I wonder if I’m alone in my on-edge relationship with booze. I come from a long line of distinguished alcoholics – well, a long line of alcoholics, anyway. I drank too much in my teens and twenties, but when I had my own children I worked hard on not letting it become something I needed to do.
Rules were null and void in the surreal days after Juliette died, and I drained glass after glass of white wine. It bludgeoned the sharp edges of what was real – I didn’t have to feel everything about Juliette being gone. I drank on an empty stomach because eating was an obscene reminder that I was alive, when she wasn’t. Tempting as it was I knew I couldn’t go on being drunk. For one thing, I needed to funtion for the other children. Sober, the crashing weight of pain would hit me and that I needed too.
Lately I’ve been told to avoid alcohol because of the pills I’m taking. I’m not thrilled that I need anti-depressants. I’ve done without them over the last eight and a half years and I refused them when I had PND twelve years ago, after Pierre was born. I was afraid of dependency and too proud to accept I couldn’t manage on my own. You know what they say about pride, and I guess this is my fall.
Anyway, I’ve been taking the pills but not refusing the odd drink. Sometimes I’ll have more than the odd one. From the distant past, I’m remembering how one glass makes me feel good… only right now, maybe because of my lingering mood or the A-Ds, it always makes me feel like shit – hopeless, and self-destructive, then tired and bad-tempered the next day. It unravels the progress I’ve made with getting back to feeling positive. I feel so stupid that I don’t remember this in between times, so I’m saying here that I will stop, now, at least until I’ve come off the pills. The psych man thinks that will be quite a few months – more than six but fewer than twelve. Booze does NOTHING for me.