The Stealthy Maneuvering of an Alcoholic | Sober and Unashamed

As a prolific drinker, I confused politeness and stigmatized silence for concealment. Maybe it was my ego. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe my internal shame was all I could handle, and considering the truth about what my friends and family observed would have killed me from embarrassment. Whatever the reason, I actually thought most people who experienced my overconsumption didn’t notice.

Some people drink until they pass out. Others drink to blackout — that fully functioning, zombie-like state where we say and do stupid things, but are spared from the memories in the morning. I was an overachiever, proficient at both the blackout and the pass out under any circumstances and with very little warning. I often even surprised myself with my alcoholic dexterity.

What about my wife? What was her role in my boozerific displays of alcohol-induced unconsciousness? She was my unwilling and apathetic accomplice, or course, often forced into action to try to explain away my guzzling shit-show of disappointment. We were quite the dynamic duo. Like Batman and Robin, if Batman was too incapacitated to buckle his own utility belt and Robin was embarrassed to leave the Bat Cave.

It was on or around Saint Patrick’s Day when Sheri and I joined a bunch of my work friends and spouses at an Irish pub in…