I always had to drink around him.
Two (three?) vodka tonics at dinner. Wine at his apartment. If he didn't offer me a glass, I would prompt him. What do you have open? We went to an outdoor party at his friends' house and there was only beer. I never drink beer, but I did that day. I had at least two. And when someone offered shots, I was one of the first to accept. It was the only way to make the lawn games bearable. It was the only way, it seemed, to be okay when he called me his girlfriend. A smile smeared across my face. The ability to chat with his friends, knowing in the back of my mind, I will never see you again.
On our first date I drank margaritas. And that hazy wall between us never lifted. I never let it.
I could write volumes entitled, Things I Never Told People. And one entry would be about that month: I never told him how I would listen to the same sad songs over and over, and cry in my car and cry at night and cry in the bathroom at work. That I didn't usually eat so little, but that like so many women, whittling away my body and denying my appetites felt like the most appropriate, accessible reaction to grief. I never told him that what I appreciated most about his body was simply his presence. That finally there was a height difference that for so long I thought I craved in dating a man. Then, I thought, it would make sense. I didn't tell him that that's where it ended.
He is a good man, worthy of being with a woman who was genuinely enthusiastic and present. I was never going to be that partner.
I wrote in this post that I've stopped drinking quite a bit. No more wine after work. It's not a given that I'll have a cocktail out at restaurants. I've asked my mom to put away the vodka from the freezer in my parents' home because I just don't need it. That temptation to check out and feel some artificial calm instead of sitting with life and having faith that I can endure the full spectrum of emotions.
I can. I can. I can.
I spent many years trying to avoid experiencing life as it is--eating, not eating, dating one person after the other. And drinking.
Here's what I know. Alcohol is an anesthetic. A depressant. It is a toxin to every single cell in our body. Drinking initially feels good, of course, but it flattens one out emotionally. The effects play out in one's body much longer than we held that glass of wine in our hands. It is known to exacerbate depression and anxiety. It is not my intention to preach here, but to begin to take a stab at what is urging me to reevaluate my routines, rhythms, and coping mechanisms.
There have been moments recently when I've felt genuine joy and contentment, absent of alcohol. Once in the bath in my apartment, music playing and candles lit. A glass of sparking water nearby. And I just closed my eyes, no need for distractions. I could have cried in that moment. Happy, grateful tears.
And then there was her yesterday. She walked into my apartment, flushed from yoga, hair up, workout clothes on. And she was so beautiful I could hardly stand it. And I was so happy to see her. And I thought, This. This is what you can feel when you let yourself feel. No chemically-induced lust, no artificial happiness. It was all just there, ready to envelop me. What a stunning realization.
It was one of the most validating, lovely moments I've had in a very long time.
No more hazy wall between me and my partner. No more hazy wall between me and life.
Two (three?) vodka tonics at dinner. Wine at his apartment. If he didn't offer me a glass, I would prompt him. What do you have open? We went to an outdoor party at his friends' house and there was only beer. I never drink beer, but I did that day. I had at least two. And when someone offered shots, I was one of the first to accept. It was the only way to make the lawn games bearable. It was the only way, it seemed, to be okay when he called me his girlfriend. A smile smeared across my face. The ability to chat with his friends, knowing in the back of my mind, I will never see you again.
On our first date I drank margaritas. And that hazy wall between us never lifted. I never let it.
I could write volumes entitled, Things I Never Told People. And one entry would be about that month: I never told him how I would listen to the same sad songs over and over, and cry in my car and cry at night and cry in the bathroom at work. That I didn't usually eat so little, but that like so many women, whittling away my body and denying my appetites felt like the most appropriate, accessible reaction to grief. I never told him that what I appreciated most about his body was simply his presence. That finally there was a height difference that for so long I thought I craved in dating a man. Then, I thought, it would make sense. I didn't tell him that that's where it ended.
He is a good man, worthy of being with a woman who was genuinely enthusiastic and present. I was never going to be that partner.
I wrote in this post that I've stopped drinking quite a bit. No more wine after work. It's not a given that I'll have a cocktail out at restaurants. I've asked my mom to put away the vodka from the freezer in my parents' home because I just don't need it. That temptation to check out and feel some artificial calm instead of sitting with life and having faith that I can endure the full spectrum of emotions.
I can. I can. I can.
I spent many years trying to avoid experiencing life as it is--eating, not eating, dating one person after the other. And drinking.
Here's what I know. Alcohol is an anesthetic. A depressant. It is a toxin to every single cell in our body. Drinking initially feels good, of course, but it flattens one out emotionally. The effects play out in one's body much longer than we held that glass of wine in our hands. It is known to exacerbate depression and anxiety. It is not my intention to preach here, but to begin to take a stab at what is urging me to reevaluate my routines, rhythms, and coping mechanisms.
There have been moments recently when I've felt genuine joy and contentment, absent of alcohol. Once in the bath in my apartment, music playing and candles lit. A glass of sparking water nearby. And I just closed my eyes, no need for distractions. I could have cried in that moment. Happy, grateful tears.
And then there was her yesterday. She walked into my apartment, flushed from yoga, hair up, workout clothes on. And she was so beautiful I could hardly stand it. And I was so happy to see her. And I thought, This. This is what you can feel when you let yourself feel. No chemically-induced lust, no artificial happiness. It was all just there, ready to envelop me. What a stunning realization.
It was one of the most validating, lovely moments I've had in a very long time.
No more hazy wall between me and my partner. No more hazy wall between me and life.