My Last Dance

Photo by Ahmad Odeh on Unsplash

Or Should I Say, My Latest Dance?

I'm now two months sober. But I've been through this too many times to say with even a shred of believable confidence that I won't slip up again. Don't get me wrong. I want this sobriety. I wanted it with equal sincerity every time in the past, too. 

What did my last day of drinking look like? It was January 6, the day of the insurrection in the US. My quitting on that date was merely coincidence. Rather handy, though, as I've never previously taken note of my last day.

My quitting didn't come on the heels of a big epiphany. You see, I couldn't go cold turkey. I was so interminably dependent upon alcohol that even after I knew to my bones that I could no longer drink, I had to continue to do so in order to prevent myself dying from the withdrawal. I had to agonizingly cut back for weeks before I could cease entirely, which felt like sharing a bed with someone I knew wanted to kill me.

What My Alcoholism Looked Like Before I Quit

In a nutshell, I drank around the clock. I no longer drank for pleasure. I drank for relief from the agony of withdrawal, which would rear its head after barely more than an hour or two without alcohol.

I'd wake up in the middle of the night with what felt every bit like a panic attack - heart racing, an inability to catch my breath, sweating so much that my sheets adhered to my skin. I'd reach for the bottle I kept next to my bed, and swallow and swallow until I'd get pulled under.

Middle of the night drinking would only last until 6am at best, when it was time to take another drag. If I didn't drink in the wee hours, by the time the morning was to start, I'd be shaking so hard that I could no longer hold a glass at all, not even be able to use a straw, could barely walk for the shaking. Even after a drink, when the liquid heat would steady my tremor, I still needed two hands to hold a drink to my mouth. And so, when most people are listening for the first birds of the day, I was filling up on liquor.

Repeat at around 9am, before noon, middle of the afternoon, before dinnertime, after dinnertime, around 11pm, again closer to 1am until one day bleeds into the next.

I could maintain short bouts of consciousness when work needed my attention, cooking for my family, most of all for my trips to resupply. Other than that, my eyes would slide shut with the force of iron doors. I was horizontal for most hours of most days.

I was going through 3 handles of hard alcohol about every 4-4.5 days, no fewer than 24 units of alcohol per day, sometimes as much as 30.

Physical Symptoms that Were New During This Period of Extreme Dependence

Not only did I no longer have any quality of life, I could absolutely feel my body shutting down. Even when fully dosed, I still shook enough that it was hard to conceal. If I started to withdraw, the shaking was so out of control that you couldn't put a drink in my hands without the entirety of its contents flying out of the glass like a volcano erupting. My hands weren't the only thing shaking. I shook from my core, my whole body, out of control. The feeling was miserable and felt like it arose from a place of anxious compulsion, not like the neutral shivers of being too cold. My tremors were tinged with a metalic unease.

Both malnutrition and problems within my brain led to terrible problems with balance and walking, a problem much deeper and more complex than the drunken stumbling depicted in movies. The shaking met with muscle weakness and brain distortions to make me completely unsure on my own legs. I could no longer safely manage stairs. I couldn't walk for any distance without support. Additonally, my depth perception was impaired and my eyesight was blurred.

Standing for more than a few minutes at a time was impossible. Before long, I'd grow so tired that I'd have to lean over for support, gasping for breath. More times than I could count, I ended up sinking to the floor in a puddle of tears, unable to stand. Even sitting was out of the question, for the most part.

I'd started having tingling in my hands leading part way up to my elbows. My lips were also fuzzy with the prickles of tingling. My tongue was so raw from the alcohol that it burned 24 hours every day.

The drinking stole away my eyesight quickly. I could no longer see to read at all without my glasses, and words were often out of reach even with them. Between my eyes and my shaking, it was hard to communicate with anyone via messages. Even the simplest sentence would take a ridiculous effort to type.

The alcohol had left my nervous system too tightly wound. Even the smallest movement or sound, from the ding of a new message to a reflection in my glasses, would make me jump.

The swelling above my beltline had become painfully obvious as even my elastic-banded pants became too tight. When standing, I could feel my liver pressing up on my lungs, making it hard to breathe.

My sense of smell became perverted. Most everything smelled horrible. Especially food, but my clothing and bedsheets were not excluded. I also experienced phantom smells. The trouble with my sense of smell combined with a lack of appetite meant that I'd go days at a time without eating. Even when I tried, my throat would reject food. It would also reject water. My desire to drink enough alcohol to keep the withdrawal symptoms at bay and my constantly passing out meant that there were some days when I'd not even drink a whole glass of water.

It was entirely and abundantly clear that I'd succeeded in poisoning myself, and my body was disintegrating.

How I Quit On My Own

Both because of my mother's alcoholism and my own experience, I knew that a person dependent upon alcohol cannot safely go cold turkey (and I know of no professional who would advise doing this without medical supervision). Withdrawing from alcohol is incredibly dangerous, and potentially deadly.

Even though I knew it was explicitly killing me, I was equally well aware that I couldn't just pour my supply down the drain and count my first day. I had to taper slowly and gently, all while enduring the grinding symptoms of withdrawal.

At first, I drank on the same schedule, as often as needed, but I'd only allow myself enough to ease the withdrawal symptoms. Instead of gulping until I'd pass out, I'd take deliberate drinks, then observe, drink and observe. This meant experiencing more shakes than I was comfortable with, and also more time awake with symptoms. This period lasted about a week.

The next step was to start to increase the length of the intervals between drinks. At first, only a little bit. Then, I'd stretch it an hour beyond comfort before allowing myself enough alcohol to relieve my symptoms.

I can remember how it felt like I'd made a big step when I "only" drank six times per day, and still in the middle of the night and first thing in the morning. Eventually, I moved down to four times per day.

The first time I went a whole overnight without drinking was another milestone.

Nearer to the end, I'd only drink after 5pm. And finally, only at bedtime. The last night, January 6th, I had just one drink before bed. 

I felt no joy. I felt no pride. There were no balloons. I may have starved it of energy and attention, but my alcoholism, my monster, is still waiting quietly for me in the shadows. It is as patient as time.