When I was drinking, going home for the holidays was a huge drag. At my parents’ house, I couldn’t drink as much as I wanted to and I couldn’t do drugs. I joked with my friends that going home for the holidays was like going into rehab.

This is not to say that my parents don’t drink. They do, and even encourage light to medium drinking among their offspring. I just never understood the point of light to medium drinking.

In the past, I always partied like a freak the night before my sister and I left to drive to our parents’. In the morning I’d be sick and pathetic, and I’d whine my way out of doing my share of the driving. I’d feel like crap all that day. By the end of the second day of the visit, if I even consented to stay that long, I’d be desperately trying to look up old high school friends to go out drinking with me. When that failed, I’d impatiently wait for everyone to go to sleep so I could drink myself silly.

After the visit, I’d always be so glad to get back to my apartment. I told myself it was because I got homesick for my own place. Whatever. I always celebrated getting back with a trip to the liquor store.

This year, though, I am looking forward to the holidays with a whole different feeling. I’m really really psyched for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. I’m looking forward to driving home with my sister, and doing my share of the driving. I’m looking forward to seeing my parents and the cat. I want to eat, help, talk, take walks, and lounge around with my family. It’s going to be great.

I like this change, this sober family-loving thing, because it’s not debatable. It’s all good. Not drinking allows me to spend better time with my family. There’s no other way to look at it. There’s no tempting subversive alternative. It’s just better. It’s a better way to live, and I’m doing it.

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