense of resentment, wondering if they appreciated it as much as I did and wanting to make sure I got enough of the “good stuff”. It feels embarrassing to admit this, but now that I’m being honest I find I can share a lot of things I was ashamed about at the time.
As it happened, I did bring nice wine to Thanksgiving - bottles we had been saving in the basement for years that I now wanted to get rid of. Among them was an eleven year old bottle of cabernet that had been a wedding gift. I had thought about this wine a lot over the years, saving it for a special occasion. I wasn’t sure if an occasion would ever be special enough, and as the bottle got older and older it seemed more and more special. So, I brought it to the first post-pandemic Thanksgiving. It felt freeing to watch someone else open it. My young cousin, who has absolutely no appreciation or knowledge of wine whatsoever, had the first glass. He didn’t swirl it, he didn’t smell it. He just had a big sip. “It’s OK,” he said, as if the wine was just consumable. I started to explain the story of the wine and he cut me off and said, “Oh, does that mean it’s like ‘aged’ or something? Is that supposed to be good?” I smiled. I wanted him to feel the specialness of the wine, but I realized he didn’t care at all. It could be a five dollar bottle from the supermarket and he’d be just as happy. And then I realized - I didn’t care either! If I was still drinking, I know I would have wanted to serve this wine to the guests who I thought would appreciate it, and that if some of my less refined relatives were guzzling it down as if it was Diet Coke I’d be upset and annoyed. And suddenly I realized how silly that was, and how nice it was not to care. I don’t drink, I thought - I can stop all the pretentious silliness of wine and just relax.
As the evening went on, it didn’t take too long for me to realize that I was ready to go. Other people seemed happy, lingering over the meal, in no hurry for dessert, enjoying another glass of wine (and another - nobody keeping track). I felt like I’d had some quality time connecting with family members I hadn’t seen in a while, I’d eaten some good food, and I was ready to go home and read and relax before bed. And this is where my autistic brain and my past consumption of alcohol come together. Social engagements are unstructured. Many people enjoy having time together with no agenda, no end-time, no hurry. Just hanging out together is the point. I struggle with this. I love connecting with people, but in one-on-one conversation or just a couple of people at a time. The part of these gatherings I really enjoy is the preparation. There is structure, and a goal - to get the meal prepared in time. And there is a lot of opportunity for talking to people one-on-one in the kitchen or as people mingle. But once the meal starts, and everyone is around the big table, it’s hard to have intimate conversations, and the goals have already been achieved (the meal was created and served). Once we are done eating, I feel, we’re done! Time to go.
I recognize other people don’t see it this way - they want to linger, to just sit and talk as a group, to be together. This is the part I used alcohol for. This is the part that I, too, could enjoy as long as I had steady refills of my wine - each glass a newfound structured activity. The pouring, the swirling, the smelling, the tasting (as if, after a few glasses, I could taste anything meaningful). Consuming the wine, feeling my body get warmer, feeling it in my blood, laughing more, growing more content to just sit, feeling the tingle of disorientation as I turn my head. All of this was an activity, a way to participate, a way to stay engaged.
As people finished their food, nobody made any moves to get up. Nobody seemed in any kind of hurry. I wondered, not quite anxiously, how and when this would end. It’s not that I don’t love these people. It’s not that I don’t enjoy their company. It’s not that my mother’s home isn’t a wonderful place to be, or that I didn’t enjoy myself. There is nothing wrong with the other guests or the environment. It’s simply that after a time, I’m ready to be done. I looked at my daughter, hoping to see her yawning, or perhaps hoping she would be cranky, providing an excuse for us to hurry off for toddler bedtime. But she was content to run around, play with the puppies, and play silly games with whoever was willing. The non-alcoholic wine was perfect for the beginning of the drinking rituals, but now it seemed pointless. It doesn’t help to keep drinking it, and the drink itself is not complex or interesting enough to make it an engaging activity without the other effects that real wine carries. Yes, I thought, I am ready to go. But leaving was not an option. I occupied myself with the dishes for a while - my escape. But I wasn’t the only one who wanted to do that. There was competition for the dish washing job.
I returned to the living room as my daughter played games with her grown up cousins, and I sat and watched. Reading a book would be rude. Looking at my phone would be rude. But engaging in conversations or games seemed hard. I felt a familiar feeling of discomfort, mentally wanting to be alone, but finding myself in the company of others. No words, no topics of conversation occurred to me, and answering small talk questions from others seemed arduous and burdensome. I thought about the time a friend told me that I’m a lot more fun when I’m drunk. It was a common joke among my friends for a while. Drunk me was preferable to not-drunk me. I thought that was so funny at the time, endearing almost. I took it as a compliment, and had a sort of pride in it. It gave me license to drink freely, to hurry up and bring drunk me to the party. Drunk me was entertaining. Drunk me made people laugh. Drunk me would say what he really thought, but in a funny way, and do silly things like dance when nobody else was dancing. Drunk me wasn’t embarrassed, or tired, or looking at my watch repetitively, or thinking about how to make an exit. Drunk me wanted to stay, to have another drink. Drunk me got annoyed when other people started leaving, when the party started to end, and I had to face the realization that the last drink I had was probably the last drink I was going to have for the evening. I’d have to wait until happy hour the next day for another one (or maybe I’d order a beer at brunch the next morning, as a favor to everyone else because, after all, drunk me is more fun than sober me).
On Thanksgiving I didn’t have drunk me to carry me through, and while I didn’t feel compelled to drink, or that I was missing the alcohol, I did feel a strong desire to be alone. This, I think, will be the biggest challenge for me to face as I appreciate both my realizations about how my brain works, and my acknowledgement that my drinking was an unhealthy way to cope with it. How do I engage in community activities without feeling overwhelmed, without seeming rude, and without drinking?