Thirty-Nine Days, Nine Hours, And However Many Minutes

Hello, friends. This is my own little personal blog, one where I'll sporadically post thoughts or links to what I'm doing or whatever. If it's too long for Twitter/Facebook or has nothing to do with Iowa, I'll put it here. I haven't had one of these for a while, but I've rarely felt like I needed more of an outlet than what was already available to me.

But since you're here, and since I'm here, I should write something. Something that belongs here. So even though I'm loath to discuss my personal life online, I have a story about my most recent breakup.

I'm not good at relationships. Well, check that: I've been fantastic at one. Faithful, devoted, and unwavering. I was a committed man for years, and I didn't care who knew. No matter what was happening in my life, good or bad, I never had to feel lonely. I had booze, and booze had me.

I know booze better than I've ever known a woman. I can tell you what craft beers are great and what ones are overpriced or overrated. You need a vodka or gin recommendation, I'm your man. Tell me what your budget for the night is and what in your fridge could possibly be used as a mixer—pickle juice included—and I'll make sure you and booze have a fantastic night together.

Meanwhile, I couldn't tell you what month anyone I've ever seriously dated was born in, or even the names of all the people I've slept with.

And so that relationship, going on its tenth* tumultuous but blissful year, led me to Chicago, a virtual playground of craft beers. If you like to get drunk, Chicago is fucking magical. The random burger joints have beer selections that put most cities to shame. The bartenders are friendly to anyone who can hold their alcohol, and by your third time in they'll know your name and your usual. The liquor stores are everywhere, to the point where all you need is about five minutes of walking on a major street until you're at one. Seriously: five minutes. Chicago, baby.

*We fucked around when I first got to college; as soon as I hit 21, that shit was official.

But a few months ago, something changed. Late nights with booze weren't fun anymore; they were just late. And the later the nights got, the later the mornings got, until they weren't mornings at all anymore. Combine that with a waning appetite (I know, you wouldn't know it looking at me) and the relationship had taken on a very sour tone. I felt betrayed.

We used to drink to make trouble and fun, but now we drink to forget we are drunks.

And so one June night—I say "night" as if it wasn't like 5 in the morning—I decided to quit. I forgot about that decision by the time I woke up the next day, but between those two points I had sent a note to someone asking if they "could help me not drink anymore." They responded the next day, and even though I'd forgotten about that decision, any reminder is welcome when you're just sitting there hung over, tired and miserable at 6 in the evening.

So I met friends out for reasonable amounts of beer the next two evenings—preexisting plans to be kept—and the day after that I had one beer at lunch with a family member. It was the most thoroughly unappetizing beer I had ever tasted, and I didn't finish it. That was thirty-nine days, nine hours, and however many minutes ago. Haven't touched a drink since.

The decision was months in the making, but only months, because for as much as I drank it rarely got me into any serious trouble, and I could excuse my way out of anything minor. Doing terrible in school? I was like that in high school before I even thought about a drink. Hung over at work? Eh, at least I'm there. Late for work? Eh, they didn't fire me and it doesn't happen too often. Drinking alone? Psshht, I've got other drunk people to talk to on the internet. Spending roughly $2,000 a year on booze? I make that in like two or three weeks! The DUI? That was six years ago! The time when I went out to get booze at 11 pm on a windy day because I didn't want Jess to know I was already out of what we got at the store a few days prior and while I was out the door blew open and a neighbor saw the open door on a dark house and called the police because it looked like we'd been robbed and when I got back the police were already there and had woken Jess up and gotten her out of bed and she had to tell them she had no idea where I was or why the door was open? Clearly the fault of the low-budget builders and their shitty door frames!

But everything I knew about people with serious alcohol problems told me I wasn't on that level. I never drank in the morning except for tailgating, and I happily slept through half of those. No fighting or anger issues. Work was (almost) always a higher priority. I was drinking less than I had been two years before, and that had been less than the two years prior to that, etc., on and on. I wasn't managing the booze very well, but my excuse management was impeccable. And it led me quite righteously and assuredly to that early June morning and that subsequent evening where the conclusion became inescapable: that I was miserable.

At every step of the way I've had help. I'm not going to meetings but that doesn't mean I'm doing this alone by a damn stretch. My family and friends have all been supportive, I have fellow sober people I can go to with questions whenever I want, and nobody's made me feel bad about my decision. It's been surprisingly easy for me to quit, but I suppose that's only because I was ready; likewise, if you think you're ready or have any of your own questions, hey, I'm here. And I'm really easy to get a hold of.

In terms of how long it's been, I'm probably not going to keep track much longer; I'm not very good at keeping tallies straight in my head and the specific amount of time is already a pretty freaking major accomplishment, which is about all I need to know. Obviously there are many, many milestones in front of me, but we're getting past the point where a running clock is necessary. Plus the best thing about that day was a massive, antihistamine-fueled nap. It was better than the PBR, anyway.

Ah, but remember, this is a relationship. There's no such thing as a clean break—not if you ever really cared. You can end these things, but then there's a void, and the void's just as big a part of your life as the relationship was. They put it better in Swingers, but whatever. You know what I mean. So now I don't drink; I just dream about it. Specifically, I dream about the consequences of having another drink. That includes how long a streak I'm giving up, how upset people would be seeing me with a beer, the mental calculations of how much of the next day I'd have to give up on in order to sleep/laze off the hangover. I dream about all that. I don't dream about missing the booze or enjoying it, and I don't wake up wanting a drink. Nightmares they're not; just a frequent, inescapable reminder of the gravity of my decisions. It gnaws like guilt, except it doesn't make me feel even remotely bad. I don't know what the word for that would be.

But make no mistake: I'm happier. I'm healthier. I'm sharper. I'm better. The adjustment process has barely begun and I'm determined to still be me, so to speak. Like, yes, from a strictly literal standpoint that'll always be true, but what I mean is I don't want to be defined by sobriety any more than I'd like to have been defined by booze. I still like the music I liked before. My sense of humor is still... unusual. And yes, you can still drink around me. Just don't be a dick about it. Don't be a dick about anything else to anybody else, while I'm making requests.

And thanks for reading about my breakup. It's a new, weird world I'm living in and I don't know where it'll take me, but I'm looking forward to every step along the way.