I wouldn’t say I’m the biggest failure out there, but I was certainly headed in that direction. No one begins their journey into addiction with the intention of self-destruction. It sneaks up on you, starting innocently and then gradually spiraling into reckless behavior.
For two and a half years, I drank every single day. I powered through illnesses and adjusted my routine around my kids. I drank while traveling, I drank when I was alone, and I drank in bed. I even drank when I didn’t really want to. Each time I poured another glass, I convinced myself that I wasn’t a danger to anyone because I limited my drinking to evenings. It’s too easy to dodge uncomfortable truths when you’re not ready to confront them.
The day I hit rock bottom was a moment I’ll never forget. It felt like a slap in the face. That morning, I didn’t wake up slowly; my eyes shot open as if a storm had hit. I sprang up from my bed, my feet hitting the floor with a sense of urgency that left my head spinning. The room tilted around me, accompanied by a wave of nausea and regret—a hangover that felt almost malevolent. My alarm clock blinked 7:45 AM, fifteen minutes later than I had intended to rise. My husband jumped up, startled by my frantic movements.
“Camp, camp, camp,” I repeated silently, hoping that by focusing on getting my child to camp, I could avoid disaster. I wasn’t even sure if I’d consumed one bottle or two the night before. My head throbbed as I rushed toward the bathroom, desperate to cleanse away the lingering scent of wine and shame before my kids noticed my state.
The shower didn’t do much to revive me. I had to brace myself against the wall just to wash my hair. That chaotic morning was just the tip of the iceberg; the rest of the day was filled with struggles. Navigating nausea and dizziness while managing two preschoolers felt impossible, yet somehow I agreed to take them to Walmart for new toys. I shouldn’t have been behind the wheel, but I did it anyway. The world warped around me, and I realized I had become a danger to myself and others.
Later that day, I had a scheduled surgery. The procedure involved removing tissue from my back, which had the potential to be cancerous. I thought about canceling, but I didn’t want to prolong my anxiety or my drinking. So, I went through with it. I was dizzy and disappointed in myself for facing surgery with a hangover that would embarrass even the most inexperienced drinker.
My husband later reassured me that I hadn’t consumed enough wine to warrant such a terrible hangover. We had shared three bottles among friends, and I had managed to be social and charming throughout the evening. What relief it was to discover I hadn’t embarrassed myself online—waking up every day dreading the notifications on my phone is a terrible feeling.
Each night I’d drink, often bringing a glass to bed, and my phone would usually be in my hand until midnight. I rarely remembered what I posted online or what I said in conversations. I’d convinced myself I only had a glass with dinner—maybe seven to ten drinks a week—but in reality, I likely consumed over a bottle a day. My drinking habits had shifted over the years; after my daughter was born, I began to prefer boxes of wine because they were cheaper and easier to hide.
“I’ll quit when this box is gone,” I’d tell myself, but I never actually ran out. There was always an excuse to celebrate, which meant there was never a good time to stop drinking.
What’s absurd is that I knew better. Growing up in an alcoholic household, I actively chose a healthier lifestyle. I ran, lifted weights, and took pride in my body, yet I treated it like a wastebasket for my emotions. I began to explore my guilt surrounding my drinking habits and discovered that the DSM-5 has updated its criteria for what constitutes problem drinking. I identified with several symptoms and realized I had fallen into a pattern that I couldn’t break.
Part of my addiction involved ritual. I waited until my kids were asleep to drink, hiding my shame. By the time I was pouring my fifth glass, I’d stumble to bed, often spilling wine and waking my husband. The most telling sign of my addiction? Wanting to quit but feeling unable to do so. I would actively tell myself not to buy wine on the way home from the gym, yet I always did.
Denial was my friend, and our culture promotes drinking as a glamorous escape. I’m a mom, after all, and I needed wine to cope with the chaos of raising three kids—loud, messy, needy little beings who still required me to wipe their behinds. Drinking had become a crutch, especially in light of my three pregnancies and the changes to my body that left me feeling uncomfortable in my own skin.
My husband had no idea about my struggle with alcohol. He thought my decision to quit was just a health kick or a temporary cleanse. I hid my cravings from him, concealing the thoughts that haunted me daily. I couldn’t continue to hide from the fact that I was using alcohol to escape pain and unresolved grief.
After my surgery, I returned home to a house stocked with alcohol, yet I didn’t touch it. I had hit my limit—drinking had led me to a point where I had driven my children while impaired and faced surgery with a hangover. There’s nothing temporary about being an alcoholic, and now my family will navigate this journey with me.
Today marks 10 days of sobriety.