My daughter turned 4 on October 28, and I have this romantic notion that it would be really beautiful to be able to say “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol since she turned 4!” Currently, that statement is true. My last drink was two weeks ago on October 27.
A sober friend sent me this post yesterday titled The Tipping Point by the wonderful Laura McKowen. In it, she writes: “Call it a disease, a condition, a bad habit, call it whatever—I came to respect [alcohol] the way I respect a tidal wave or a grizzly bear. I’m not going to pretend like I can play with either of those things.”
Gang, I just can’t mess with alcohol. It does as much good for me as a boxing match with a grizzly bear. The only difference is, with a grizzly, I’d very appropriately try to run and hide instead of booze, where I welcome it with arms wide open to tear me to a pulp.
There is so much inside me that just begs to be loved and cared for and understood, and alcohol just keeps me in the pit of thinking I don’t deserve that, that somehow I am unworthy of a beautiful life.
But it’s not true. And I’m starting to see this fight with addiction as being less about ditching booze, and more about fighting with all the layers of experience that have lied to me about my true self worth. Alcohol allowed me to just tap out of the fight for a while, and it was fine until it wasn’t.
That sweet daughter of mine? I never want her to have to know this fight. I want her to have an unshakeable knowledge that she is worthy. Of anything, anywhere, anytime. She is good enough, she is strong enough, she is loveable enough.
Alcohol stole these beliefs from me. My fight now is to take them back.