Relapse | Sober and Unashamed

Whiskey on the rocks. No mixer. No room-temperature shots. Just harsh brown liquid barely diluted by the slowly melting ice. But who am I kidding? The way I drink, the ice doesn’t have time to melt much.

Jack Daniels, probably. We have high-end, small-batch, local bourbons distilled here in Colorado now. They are too expensive for my purpose. They are meant to be sipped. I know better than to pretend. Gut-rot, bottom-shelf, sold-in-a-plastic-bottle whiskey would feel like failure. I am trying to reestablish an identity here. Jack will do nicely. No need to return the bottle to the cabinet. It can sit on the end table next to my glass until they’re both empty.

I’ve never pretended I could be a moderate, in-control, social drinker. At least I’ve not considered that impossibility to apply to me for a very long time. Over a decade-and-a-half easily. No, when I consider drinking again, it’s not because I think my brain has reset or my willpower has magically improved. When I consider relapse, I know I would be all in. It would be a fifth a day habit. Unless, of course, it got worse.

My good friend and advocate for recovery reform, Kathy McDonald, says, “Alcohol kills you slowly, until it kills you fast.” Her words rattle through my head sometimes. A lot lately. “I have seen enough to know I have seen too much.” That line from A League of Their…