Update

So, here's the low-down: I haven't been a saint. I had a brief relapse about a month ago, which resulted in a day-long hangover which I don't wish to ever re-live again. No major damage done, but a stumbling stone along the way. A few days ago, I had a mid-day martini at The King Cole Bar, and was purely satisfied with it. It made me feel happy, and I was fine for the rest of the day. What does it all mean? I don't know. I do know that I still can't drink to excess without bad things happening. I do know that I'm much more aware of having to remain vigilant, and knowing when to stop -- after just one or two. I know that I can only do it, MAYBE, once a week or every other week; any more than that, and old habits die hard. I do know that I like the side benefits of not drinking; in fact, at The King Cole Bar, the baretender looked at me quizically when I came in, and said, "What have you been doing to yourself? You look great. You look like you took off ten years."

At 32, I'm not sure if that's necessarily a good thing, but I'll take the compliment. And refuse the second drink. Better still, not even begin with the first one. Except once in a while.

Conflicted? You betcha.

Day 35

Wow, I hadn't realized that so much time had passed since my last post here! More than a month... whoopee!

OK. I have a confession. I haven't been an angel. I slipped a little last night. I took a sip (a sip) from a friend's cocktail. It was a tiny sip, to be sure; I rolled it around my mouth a bit, and swallowed in slow, orgasmic drops. It was actually quite sexual, come to think of it. And that was it. I know, I know, danger this way lies, but it felt really good, and I was satisfied (more or less) with just the sip. Although I was only half-joking when I threatened to approach the group drinking martinis next to ours, and beg to suck their olives.

Anyway, I did have a moment of clarity: that one sip was so powerful and potent to me, after going 30-odd days without, that I caught something resembling a slight buzz from that one sip -- my tongue felt suddenly heavy, my wit less glib. And as good as that sip felt going down, I was keenly aware of the fact that I liked my overall self much better in the alert, sober state. So I guess this is progress!

Day 25

CLARA BOW

I know, I know...a five day gap. No, no relapses. Ice cream, yes. Vodka, no.

D-Man and I went out last night; he called me up and said, "Well, this is awkward, but would you like to go out for...?" He trailed off, and I replied, "I'll meet you so you can have a drink, and I'll have a soda."

So off we traipsed to a nearby watering hole, where the crowd skews towards the typical aggregation of muscles and Abercrombie & Fitch tee shirts. Within 10 minutes, I was bored out of my mind, and also extremely uncomfortable. Not self-conscious, per se, but I couldn't relate to a single person in the joint.

So D-Man and I took our leave, and decided to have a late supper at a casual, gay-centric diner around the corner, where the crowd was terribly similar: lots of guys in their 20's and 30's, all wearing variations on either the tight-jeans-and-A&F-tee-shirt clone look, or fey-scarf-and-faux-hawk gay "boi" look. In my scrupulously tailored gray trousers, cashmere V-neck and sheared-fur-lined coat, I probably looked and definitely felt like a disapproving old dowager.

As D-Man and I talked, I hit upon an analogy which sort of clarified a lot for me: these gay cliques reminded me a hell of a lot of the cliques who made my school years so miserable. On the one hand, I disliked them, and felt somehow "better" than them; and on the other, I wished I had the capacity to belong to a clique, rather than be on the outside. And, when I stumbled into the gay world, with its own set of cliques and Mean Girls and Jocks, drinking helped to ease the discomfort I felt. The weird thing is, I'm only uncomfortable, or more accurately, feel out of place, in those kinds of settings. Walking into a theater or restaurant, walking down the street, traveling the globe -- I carry myself with so much confidence, it's ridiculous. But put me next to some dude with highlights and a tank top in a silly gay diner, and all of a sudden, I'm a sullen 15 year old again.

Groups have never been my thing, which is why that first AA meeting didn't appeal to me at all. I make friends relatively easily -- contrary to popular rumor, I'm very easy to get along with! -- but I don't belong to a "circle" of friends. D-Man and I commented on this at the bar and restaurant; all these guys were in sewing circles of at least four to six friends, which was really alien to our personalities, and mine in particular.

I would never describe myself as a loner, but I do like time by myself, maybe more than the average person. As a kid, I loved being by myself to draw, or write, or read. I love being by myself still, to do those same things, or to simply window shop, take in a museum, and have a leisurely lunch. 

This is a rambling post, and there's no real rhyme or reason to it...it's all very stream of consciousness. I think a lot of people start drinking either because they're bored or insecure or both, and then it becomes a habit. I'm pretty sure that's how mine started; although the disease itself is another story and probably a whole other can of worms.

Day 20

Day Twenty's Visual Non-Sequitur:


JOAN COLLINS

A friend suggested the other day that my drinking was triggered by uhappiness in other areas of my life. A simple enough explanation; but one I'm intrigued yet skeptical about. I mean, isn't that the oldest cliche in the book? Drinking your sorrows away, drowning your troubles in the bottle? I honestly don't ever remember going on a bender because I was upset or unhappy -- although, to be fair, I don't recall a lot of those benders very well, period. But drinking for me was just "there": to celebrate something, to relax, to unwind, because I was bored, and I suppose, on a few occasions, because I was upset.

More specifically, this friend thought that perhaps I felt creatively stifled by my occupation, and drinking helped to "enlarge" my life, outside of work. Again, it's an intriguing theory, one which I'll have to analyze more in-depth. Frankly, a no-less simplistic alternate explanation would be that I grew up on a steady diet of MGM glamour alternated with tell-all movie star bios; and Joan, Lana, Judy and the rest could drink most of their male counterparts under the table. Of course, they were my idols. Drinking was just part of the glamour package.

Do I feel creatively stifled? Not really...my main failing, in the interest of full disclosure, is a frightening lack of ambition. I have a very strong work ethic, mind you; but that and ambition are vastly different things. I'll do any job put before me to the absolute best of my ability, but I have no grand ambitions of a career, creative or otherwise. The pursuit of beauty in all forms has been my dual savior and downfall. I'm a split personality: a dreamer and a hard-nosed realist; and while the dreamer often dominates my actions, the realist is keenly self-aware of the folly of doing so -- and either is harshly self-critical or bemusedly resigned, depending on my mood.

Hmmm. Maybe there's something connected to my drinking, after all.

Day 18

Day Eighteen's Visual Non-Sequitur:


ANITA EKBERG

To you patient, indulgent souls who've been kind enough to follow these ramblings: no, the loss of my late, lamented silk mohair sport coat did not send me into a tailspin of relapses; I've just been incredibly busy with work and social events these last 3 days. (It's a glamorous life, but someone's gotta live it.)

Thanks to your sane words of advice and shared mourning for said sport coat, I pried myself down off the ceiling and managed to enjoy a nice evening out. I saw Marilyn Maye once again at The Metropolitan Room, which always cheers me up, and then had dinner at The Modern.

Now, The Modern is one of my favorite restaurants -- just a hop, skip and sashay away from my apartment. They also mix THE best martini in town, and the managers, God bless 'em, all know that I enjoy my Beefeater 'tini stirred, straight up with a twist. Upon arrival, there was an unexpected wait for our usual table, so of course, the offers for a comped drink began right away. I politely declined. Throughout the meal, the waiter and other managers began inquiring solicitously about sending over drinks. I need to figure out a really clever way of declining, aside from "No, thanks, not tonight." Just to mix it up a bit.

The following day, I had lunch with my dear friend D-Man (who, as readers of my Other Blog may recall, is the resident sex kitten of my claque), who I have not seen since deciding to Go Sober. D-Man and I have shared many a booze-sodden night painting the town various shades of lavender, so I knew my revelation would send him for a loop. Before I had a chance to drop the bombshell, he already ordered a drink; when I made my spiel, he turned pink with embarassment that he had ordered a cocktail. I reassured him that it made absolutely no difference to me; and it really doesn't. Other people drinking around me doesn't have a whole lot of effect on me. I get a craving now and then, especially for that delicious first sip and tingle. But I'm continuing to learn how to get beyond that.

In talking with my friends, and in hearing from guests to this blog, I'm beginning to realize that everyone has some kind of baggage -- whether it's an addiction, depression, whatever. We all have issues. There is really no such thing as "normal," as we perceive it. In our (my) mind, "normal" has always been equated with "perfect." What's more, we all have our insecurities, and people we may envy and/or admire may think that their lives are absolutely horrid. It's been eye-opening, and reassuring; we're all in the same boat, really. And having baggage is nothing to be ashamed of. It's when we have it, and either don't realize it, or refuse to do something about it, that it becomes a problem.

Day 15

So, the night of my (hopefully) last drunken episode, which prompted me to get sober, I apparently took something of a fall. When I awoke the next morning, I realized that I had skinned my knuckles and completely scuffed my beautiful, handmade caramel-colored benchmades. I don't want to appear completely superficial, but nice things are nice things, and money is money, and I was absolutely horrified (in addition to realizing that I needed to get help). The excellent shoe repair man down the street returned my shoes to astonishingly good condition, and I felt all was right with the world. Sobriety was going nicely, shoes are back in shape, all is well.

A few minutes ago, as I was dressing for dinner, I started to put away some of my warm weather clothes -- it's a nice, breezy 65 degrees in Manhattan right now. The sport coat I was wearing on The Night Of Infamy is one of my favorites, and something of a showpiece: robin's egg blue silk mohair, absolutely gorgeous. Now, the Day After, I had inspected it for any signs of wear or staining, given the state of my knuckles and shoes. I didn't see any, but then again, I was probably still semi-smashed when I looked.

I don't know how I missed it. Two large scuffs in the silk, one almost completely gone through. I have no idea if my tailor can re-weave it or not; and even if he can (which I'm inclined to doubt), I'm fairly certain the repair work will be very noticeable. Again, don't cry for me Argentina, there are worse problems than fucking up a Very Expensive One Of A Kind jacket, but still.

The episode plunged me into a complete state of self-loathing. I hate being an alcoholic. I hate what it does to my mind and body. I hate that it's caused me to ruin, lose or put in danger some truly beautiful things which I carefully saved, planned and cared for. My friends and family, God bless them, have stood by me. I'm apparently throwing my material goods out the window. In the past, if I lost or damaged things, it was just a matter of buying new and replacing them. Well, the gravy train ended with this recession, and there will be no more replacing going on for a while. 

I keep apologizing for sounding like a prat, but dammit, this pisses me off. I'm not pissed about losing material things, per se; I'm pissed at myself for allowing this stupid disease to make me so careless about things I valued. If you are an art collector, imagine defacing a prized painting in a drunken stupor; if you're a musician, imagine destroying your instrument because of your drinking; if you have a prize-winning garden, imagine hacking your rose bushes to Mommie Dearest smithereens because you've been nipping at the gin. We all have "things" that we place great value on, and my personal obsession is clothes -- not just clothes for clothes' sake, but really special, fine pieces. And right now, I'm hating myself for getting this far into a disease that I thought I could control. Yes, I'm 15 days sober; no, I can't change the past. 

But it still sucks.

Day 13

Day Thirteen's Visual Non-Sequitur:


JAYNE MANSFIELD

Well, friends, I have to admit that I'm sort of hoping for a relapse, just to have something interesting to share with you at this stage of the game. As I said before, I'm a bit wary of it being this simple, so we'll see what happens. But, for the time being, I'm feeling really good. I also feel like I look better -- my skin seems clearer, I don't have dark circles under my eyes, etc. I've gained five pounds, but oh well.

I've substituted stopping at the liquor store on the way home with stopping for ice cream; it's not terribly healthy in the long run, but it's been fun so far. (And I make small concessions, like only buying the "light" ice cream, or even sorbet!) However, as people in recovery so often trade one addiction for another, I'm watching the scale to ensure that I don't pull a Kirstie Alley. Five pounds I can live with. Ten is another story. Fifteen, and I'll be tempted to buy the Econo-sized jug of Stoli to dull the pain.

This makes me sound like a complete mess, but what the hell? You've already heard about my ass being dumped off in Harlem. Anyway, as I mentioned before, when I was in my early teens, I was a fat kid. And, because I never do anything half-way, when I was a fat kid, I was totalling entire boxes of frozen mozzarella sticks as an after-school snack. Conversely, when I lost weight, I ran religiously and stuck to a disciplined, low-fat, low-calorie diet. I also took brief, half-hearted detours into anorexia and bulemia, but found the former too boring, and the latter way too messy. I would never be tempted to do either again, but I am mildly obsessed with weight. I joke about it, but these five damn pounds really piss me off; at the same time, I'm finding myself turning more and more to food for some kind of comfort. Now, at 5'6" and 128 pounds (now 132), I can afford a little extra weight. But not TOO much. And, honestly, I don't particularly feel like exploring my psyschological relationship with food at the moment. Sobriety is enough on my plate, so to speak, for now.

So now, instead of asking for a drink with dinner, I ask, "What kind of potatoes come with that?"

Day 12

Day Twelve's Visual Non-Sequitur:



Well, the dreams have returned, after a brief lull. Last night's was a lulu: it involved a version of Love Story/An Affair to Remember, with Katharine Hepburn, of all people, in the female lead. In my dream, her affliction is blindness, not being felled by a crippling car accident; and the movie doesn't end with Nicky's discovery of her ailment. Oh no. They continue on to his sugar plantation in Cuba (don't ask), with Kate meeting Mamacita, who is dolled up in the authentic 1940's Hollywoodized version of all things vaguely Latin: red lipstick, black lace, mantilla, etc. There was even a bit of religious symbolism: Kate discovers Mamacita's crucifix necklace on a stark wooden table, and displays a bit of Great Kate emoting as she blindly fingers the cross, then realizes what it is.

I find it rather amusing that I'm having these dreams as I go through my detox, as they're precisely the kind of images I'd think up if I were completely plastered.

Day 10

Day 10's Visual Non-Sequitur:


SHEREE NORTH

The funniest damn thing I've heard in the last 10 days: last night, during my tete-a-tete with my girlfriend Michelle, I mentioned that, ever since giving up alcohol, I'm filled with a ton of nervous energy, PLUS all that extra free time that drinking once took up. In all seriousness, she said, "Why not join a gym?"

I laughed so hard and so loud, heads turned in the coffee shop.

I loathe exercise almost as much as I enjoy drinking. It's certainly not a bad idea, especially since I seem to be on an eating kick these days, too, but one thing at a time. I'm not great with change, and getting sober is a seismic life change. If I decided to take up exercise, too, my body might go into complete shock.

I was a chubby kid growing up; I reached my full adult height of 5'6 1/2" by age 13, and I was toting around 180 pounds at the time. I had a 36 inch waist and towered above most of my classmates; it was the one and only time in my life I was mistaken for a football player. Once I hit 18, though, I began a disciplined and committed diet and exercise regimen, completely on my own: 1200-1500 calories a day, an hour of cardio a day (running), light free weights, and 500-600 crunches. I dropped 40 pounds, and was in great shape.

Then I got really hungry and really tired, and said "Screw it!" to a lifetime of grilled chicken and hour-long runs.

Fortunately, my metabolism had leveled out, and I'm at a pretty steady 128-130 now, and, I'm ashamed to say, I have not exercised in at least 10 years. Baby steps, guys, baby steps. Give me 90 days of sobriety, and I'll think about making some more changes.

The anniversary of 9/11's been on my mind today, too; of course, it was a devastating event for everyone, especially if you were in NYC at the time. My really heavy drinking began not long after that, and I wonder how much of that is tied together. I didn't think I was affected any more or any less than the average New Yorker; I was fortunate to not have any close friends perish in the WTC towers, although of course I did have a few acquaintances and friends-of-friends. I don't THINK there's a direct correlation, but it's something I've been thinking about today.

So, I have the apartment completely to myself (the roommate is away at a business meeting), it's the solemn anniversary of 9/11, and I'm feeling antsy. This is the perfect night to have a few solitary cocktails. Fret not, I plan on either taking a little walk, or following Peenee's advice and having an online porn-a-thon.

Day Nine

Day Nine's Visual Non-Sequitur:


DALIAH LAVI

This will be another short one; I just got in from a dinner with some girlfriends I hadn't seen in a few months. Lots of laughs, lots of giggles; they're not a hard-drinking bunch, so no real pitfalls there. After we said our goodbyes, I pulled the one I'm closest with aside, and asked her to have a coffee with me. Long story short, I spilled my guts to her. I've known this friend for close to a dozen years, and even if we don't see each other more than a few times a year, we're completely simpatico. It's just good to know that people have my back, and I have their support and love. As much as I like to think of myself as fiercely independent and self-sufficient, having that circle of support is so comforting.

It was a relevatory dinner in a few other ways; almost all of us were in the midst of life-altering experiences: one had finally gotten out of a dead-end, 8-year-long relationship with a schmuck; another just found out she's having a baby. I took it as a sign that (good) changes are in the air.

More tomorrow.

Day Eight

Day Eight's Visual Non-Sequitur:


LANA TURNER

Well, I have to say, I feel pretty good this morning. Yesterday evening began with a 7 PM cabaret performance by Marilyn Maye. (You can check The Other Blog later for the fun report.) The Metropolitan Room has a two drink minimum, and of course, in the past, it's always been two martinis for me. I ordered two Diet Cokes and settled in for a fabulous show. And, you know, I didn't really miss the booze. There was a moment, when I saw the trays of martinis and manhattans being ferried by the waiters to the various tables, that I felt a twinge of jealousy. Also, at The Metropolitan Room, the seating is so tight (intimate?) that you're practically on top of your neighbor. The tall, handsome gentleman to my right ordered a scotch and soda, and I contented myself just sniffing in the vapors all evening.

In all seriousness, it was a revelation of sorts (not to get TOO dramatic) to watch a performance 100% alcohol-free. I honestly can't remember the last time that happened. Not that I would get shit-faced on two drinks, mind you, or roll into the theater, opera or ballet stinking drunk, but such events were usually prefaced by a nice dinner, which meant a few cocktails, plus maybe one at intermission. Anyway, it was a great show, and I felt great afterwards. On to dinner.

We had decided to go to Abboccato, one of my favorite places and, conveniently enough, right next door to my building. I've been going there since they opened, have my own table, and generally feel very much at home there. In addition to having great food, they also mix some of the best martinis in town: ice cold, crystal clear, perfect. They also know my order, so I threw the waitress for a loop when I opted for mineral water instead. Later, during the meal, she noticed the empty bread basket, and asked, "Would you like some more beer?" Then, realizing that her Freudian slip was showing, she laughed and said, "I mean, bread! I was just surprised you didn't have your martini tonight!" I just flashed a smile, and replied, "Oh, well, I have such an early start tomorrow..." I'll have to think of smoother responses.

At the end of the meal, the sommelier suddenly appeared at our table with complimentary glasses of sambuca. My friends' eyes widened in dread, but I told them to enjoy theirs, and if anyone wanted mine, they were welcome to it. Being darlings, they made the sacrifice. Ahem. Again, I contented myself with the rather potent fumes.

OK. So I had vanquished the dragon twice, and I was feeling pretty full of myself. Being the glutton for punishment that I am, I decided to bid my friends farewell, and visit one of my favorite watering holes to A) strut around a bit, since I was feeling so damn cocky, and B) see if I could withstand temptation in a gin mill.

When I arrived, the place was fairly busy for a Monday night. There's one woman I see at this particular bar all the time, and I've never seen her sober, once. She's always on the verge of keeling over. The thing is, she's very attractive in that WASP-ish, Dina Merrill way; always impeccably turned out in a very tasteful outfit, with amazing jewelry and handbags; the schism between her patrician looks and the way she behaves is really jarring. It was only around 10:30 PM, and when she showed up last night, she could barely walk a straight line, sent her drink back twice because there wasn't enough vodka in it, and was performing some weird sort of burlesque bump and grind to the music, lifting her lovely Oscar De La Renta skirt up above her thighs, giddily watching herself in the mirror. Some guy she introduced as her "best friend" was with her, egging her on, cupping her blue-blooded ass and grinding up behind her. She fascinated me when I was drunk, and she definitely fascinated me last night. Maybe I identify, I dunno.

Over on the banquettes, a cute young couple was engaged in a prolonged makeout session, downing martinis in between clinches. I felt another slight sting of jealousy, and not just for the gin. A few guys came over to flirt and make small talk, and I was surprised at how much easier it is to flirt when your tongue doesn't feel like it needs shaving. As far as the drinking goes, I wasn't particularly tempted, and I discovered that being in a bar is damn boring if you're NOT drinking, so the experiment, while more or less successful, was an abbreviated one. Oh, and I also learned that club soda mixed with cranberry juice with a healthy twist of lime tastes an awful lot like a real Cape Cod. It definitely tricked my taste buds into thinking I was having a cocktail.

I decided to walk home, as it was a beautiful night, and just felt very contented. However, being the realist-slash-fatalist that I am, I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. It can't possibly be this easy, save for the occasional panic attack. As one of the visitors here pointed out, something is very wrong with me if temptation never rears its ugly head. One of the things that frightened the holy heck out of me during AA meetings was the constant tales of relapses. I know I'm only 7 full days into this, but I really don't want to get dragged back into the quagmire. And feeling so good (invincible?) almost feels like the false sense of exhilaration and cockiness I'd get when I reached the place just after mere tipsiness and just before annihilation. I feel TOO good. Something's gotta give. Stay tuned.

Addendum: One disturbing thing DID happen last night; I dreamed that, when I went to the bar, I actually did have a drink. I awoke from this dream around 2 in the morning, feeling very groggy, and for a few moments, I thought that I actually HAD slipped, that I WAS drunk. It was very disorienting. Even now, I feel just a teensy bit like the way I would if I'd been drinking the night before -- that heavy feeling in your head. Those scotch and sambuca fumes must have been stronger than I thought.

Day Seven

Day Seven's Visual Non-Sequitur:


DIANA ROSS & THE SUPREMES

Some thoughts:

There's this insidious voice inside my head that keeps saying: "Well, you know, you never really tried to cut down before. Now that you've proven you can abstain [for a whole six days!], if you just have one or two, consciously knowing that more than that is a problem, you probably have the willpower to cut yourself off. It's all a matter of conscientious effort. You're not weak. You can be a responsible social drinker." And I feel this ying-yang taffy pull going on inside my body and head, trying to separate the reality from the self-delusion.

Also, I've made the depressing realization that I have absolutely no hobbies outside of drinking. Except shopping, which in its own way, is almost as dangerous for me. I have the day off, it's absolutely gorgeous in Manhattan, and on a "normal" day like today, I'd be strolling through the city, having a leisurely lunch at one of my favorite haunts, and, no, not getting blitzed, but enjoying a gin and soda, perhaps, or a Negroni on the rocks. I tried to think of something else solitary to do this afternoon, and outside of shopping, I couldn't think of a damn thing. Yes, yes, I know -- go for a nice walk, take in a museum, yadda yadda yadda. I can't explain it, but all of those things seem somehow inextricably tied to ALSO having a lovely afternoon cocktail in my mind.

I really can't express wholly in words what I'm trying to convey here. I KNOW that taking a walk or going to a museum have absolutely NOTHING to do with drinking, and many (most!) people do those things without drinking even crossing their minds. But for me, aside from a few errands I ran this morning, I'm really anxious about going anywhere else, as if the very act of being in a public (non-work) environment automatically will cause me to start knocking back slugs. It's so strange to me: I can have alcohol within very close proximity to me in my own home, and I've been perfectly fine. But the thought of being out and about around town scares the bejesus out of me, because I link all of the fun stuff I do around town with drinking. Am I making ANY sense at all here, folks?

Tonight's evening out doesn't faze me (yet) because I'll have friends to keep me in check -- or, rather, I'll keep myself in check just To Prove That I Can Do It in front of them. But right now, as of 1:50 PM in New York City, I'm rather on the brink of a quiet panic attack. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Day Six

ANN-MARGRET

RE: the photo; I decided that this little cyber-slice of sobriety was a little...well, sober. So, for each post going forward, I'm including a visual non sequitur, apropos of nothing. Just images that make me happy. And, after all, isn't being healthy and happy what this is all about?

OK. New day, new challenges. It was a crazy, nerve-rattling, busy, chaotic day in my life. Nothing that makes me want to punch walls or anything, but let's just say that my temper flared more than a few times, I probably used a shorter and harsher tone of voice than would normally be deemed polite, and generally had a short fuse all day. In other words, the kind of day that I would usually cap off with a cocktail to unwind.

Let me be clear here: not every cocktail I took precipitated a messy evening of debauchery, 15 cocktails later. There were times when I was satisfied with my two or three drinks at dinner, or at happy hour, or unwinding at home, and called it a night. But the bad nights certainly outweighed the moderate ones, and I absolutely could not control myself once I had reached a certain point of inebriation. And it's all too easy to get to that point.

Anyway, what I'm aching for right now are those easy, breezy evenings of sharing a few carefree cocktails with friends. Trust me, I do NOT long for those nights where I'm drunk as a skunk, and need an entire day after to regain my composure and command of my consonants. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm pissed at myself for getting to the point where I cannot enjoy a moderate evening with friends, because of my not being able to control the "other" times.

It's all a matter of time, and re-conditioning myself to find having an easy, breezy evening of drinking fruit juice, while my friends have cocktails, sound like a good time. I know, poor me! But it's an adjustment. And let's not forget the fundamental truth that, let's face it, drinking is fun! It's the getting drunk that's not fun, and the consequences after. But social drinking is fun. I'll miss it.

What I'm finding a revelation, however, is how much more alert I am. I didn't realize how tired I constantly was, or how much slower my mental and physical reflexes were. Especially in the past two years or so, I would spend at least 60-70% of my week either drinking or hungover, and I didn't realize the toll it was taking on my day-to-day, mundane ability to function at a reasonable level. It's amazing what six consecutive days without being drunk and/or hungover can do for your clarity and performance.

In the midst of all the craziness that was going on around me today, I turned to the person I was with and exclaimed, "You know, if I weren't 100 percent committed to this damn sobriety thing, I'd definitely be having a cocktail when this is over." And I would be, but I'm not, and I'll be relieved when day is done, and I have another notch in my sobriety belt.

Day Five

I'm rather proud of myself, I must say; there's vodka in the apartment, there are plenty of mixers, and my roommate (who doesn't know that I've made the decision to quit drinkig -- or, more to the point, that I'm in recovery) invited me to have a drink. It's a horrid, humid, rainy day here, and it's the perfect kind of afternoon/evening to have a few drinks and just hang out. But I said no, and to my surprise, it wasn't that much of a challenge to my willpower to do so.

I've been trying to pinpoint where exactly drinking stopped being a recreational pleasure and became a hazard. I was NOT a "bad" kid who snuck alcohol in my teen years. On my prom night, I thought my friends and I were being daring by buying -- get this -- two six-packs of wine coolers. I had two, got completely giddy, and that was that. But I grew up quickly; by the time I was 17 (not too long after prom, come to think of it), I was traveling into NYC from the suburbs and sneaking into gay clubs. Even so, on a limited budget, I rarely had more than 2 or 3 drinks a night (screwdrivers, then cranberry & vodka), and believe it or not, I was quite the disco bunny back in the day: the first one on the floor, and the last one to leave, and NEVER an illegal substance to fuel the party. Whatever I drank, I sweat out by last call.

I guess it was around 7 or 8 years ago that I began to slowly realize that my drinking was putting me in precarious positions. I'd wake up and not know where I was, or who I was with; not an unusual story in gay Manhattan, but the beginning of a slide into dangerous territory. In the past 2 years or so, I'd be going out 2 or 3 nights a week -- no longer to clubs, but to bars, where the bartenders knew my order before I sat down; where a $20 bill guaranteed me an unlimited supply for the rest of the night. There were rarely nights that I actually remembered getting home; but my internal honing device always led me back to my door.

Usually.

One particularly scary night, I completely blacked out; from what I recall, I had only started my fourth drink -- which, believe you me, is barely enough to get me buzzed, and I was chatting with a new acquaintance at the bar. I'm fairly certain he slipped something in my drink, because I remember nothing after that; and my tolerance level was/is such, that I usually can go for at least 6 or 7 drinks (or usually more) before I start heading into blackout territory. [Note to readers: when you can actually determine how many drinks you can consume before you black out, you've got a problem.] Anyway, long story short, and ommiting a lot of details, I wound up in HARLEM, of all places, wandering the streets, robbed of most of my belongings (Prada alligator gloves: $2000. Louis Vuitton clutch: $900. Self respect: priceless), nearly arrested by the police, driven home by a stranger, and then harrassed by phone messages from unknown predators for days afterwards.

And still I continued to drink.

Within the next year, I had two Cartier watches snatched directly off my wrist by thieves who would watch me get progressively drunker, then pounce when I would try to stumble out of the bar. And even $15,000 poorer, I just thought, Well, I wasn't meant to have those Cartier watches. But, apparently, I WAS meant to drink. Designer coats, umbrellas, money clips, wallets, cuff links, fountain pens -- all disappeared, and none meant so much to me that I would give up my cocktails.

It's funny how 7 or 8 years of cumulative episodes can't get someone to admit they have a problem, whether it's risky sexual behavior one wouldn't indulge in if sober; or prolonged blackouts; or day-long hangovers; or being taken to, and abandoned in, Harlem; but that's why they say that everyone has to come to the place of realization themselves, and it's at a different point in everyone's addiction. Somehow, by the grace of God or a Higher Power, or (probably) just dumb luck, I haven't been maimed or worse during my travails.

I'm not a dummy. I consider myself fairly intelligent, and more self-aware than most. I knew all along that this -- alcohol -- was a problem. And the problem with being so self-aware, and not wanting to admit that you're an alcoholic, is that the denial and guilt become monumental. I have a feeling that, as I work through the why's and wherefore's of my addiction, I'll be visiting places in my psyche and (shudder) childhood memories that won't be fun.

In the meantime, though, I'm just glad to say that I am Five Days Sober.

Day Four

OK, so I'm convinced I'm going to get through this looking like A Patch of Blue-era Shelley Winters, because, seriously, I've never been so hungry in my life. It's after 11pm as I write this, and I could total a pizza by myself.

It's also pretty amazing how completely my addiction/recovery has taken over my brain. I think about it almost 24/7 -- not necessarily in a bad or obsessive way; it's just THERE, like the proverbial elephant in the living room.

This is a short one, as 1) I need to go to bed before I actually act on totaling that pizza, and B) I need to be up obscenely early tomorrow.

A great big "Thank You" to everyone who's been nice and considerate enough to share their thoughts, support and personal experiences thus far. I never really expected to get much feedback from this blog; it really was just my way of getting some personal catharsis, as I feel the most emotional release when I can write (or, I guess, type) my way through what I'm feeling. So to have your comments has been a real unexpected pleasure and blessing. It's all very much appreciated!

Day Three

OK, so thus far, I have broken out in strange welts on my arms; have become a human garbage disposal and am hungry every five minutes; and have had bizarro dreams every night for the past three nights running. (Like, beyond strange. Even for me.) I don't mind the welts THAT much, and the dreams are actually kind of entertaining; but even though I logically understand that it's better to gain a few pounds and be sober than to be a svelte drunk, I'm not enjoying this early side effect of sobriety. Although, I have a feeling this is more psychosomatic than physical -- I've always turned to food when I've been stressed and/or depressed. I really only drank when I was actually HAPPY, which means that my life has been a laugh riot for the last 10 years or so.

I had dinner with my dad and his wife tonight. It was all very congenial, and he's a fabulous cook, so I stuffed my face silly. Haven't told him yet. Not sure that I will, for the time being. It's a loooong story, my dad and me, and frankly, I think he's one of those people who live long and prosper by being happily oblivious to reality. So why burst his bubble? Anyway, the point is, I made it through a family dinner without feeling the need for a stiff drink, so small progress is being made daily.

I do feel strangely vulnerable, though; almost as if, now that I've admitted to myself and a few other people that I'm an alcoholic, that I have a big, scarlet "A" (or "AA") on my forehead. Not in a paranoiac sense, or anything; I just have this initial twinge of, "Is this person looking at me because I'm an alcoholic," and then realize I'm being an asshole, and let it go.

This coming Monday is cabaret night at The Metropolitan Room, with Marilyn Maye, one of my all-time favorite old girls. Two drink minimum. A program of songs about boozy broads ("Lush Life," "Something Cool," "Guess Who I Saw Today?"). You see the pitfalls. Of course, I'll be longing for that first, cold tang of gin and vermouth. Instead, I'll be sipping my mineral water. C'est la vie!

Day Two

OK, so here are my initial reactions to my first AA meeting. I know, I know, you can't really judge anything by one experience. Except maybe sex.

I decided to attend a GLBT-specific meeting, since I figured, well, being surrounded by a bunch of alcoholic queens is really nothing new to me. Seriously, I did have reservations about AA in general, and even though I rarely feel the need to be in "the gay ghetto", in this case, I felt I'd be more comfortable in a gay-specific, or -friendly, environment.

At first, my worst preconceived ideas seemed to be confirmed: the first people I met were all very friendly, very nice...and, it must be said, looked like complete losers. I know I won't win any friends with this observation, but they were all older, unkempt, sloppy, overweight, and I just wanted to run. I couldn't identify. I couldn't really be like "them," could I? But I stayed, and relaxed a bit as the meeting room swelled to almost capacity, and pretty much every shape, size and color homo showed up. The diversity calmed me down, although I still felt very much like a duck out of water, especially since many of the members were well-acquainted with each other.

As I sat and listened to various testimonials, I felt a very weird dichotomy taking over: as much as I could identify with much of what they were saying, I still felt a sense of disconnect, as if I were thinking of how it applied to "someone else." I'm not in denial of the fact that I'm an alcoholic. I can't explain it. I just felt really disconnected.

Part of the problem was/is that I've never enjoyed groups. Even in school, my friends were wildly disparate, and never part of the same "clique." I had jock friends, nerd friends, artsy friends, theater friends, goth friends, you name it. As an adult, I never cultivated a "circle" of friends -- I have friends, but all from different spheres and sources, and we never really hang out in a group. I'm sure I could spend a good amount of time in psychotherapy discussing that one, but for the time being, let's assume it's NOT an "issue," just a personality trait. The AA group mantras, the holding-hands circle at the meeting's end...I got it, I understood it, but I didn't really like it. Never have, in any capacity.

I also, in some way, probably illogically felt that by merely going to my first AA meeting, by taking that First Step, I'd immediately feel better, as if a weight had lifted. I didn't. I felt completely defeated by the fact that it had "come to this." And, as I listened to tales of years in AA, and relapses along the way, and of daily struggles, I suddenly felt completely overwhelmed by the enormity of what was facing me. It just seems like such a long road ahead, and I'm already exhausted. I'd love to do nothing but...well, do nothing for a month. I don't mean spending a month drinking, believe me. I'd just love to chuck everything and just relax.

Anyway, will I return to AA? I don't know. I don't know if it's for me. I don't know what IS for me, in terms of treatment. My company offers 8 free visits to a psychiatrist, although the selection is limited and, again, I'm suddenly feeling very vulnerable and only wanting to speak with a gay or gay-friendly therapist. So, I have a lot of choices to make. And right now, I'm being a bit of a baby, and just wishing it would all go away, because I just feel so physically and mentally tired, that I couldn't possibly make a good decision if I wanted to. So, this is where my inner voice usually snaps, Eve Arden-fashion, "Get off your ass, kid, and do something!"

And, if I've learned anything at all in my 32 years, it's that Eve Arden usually is right.

1 1/2 Days of Sobriety

So, here it is. If you've navigated to this blog via my other, main (fun) blog, you may be surprised to find me here. On the other hand, given the fact that I named it after my very favorite drink in the world, you may not.

I am an alcoholic. It's not a pretty word, and I'm not particularly happy to apply it to myself; although I am glad that I've reached a place where I'm not trying to delude myself into thinking I'm anything but.

On Sunday night, I had what was hopefully my last drunken episode, ever. The next morning, I was missing my cash, my eyeglasses, a lot of skin off of my knuckles and most of my ability to think and function clearly. I had to call out of work, and I made the decision then and there (even through a haze of gin and vodka which stayed with me well into Monday afternoon) that I couldn't hide from my disease any longer.

I had called work before to tell them I might be late (I was actually hungover); I've even gone into work still drunk from the night before, armed and ready with an arsenal of Altoids and Eclipse gum and able to function perfectly well -- I have to admit, with some pride, that I've done some of my best, most effective work while still slightly smashed. But I had never missed an entire day.

Actually, I'll amend that: twice, I had to miss a day of work after I was slipped a mickey. But, because I didn't voluntarily take any drugs, I could blame it on whatever asshole slipped me a mickey. It wasn't my drinking, after all, which caused me to call out of work; it was the hallucinogens I had unwittingly ingested.

Even after scary episodes like that -- which, granted, could happen to a non-alcoholic, or even a perfectly straight-up-and-down teetotaler -- I couldn't really admit I had a problem. Not even after losing close to $40,000 in material goods -- either lost in a drunken haze, destroyed beyond repair after taking a spill during a bender, or stolen by predators ready to take advantage of a drunk.

No, what led me to finally take a very small, first step in trying to beat this thing called alcoholism was that I was so ashamed that I had finally let my drinking interfere with my professional life in a very tangible way -- by not being able to be present. That, and the increasingly clearer realization that anyone who, at age 32, is putting away three-to-four gallons of vodka away per week by themselves is probably not going to live to see 40: either from kidney failure, liver disease, getting hit by a bus, or finally being physically attacked while stumbling the streets of Manhattan in a boozy stupor.

I haven't 100% decided what my course of action will be. I attended my first AA meeting last night, and I'll likely write a separate entry about that later or tomorrow; I have a lot of mixed feelings about it. But I do know that I've taken at least one step towards getting sober, and I've gone 1 1/2 days without a drink. I won't lie. I really, really want one right now. I don't want ten: I just really want one. But I know that I never, ever have just one, even if, whenever I start drinking, that's all I crave. One to take the edge off the day, or one to enjoy with a friend before dinner. But an alcoholic can't have just one. If I have one, I'll have at least six, and more likely ten or twelve.

So, that's where I'm at. Wish me luck.