Thirteen: Understanding alcohol - facing the present
It’s hard to acknowledge the role that alcohol really plays in my life
In my previous post, I wrote about my history with alcohol, how I think it helped me cope with the “difference” of being autistic, and how I’ve learned to moderate my drinking without giving it up. Writing about the past is much easier than facing the present. In this post I want to explore my current relationship with alcohol.
There have been many times in my life when I’ve asked myself whether I’m an alcoholic. In these moments, it’s not lost on me that if I’m asking myself the question then the answer must be yes. The mornings when I wake up to an incredible hangover, of course (those have been rare in recent years, but many vivid examples hang in my memory). But also the moments at a dinner party, where I find myself eyeing the wine bottle, hoping that someone will offer to refill my glass, and debating in my head whether it would be too obnoxious to just reach for it myself. The question also occurs to me when I’m deciding whether to have a drink on any given day. It feels like such a big decision - it’s not as simple as I feel like having a glass of wine or I don’t. It’s an examination of why I think I need a glass of wine, what I think it will give me, whether I think I can make it through the rest of the evening without giving into the urge, and what it says about me if I can’t. It’s imagining how I’ll feel the next morning if I do indulge, even if I just have a glass or two - the sense of guilt I know will come over me when I look myself in the mirror, contrasted with the odd sense of pride I’ll feel if I manage to abstain.
Walking into someone’s home for a dinner party, I often scan for wine bottles, hoping to see a plentiful supply. Nothing is worse than a dinner party hosted by someone who doesn't drink, in which case the bottle that I brought is the only one available, to be divided meagerly among the drinking guests. If, in the first few minutes of arriving at a gathering, I notice the absence of wine bottles, I start to get a nervous sort of panicky feeling that I may indeed only get a few ounces of wine for the evening, which may be worse than none at all. In the opposite case, where I see there is plenty of wine and it is already flowing freely, I feel an immediate sense of relief, and then turn my thoughts to whether (or how) to ask my wife about which one of us will be driving the car home.
I can spot the other alcoholics at a dinner table, work event, or cocktail party quite easily. The way they fill their glass more than would be considered normal (“I only had two glasses,” I imagine them thinking, trying to convince themselves that they aren’t having too much). Also the way they place the wine bottle close to them at the table, rather than returning it to the center where others can reach it. I also notice that look in their eyes when their glass is nearly empty, making the same calculation that I do about whether to ask for more, to just take more, or to hope that someone offers more. Perhaps most telling, when they pour wine in their glass I watch jealously, hoping there will be enough left in the bottle for me, and immediately wondering how quickly (or if at all) the host will offer to open another bottle. And when I’m pouring wine for myself, I can feel the glare of their eyes staring at me, silently imploring me not to take too much lest there isn’t enough left for them. It takes one to know one, I think in these moments.
There are moments of judgment, where I think to myself, “God, that person is such an alcoholic”, feeling perhaps resentful that they seem to be enjoying themselves so much. I judge them because it is easier than judging myself. I imagine my drinking problem to be more subtle, more refined. As if my ways of trying to inconspicuously consume enough alcohol to ensure my ability to function at the party is somehow better than theirs. Less obvious and obnoxious, perhaps. And, of course, I wouldn’t drink the two buck chuck they had the nerve to bring with them. I’m not that kind of alcoholic. At least I have some taste. Only small, family owned vineyards that avoid the use of additives for me.
There are also moments of solidarity. Where I look at my fellow alcoholics and we exchange a knowing glance, where we look out for each other and offer to refill one another’s glasses, where we empathize with the inability to continue a conversation until we’ve been able to flag down the waiter. “Get your wine first,” a knowing colleague once said to me at a work dinner, as he noticed my glance shifting during our conversation, to the waiter who was walking from table to table with the wine bottles. But that is as explicit as it gets. All of these thoughts remain sealed up in my head - to say any of them out loud would be to acknowledge the problem, which would mean having to face it. Which is why writing this, even anonymously, is so hard.
How much of a relief would it be, I wonder, to be able to say out loud to one of my fellow drinkers, “I don’t think I could get through this event without this bottomless glass of wine.” Or, “I’m happy for us to keep talking, as long as we pause to refill my drink, because, of course, I won’t be able to concentrate on anything you're saying as long as my glass is empty.” I have an envy of people who are openly alcoholic and in recovery, because they are able to talk about these feelings, and to receive the support and empathy of fellow openly-alcoholic peers, and to take solace in the fact that these behaviors are, for them, in the past.
I once dated a woman for three months, who told me on our second or third date that she was a “high functioning alcoholic”. She said it so matter of factly, and with such calm confidence, that I was taken aback. I was nowhere near ready to admit such a thing myself, but I admired her self-acceptance. Drinking with her, which is essentially all we did together, was so fun and effortless. We would indulge each other without fear of judgement, and we both knew what we wanted and needed at the end of every day. The comfort I felt in being in the company of someone who’s relationship with alcohol was the same as mine can not be overstated. Of course, a relationship where the thing you have most in common is alcoholism probably isn’t built on a strong foundation. One morning, she told me she was annoyed by me, and that was the last time I saw her.
I’ve read memoirs of recovering alcoholics (and the family members of non-recovering alcoholics), I’ve considered the alcoholism that runs in my family. I think often of how my parents stopped drinking completely in their thirties and never looked back. My mom’s father was an alcoholic - an abusive one. My mom stopped drinking proactively and my dad followed suit in solidarity. My uncle was an alcoholic and an addict. There are others, but even in anonymity I don’t want to write about them out of a respect for their autonomy over their addiction and how or whether to disclose it (to others, or themselves).
I’ve concluded many times that, while I think I am an alcoholic (something I have never admitted to anyone else), I am able to control it quite well. In the past, “controlling it” meant that I could always get up and go to work the next day, “powering through” the pain of my hangover, no matter how bad it was. And, as many “functioning” alcoholics like to boast, I never drank during the day (which is a way, I suppose, of asserting my superiority over people who are waiting for the bar to open at 11:00 AM?) Lately, “controlling it” means never getting drunk - never having more than two glasses of wine. But while I’m not experiencing the more severe and disruptive impacts to my life that I know alcohol is capable of inflicting, that doesn’t mean my drinking is not a problem. It just means that my force of will (aided both by my weakening tolerance and the absence of social gatherings brought on by the pandemic) has been able to hold the alcohol to uses that appear socially acceptable.
Alcohol does not interfere with my life in any visible way. Alcohol doesn’t make me mean or abusive, it doesn’t make me miss appointments or fall behind in work, it doesn’t prevent me from exercising. If anything, it increases my socialization with other people, and since we live in a society that values sociability over health, I’m sure some people would see me as “less healthy” were I to stop drinking altogether. This is especially true of those people who already think I’m an antisocial weirdo because of my aversion to crowds, my dislike of small talk, my insistence on being honest, my unusual sleeping schedule, and my preference to be alone. This is where autism comes into the picture for me. If I’m just “being myself”, a lot of other people find it hard to be around me. If I’m going to be the person that is more socially compatible with others, drinking is part of that equation.
And that, I think, is what stops me from opening up about these thoughts, finding the support of the recovery community, and embracing the possibilities and encouragement that being open could provide. I could do fine without alcohol most of the time. I would probably feel a sense of pride, self-acceptance, and even self-love (a concept that has always been strange and elusive for me) if I were to say, “I’m going to stop drinking with intention, because I am an alcoholic.” For those nights when I’m alone or at home with my wife, or having happy hour with a friend, a non-alcoholic beer or a bottle of kombucha is a passable substitute to fill the hole left by the absence of alcohol. But those large gatherings - the holidays with extended family, the work events, the dinner parties - the only alternative to drinking that I have found for these occasions is to not show up. At a work event, I can stop by, say hello to a few people, excuse myself to use the restroom and sneak out. But that doesn’t work at Christmas dinner, or a dinner party with three other couples.
And so, I’m afraid to close that door completely. I don’t want to lose the most effective coping mechanism I have for participating in the social arena. As soon as I acknowledge publicly my desire to stop drinking, then any indulgence would be seen, I imagine, with judgment and scorn. If I’m open about being an alcoholic, but then I have a drink at the next overwhelming family gathering, what would people think? Other people might be having five or six drinks, clearly becoming intoxicated, but when the “alcoholic” has a single glass of wine suddenly that’s a problem. To have the strength and the courage to acknowledge the truth is also to remove the invisible shield that protects us from our vulnerability.
And then, I think, is there really such a thing as a person who drinks but who is not an alcoholic? There aren’t really people who smoke but who aren’t addicted to nicotine. There are no heroin users who aren’t addicted to opiods. I don’t know any coffee drinkers who aren’t addicted to caffeine. I suspect when it comes to alcohol, there are those who acknowledge their addiction, and those who don’t. I’ve never had the strength to be among those who do, because I fear the implications of making that assertion. But, as I write these words, and start to contemplate the amount of time and mental energy I spend on thinking about alcohol, the intensity of the feelings it evokes in me, the way the anticipation of its presence or absence at the end of a given day hangs over me, I can’t help but think how much freer I would feel if I could find the strength to remove it from my life altogether.