I wouldn’t say I’m the biggest failure on the planet, but I was certainly on my way there. Addiction doesn’t start off as chaotic; it creeps in slowly, appearing harmless, and then spirals into reckless behaviors.
For two and a half years, I drank every single day. I drank through illness, carefully timing it around my breastfeeding schedule. I drank while traveling, when nobody else did, and often alone. I would sip wine in bed, pouring another glass even when I didn’t want to. I rationalized every drink with the belief that I wasn’t a threat to anyone; I thought I was in control since I avoided drinking during the day. It’s all too easy to convince yourself that you’re fine when you’re not ready to confront the truth.
When I hit the bottom of my addiction, it was a visceral experience. I recognized it in that moment. That morning, my eyes didn’t open gently; they shot wide open like shutters flapping in a storm. I sprang from bed, my feet hitting the floor with urgency, barely allowing myself a moment to gather my thoughts.
The room spun around me, and I tilted my head to cope with the chaos in my mind. This wasn’t just vertigo; it was coupled with nausea and regret—a hangover that felt particularly malicious. As I glanced at the clock, it read 7:45 AM, fifteen minutes later than I had intended to wake. My husband jolted awake, startled by my frantic movements.
“Camp, camp, camp,” I silently chanted, hoping that focusing on getting my child to camp would prevent any missteps, like tripping and vomiting the expensive wine I had consumed the night before. “Was it one bottle or two? I can’t waste time!” My head throbbed, and I barely kept my balance as I rushed to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the evidence of my night before the kids noticed anything amiss.
The shower didn’t save me, though. I needed to brace myself against the wall just to manage washing my hair. That chaotic morning was only a precursor to the agony I felt throughout the day. Managing nausea and dizziness with two preschoolers at home was a nightmare. For reasons I still can’t comprehend, I let them persuade me to take a trip to Walmart for a toy. It felt like I was still drunk while driving, but my body should have metabolized the alcohol by then. However, the road looked like it was warping, and I was acutely aware I was a danger on the road.
Later that day, I had a scheduled surgery to remove some tissue from my back, which had a slight chance of being cancerous. I considered canceling, but I knew that would only prolong my anxiety and lead to more drinking. So, I went through with it. I arranged childcare and had a friend accompany me to hold my hand during the procedure, where I had layers of skin excised and stitched. I was sick, dazed, and deeply disappointed in myself for going into surgery with a hangover that would make any college student proud.
In my husband’s recounting of the night before, he insisted I hadn’t consumed enough wine to feel that awful. We had shared three bottles among four adults, and I had been charming and sociable with our neighbors. I was relieved to learn I hadn’t embarrassed myself, but the dread of waking up to notifications on my phone didn’t vanish.
I would drink all night, keeping a glass by my bedside and my phone in hand until midnight, often not fully recalling what I had said in emails or on social media. I told myself I only had a glass of wine with dinner, estimating about 7 to 10 drinks a week. I averted my gaze from my doctor during check-ups, unwilling to discuss my consumption. The reality was much different. I could easily consume two boxes of wine weekly. I preferred boxed wine, especially after my daughter was born, as it was cheaper and my standards had lowered.
I rationalized my drinking with excuses: “I’ll quit when this box is gone” or “I’ll stop after the holiday.” But there was always a reason to celebrate, making it easy to postpone quitting.
The absurdity of my situation is that I knew better. Growing up in an alcoholic household, I actively made choices to lead a healthy lifestyle. I ran frequently and lifted weights, proud of my body’s achievements, yet I treated it like a dumping ground for my repressed emotions.
I began to explore my feelings of guilt and curiosity about quitting by searching online for addiction symptoms. I found that the DSM-5 had revised the definition of problem drinking, and I identified with several criteria. Ritual played a role in my addiction; I would wait until my kids were asleep to drink without them witnessing their mother becoming inebriated. By the time I poured my fifth glass, I’d take it to bed with me, often waking up to find it spilled on our mattress.
The key symptom that struck me: the desire to quit but feeling unable to. I wanted to stop even when I wasn’t drinking. I would run on the treadmill, knowing I was out of wine at home, yet I would still stop to buy more on my way back. That’s addiction in its most distilled form.
I grappled with defining addiction and whether I was truly addicted. I made excuses and convinced myself I fell into the “at-risk but not really a problem” category. Denial was easy in a culture that glorifies drinking; alcohol is portrayed as glamorous and essential, especially for mothers who need it to cope with the chaos of parenting.
After three pregnancies, my body didn’t feel like my own anymore. I dreaded being seen naked. Drinking became a companion to the discomfort I felt in my own skin. I believed my marriage survived because of wine; my husband remained oblivious to my struggle with alcohol. He thought I was just on a temporary health kick when I decided to quit. I hid my buzz, my cravings, and the turmoil within me from him.
I walked out of surgery and returned home to a house full of alcohol intended for hiding from my pain. But I didn’t touch it. After everything, I couldn’t bring myself to drink again after putting my children in danger and waking up with a hangover that felt like a disaster. This journey isn’t a temporary fix; it’s a path we will all navigate together.
And now, I’m ten days sober.