The argument I’ve been using on myself most often lately is that by not drinking I’m depriving myself of some of life’s richest enjoyments. These include relaxing with old friends while drinking, bonding with new friends while drinking, winding down alone at the end of the day while drinking, and celebrating life’s milestones while drinking. Sure, I suppose these things can all be done without alcohol, but…come on.

About a year ago I read a book called “A Way of Life, Like Any Other” by Darcy O’Brien, and a few lines from it have been haunting me. The narrator’s mother, a real problem drinker, has just announced she has joined AA. The narrator, a teenage boy who has suffered as a result of her drinking, surprises her with his reply:

“It’s too bad. Drinking is a part of life, isn’t it? I mean drinking and getting drunk. Making an ass of yourself. Even making things unpleasant for other people. It’s too bad if you can’t do that anymore. I would feel very deprived if I thought I couldn’t do that for the rest of my life.”

That’s the specious argument I’ve been using lately. Drinking is a part of life, and by refusing it I’m refusing life. It’s a vague and wide-ranging argument, and it comes at me from all sides. I think it’s particularly bothersome to me because I still feel like my sober life is a kind of half-life. I have my little routines and schedules that serve as a kind of scaffolding or net, but in between and all around is just empty space. If my routines fell apart -- if I stopped making the grocery list, cleaning the bathroom, and going to the gym -- I might just dissipate, vaporize, fade out, cease to exist. Or is that true for everyone?

I think about how to fill the empty space. Religion, romance, motherhood, model railroading? Time might do it, memory and experience slowly building up. Or maybe I’m wrong to think about it as empty space and as a negative. It could be room to move, it could be air and light, it could be clear skies, it could be smooth sailing.

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