It has been six months.

Six months since the last time I drank more than two drinks with a meal.

I’d like to say it was my surroundings. To say it was the company I was keeping. To say it was the life I was living.

That alcohol was just a regular part of it all.

Except for me, it wasn’t.

Anyone who tries to blame their drinking problem on everything but themselves is someone who needs to look in the bathroom mirror at Narita International Airport (believe me, I’ve been there) and accept the fact that there is no one to blame but themselves. They should also take that opportunity to realize that blaming other people and things for your drinking problem is a pretty good sign that you probably have a drinking problem.

And maybe they should consider why they are having important life conversations with themselves in an airport bathroom mirror.

Alcohol was a regular part of my life long before I went nuts traveling and dating and partying my way through Southeast Asia. Reading my friend Nicole’s blog post about her 1 Year Sober-versary it was like she climbed into my brain and put into words the voice that had been niggling at my heart for the past five days:

…almost every bad decision I’ve ever made has been fueled by alcohol. And fuck, I’ve made a lot of bad decisions.

It wasn’t that I drank daily or covered it up, it was that once I started I usually couldn’t stop. One beer became ten. Ten beers became a 10 foot beer funnel created by engineers.

Why did I quit drinking so much?

Who knew that drinking 10 vodka sodas after eating nothing more than a sandwich all day could royally fuck you up so much?

While I was in Chiang Mai I was out with a friend at one of my favorite local spots, a place that I knew “and could feel safe in.” Oh silly rabbit…as I walked through the crowd of people a guy smiled at me and asked where I’m from. We chatted for a few minutes and I went on to catch up with some folks.

A little bit later I was standing behind the bar waiting for my drink and the guy came up to ask for a water. My friend, the bar owner, asked me to grab it from the cooler behind the tapestry. I went to grab the water and the guy followed (this isn’t a huge bar kids.) The next thing I knew his hands and mouth we on me and he was bending me backwards and pushing me onto the water cooler. While 30 people drank and talked on the other side.

Immediately my friend and her staff person pulled this guy off me and I stood there stunned. Then they started yelling at me to pay for his water. I had no idea who the guy was, what had just happened, or

Why didn’t I just quit drinking?

 

This was an observation of my own making…I allowed people to form this opinion of me.

I welcomed it.

With my insane stories and ridiculous antics. I made them a part of my personality. My persona. The novel I was writing. The life I created. I was this erratic party girl who never really cared or felt. I only wanted to have fun. It is where I felt comfortable.

Better to let people think the worst of me than to have them think the best and then have to live up to that.

I hate feeling like I have to live up to other peoples’ expectations.

I don’t know how long this will last. Six more months. Two years. Five years. Forever.

I only know that I like myself more when I am not hurting other people and destroying myself. When I don’t have to cry every ten minutes because I am somehow trying to flush the self-hatred out of my own body. When I can remember the night before and enjoy the morning after.

That’s a pretty nice space to be living in.

Note – This post has been edited and updated continuously over the past 6 months with various thoughts and check-ins