Kim has recently begun emailing me pictures of myself from several years ago, in various stages of inebriation. I think it is designed (like the ghastly, crash scene photos they make you look at in driving school) to scare me straight. And truth be told, they are very funny. These old photos have made me recast my thinking about my drinking and ask myself:
When does drinking become problem drinking? I have always thought of myself as a highly-functional drinker until my divorce. That was ten years ago and I have admitted, quite publicly, that I became an alcoholic at that time. My husband had been a watchful, mitigating influence and left to my own devices, I spun completely out of control.
But the pictures Kim sends, were taken before that. For example, the flattering photo above was taken at least fifteen years ago in a hotel room in Moscow. As you can see I am clearly in the bag, but reaching feebly for one last chug of room-service wine before I pass out.
I’ve been doing that for twenty-five years. Like a security blanket, I’d take that last glass of wine to bed with me and wake up with the left-overs.
When it really got bad, in the Bahamas, just before I quit, I’d wake up in the morning, lean over – pluck a dead fly out of my tepid Chardonnay – and start drinking again…
When does drinking become problem drinking? I have always thought of myself as a highly-functional drinker until my divorce. That was ten years ago and I have admitted, quite publicly, that I became an alcoholic at that time. My husband had been a watchful, mitigating influence and left to my own devices, I spun completely out of control.
But the pictures Kim sends, were taken before that. For example, the flattering photo above was taken at least fifteen years ago in a hotel room in Moscow. As you can see I am clearly in the bag, but reaching feebly for one last chug of room-service wine before I pass out.
I’ve been doing that for twenty-five years. Like a security blanket, I’d take that last glass of wine to bed with me and wake up with the left-overs.
When it really got bad, in the Bahamas, just before I quit, I’d wake up in the morning, lean over – pluck a dead fly out of my tepid Chardonnay – and start drinking again…
