My grandfather was a drinker; a brilliant human with a larger-than-life personality. He was always cracking jokes, generous to a fault, never afraid to pass a 20 dollar bill to a 10 year old.
He loved picking on his grandkids. He once told me that if I handed him a two dollar bill, the one that grandma had just given me, he’d double my money. He cut it in half. In another episode, as the cousins and I were lying on the living room floor, watching TV, he snuck in behind us, set up his Water Pik on the kitchen counter and soaked us all to the bone.
He was a self-made man who grew up in the depression era under an alcholic father with a gambling problem. He managed to build an empire of sorts, raise two girls, and retire comfortably.
Sometime in his early 80’s he decided to quit drinking, which had to be difficult.
I’ll never forget when he did.
He was a bit intimidating, detached. I always thought that we never talked because he didn’t like me. It never registered that his relationship with alcohol had put some distance between him and the people he loved. It was difficult to get anything out of him beyond a strong opinion.
Shortly after he quit drinking, He’d engage me in conversation, ask questions about my life. He listened. He talked to his wife. Held her hand. It was both exhilarating and heartbreaking. I wish I could’ve had more years with this version of Pa-Paw.
I have another relative who once told me that alcohol was the only thing she truly loved. I was new to Christianity at the time; an uber-judgmental, not-so-humble attacker of all vices, sorely in need of an encounter with the Jesus that I so regularly claimed to serve. I can’t remember my exact words, but you can imagine my response. It wasn’t helpful.
Now, in my mid-fifties, I find myself in a similar story; someone who loves his friends and famiy but struggles to engage. Detached. A bit too excited when cocktail time rolls around.
This past weekend, on a camping trip, I broke.
Here’s what happened:
Two years ago, I bought an old Jeep and fixed it up so I could experience more of the Colorado back country without having to hike all over the place. You wouldn’t believe the campsites that are accessible to high clearance vehicles. On this particular weekend I drove down a road that, for a few hundred yards, was a river.
My campsite was amazing; huge, next to a large creek with a waterfall, surrounded by all of the fall colors. Not a soul in ear or eye shod. I arrived late and had to set up in the dark, but I knew the morning – my favorite part of camping – would be amazing.
After setting up, I lit a fire, cracked open a small bottle of Fireball whiskey, and kicked back for a few shots. I had just come off a much-needed month-long booze break, and I was sitting at about 11,000 feet.
I woke up with what you might expect. All that work to build a Jeep, drive down some of the crappiest/dangerous/exhilarating roads you can imagine, find an amazing campsite, etc., only to spend an entire day feeling like shit.
I’m still angry about it.
I did spend the next 72 hours thinking about the different ways that alcohol might be taking more than it’s giving. Before I reflect, don’t hear me judging people who drink. It’s fun, and most of the people I hang with are good, reasonable, casual drinkers. To me, there’s nothing better than a party, and nothing goes better at a party than recreational beveraging.
We’d all do well to understand the draw.
But I’m beginning to realize that, while I can manage casual drinking, sort of, I don’t want to. If I’m with friends it’s diffult to say no to that third drink. Sometimes I don’t. And while nobody (save my wife) has ever brought my drinking to my attention, I’m guessing I have a reputation that might rival Pa-paw’s.
I have another friend, a deeply committed Christian, who couldn’t get a handle on his drinking and, in his 70’s, lost far too much. This story haunts me. I’ve always thought that my issues would magically take care of themselves.
Surely by the time I’m an old man (ha), I’ll have a better relationship with my vices.
I have more than a few friends who struggle this way. You should note that we’re all extroverts, people who love a good party more than anything else. When you hang out with folks like this, drinking or not, there’s laughter, encouragement. They’ll make you feel seen. Known.
We don’t drink because we love alcohol, we drink because there’s no party, and we need a party. I know how silly that sounds, but when I’m not experiencing enough parties in my life, my soul begins to crave whatever substitute that lies close at hand, even if comes at my expense.
Ultimately, my problem isn’t that I need to get my shit together and stop drinking. I live in a modern, disconnected, overtly independent culture, one that doesn’t value relationships as it should. The parties we throw are – especially among churchy folk – safe, subdued, distant, with lots of meaningless small talk and finger sandwiches.
Nothing like the party my soul is craving.
For me, it’s not time to judge, or feel shame about drinking too much. It’s time to understand what I’m truly looking for, and, ultimately, to be mindful of the many reasons why it might be time to stop altogether.
First, I don’t like what alcohol does to my memories. I’m a very nostalgic person. Maybe you are too. Maybe that’s part and parcel to being human. The memories of my childhood, college, early career flying small planes all over the southeastern US, seminary, travelling with Elaine, kids, surfing, etc. have all become a part of me. They tell the story of a past full of depth, meaning, fulfillment. They promise more.
And every one of these memories revolves around people I love, people who loved me back. I don’t know how I’d get by without them. They are more than just a recollection of facts; they are relived, re-experienced.
I do remember the buzzed moments when I’ve had a good time with friends, but I can’t feel them. They happened, but they’re sort of ghost like, little more than writing on a wall. Facts. History.
I’d like to make more of the right kind of memories. If they’re important to me now, I can’t imagine how important they’ll be when I’m 80.
I’m also bothered by the moments that alcohol has stolen. When I’m a couple of drinks in, I don’t care about much beyond doing whatever the hell I want to do. If something comes up that requires my attention, a hard decision, or whatever brief respite from leisure, I’ll pass.
Earlier this year, my oldest began to show signs that COVID lockdown etc. had taken a significant emotional toll. Elaine and I quickly transitioned into the most difficult parenting chapter of our lives. It required every meagre parenting skill and every ounce of committment that we possessed.
On a family vacation to the mountains earlier this summer, Sophia had a meltdown. We sat outside on the deck of our Airbnb and argued for a bit, then transitioned, somehow, into one of the best conversations we’d had since COVID hit. Then we climbed into the Jeep, headed for a mountain road, and I taught her how to drive an old, cranky, four wheel drive vehicle. We laughed, talked, and stayed out till way after dark.
She had another episode the following night, but I was a couple of drinks in and had no interest whatsoever in parenting – a truly Jekyll-and-Jackass-Dad kind of moment. She ended up in a closet, alone, trying to parse out the millions of emotions surging about in her 13 year old soul.
It wasn’t abuse. And I wasn’t drunk. I’d just had enough to excuse myself from a crucial conversation, an arena that could’ve drawn us even closer.
Never again, folks.
9 days ago, as I drove away from my camspite, looking in my rear view mirror at a half drunk, travel-sized bottle of Fireball sitting alone by the fire pit, I decided to take an extended vacation from booze.
I’ll tell you: that idea sucks. I can’t imagine life without alcohol. Every time I get in the car I drive by nine breweries. This is Denver, Colorado for cryin’ out loud. All of my friends drink. I’m surrounded.
But there’s a truth about quitting that I’ve only just come to realize.
This isn’t too far removed from breaking off a long-term, bad relationship. We all know how that goes: it sucks for the first few months then we realize that we made the right choice. The other person was bad news, and though we miss them dearly, and struggle to imagine life without them, everything will be OK. Life will be better without them.
I can’t feel that right now, but I know it’s true.
I’ve prayed about this many times and never heard God tell me to stop drinking. I definitely don’t think drinking is a sin, especially since the founder of my religion made 180 gallons of good booze at a party. But on this camping trip, I did hear, clearly, that God will walk with me through whatever pain comes from an extended, possibly permanent, break.
There is no happiness I’ll be missing, or memories that won’t be made. The idea that I need this to live the life I want to live is a lie. So, I’m going to take a break for a year.
At the end of that, I’ll sit down and, again, put something in writing.
Photo by Adi Goldstein on Unsplash
