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.

prev // next