In the movie, “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,” Paul Newman plays Brick, a former college football star whose career was over. He felt trapped because he thought that his wife was cheating on him, his over-bearing father had become estranged from him, and Brick could not stand his extended family. To escape his problems, Brick began to drink. It was only when he “feels that click,” or when the alcohol affected his brain to the point where he became numb, did Brick get relief from his problems. Similarly, in the television show, “The West Wing,” Leo McGarry, the Chief of Staff for President Bartlett, who was often overburdened by his office, said “any true alcoholic prefers to drink alone.” Both Brick and McGarry felt trapped by heavy responsibilities or circumstances beyond their control so they drank to ease the pressure. As I watched the actors perform, I had the realization that I had a lot in common with their characters.
On some days, when my problems seemed to surround me and choked off my feelings, I used to get so uptight that I had tension headaches. Alcohol provided relief. At the end of the day, when I was worn out from work and training for the triathlon, a shot of whiskey and a couple of beers helped to take the edge off. Like Leo McGarry, I preferred to drink alone because I could only lower my defenses when I felt safe. If I were to stop off at a bar then I would only have one beer because I would be afraid of being pulled over for a DUI. Besides, I couldn’t relax in public. I drank when I was bored and had a long day filled with nothing important in front of me. I drank when I was feeling anxious and the alcohol took the crazy away for a while. I drank for no reason whatsoever because I didn’t need a reason.
Drinking alcohol made my brain feel like a living thing, it helped my blood flow, and it was like basking my thoughts in a warm blanket. It felt good to become numb. Without alcohol, especially at the end of the day, my brain felt like a lump of coal; cold, dark, brittle, and lifeless. And besides, I liked myself better when I drank because I could let go of my type A, controlling personality for a while. I could be my natural self under the influence of alcohol and that was another reason why I didn’t drink in public. There are those who turn mean when they drink but I was the absolute opposite; everyone was my friend and I liked to hug all the girls and back slap all the guys. Some people didn’t take that very well and, when I was a lot younger, my gregarious nature almost got me into a couple of fights.
My brand of alcoholism began when I was in the seventh grade. I met with a buddy and we walked up to the liquor store and hung out around the corner from the front door, waiting for someone to pull up and get out of their car. Before they could enter the store we would ask them to but us a six pack. Most of the customers ignored us but it only took one person, usually a twenty one year old guy who thought that it was funny that a thirteen year old kid wanted to get drunk, to take the bait and buy us beer. We gave them a couple of bucks for their trouble. Because we were young and stupid, we began drinking the six pack immediately, usually right behind the liquor store, and then save at least one for the walk back home.
In high school and college, everyone drank, so for me to over indulge wasn’t unusual. We all had our favorite bars that we went to on the weekends and then finished up at someone’s house or a dorm room. It was seen as the cool thing to do as long as you didn’t take it too far. My problem was that if one beer made me feel good then two would make me feel better. Taken to its logical extreme, the more beer the better, and I spent a lot of regretful Saturday and Sunday mornings nursing a hangover. If it took too long to get drunk on beer then it made sense to preload with a shot of whiskey. And if drinking to excess made me feel so good then why should I wait until five o’clock to start enjoying myself. Why not noon or even earlier. It was a slippery slope.
When I used to have a house and a yard, I would pick up the kids right after school on Friday afternoons and start to drink. After a shot and a beer, I mowed the grass and then, after I finished the trimming, I downed another beer. The combination of alcohol, hard work, and the knowledge that the work week was over meant that I could truly relax. Once all the yard work was done, I sat by myself in a lawn chair in the shade and nap. The kids spied on me and laughed at me as I nodded in and out of consciousness but that was a small price to pay for a few moments of peace. While I basked in the glow of bourbon and beer, my thoughts and memories stewed. It was not necessarily a bad thing to sulk, and I am sure that there are better ways of dealing with depression and loneliness, but alcohol provided a quick fix.
Today, I barely touch the stuff. It isn’t that I don’t have the time to drink, it is that I don’t have time for the hangovers. Recovering from a binge has the same consequences as recovering from minor surgery. Besides, the kids are gone, my career is over, and we have moved into a small condo. The relentless pressure isn’t part of my milieu. My health has never been better because I have given up caffeine and alcohol. On my next birthday I will turn sixty and intend to live until I am at least ninety; I want the last third on my life to be absent of artificial stimulants and depressants so that I can enjoy the highs and lows naturally. If the emotions are pure then I won’t need alcohol to cloud or mask them for me.
