I am 6 years old. My dad and mom are fighting—this time over a field trip that I missed because my parents slept in too late. The screaming starts. I go into the kitchen to see what the commotion is about. I hear my dad yell at my mom and then push her into the glass door. That is my first memory of my parents.
I am 12 years old. It’s late, and my parents are drinking again, like every other night this week. My sister and I are lying in our bunk beds, trying to go to sleep for school the next day, when the fighting starts again. This time, I blame myself. “I should be doing more to protect my sister,” “They always fight. Maybe it’s me?” “Please, universe, if they stop drinking this instant, I will never drink in my life, I promise.” My sister and I sneak into the kitchen to pour some of their alcohol down the drain so they won’t get so drunk.
“If they stop drinking this instant, I will never drink in my life. I promise”
I am 16 and offered my first drink. I imagine all the nights I stayed up crying in bed about my parents drinking. I imagine my little sister’s big brown eyes looking up at me in disappointment if I accepted the invitation. With ease, I decline the drink and don’t even second-guess myself. I wouldn’t start drinking until nineteen.
I am 21 years old and a new mother. My son spent ten weeks in the NICU and is now home and safe. I embrace the “mommy wine” stereotype and have my weekly wine. Weekly wine turns into a couple of times a week, but that’s all. I couldn’t possibly have a problem because I am paying attention closely to make sure I don’t fall into the habits of my parents. I am simply rewarding myself for what I went through with my son’s birth. I know the warning signs. I am solid.
I am 26 years old with cop lights behind me. “You’ve really done it this time, Lacey,” I think to myself as the officer asks me to perform sobriety tests. I spend the night in jail. Everybody I know has an OWI/DUI, so it’s really no big deal. A night in the slammer always makes a good story, right? I don’t have a problem because I am aware. I know what I am doing. A week later, I get into an “accident” while blackout drunk and tell the paramedics I wanted to die. I spent four days in the hospital in psychiatric care and came out with my second DUI.
I am 28 and now court-ordered to attend two AA meetings a week. I don’t care about these meetings, or life in general, and go to get my paper signed… that’s it. I assumed all the old guys who claimed thirty years of sobriety were full of it. There was no way someone could abstain from alcohol for thirty years. I could barely abstain for a couple of days.
I am drinking a half a fifth to a fifth of rum every day now. I am depressed beyond belief with severe anxiety. Yet alcohol seemed to make me feel happy, so that’s what I went back to, repeatedly. I don’t have a problem because I can quit when I want to. I just choose not to. Everybody else concerned about my drinking was merely being overdramatic. The fact I had two DUI’s and two stints in the mental hospital, all after drinking a lot, wasn’t my problem. It was just the luck of the draw.
I keep attending meetings. Nine months into going to meetings twice a week, while still drinking, something clicked for me. I wanted what they had. I wanted happiness. Stability. Fellowship. Calm. I realized I had become exactly what my parents were, even down to the fighting with my sweet husband. My life was in shambles, and I was the biggest denier of them all. Every day I woke up in a sheer panic after a night of drinking. What did I do the night before? Who did I text? What did I post on social media? Delete. Delete. Delete. Debilitating migraines were a constant in my life now, thanks to my binge drinking, which causes me to spend most of my mornings and afternoons nursing a gnarly hangover and cuddled up to the toilet. I can’t look at myself in the mirror without being disgusted. Something has to change.
On November 14th, 2020, I said “enough.” I finally wanted to escape alcohol like a girl to a bad boyfriend. I loved alcohol, but it was no longer serving me and my life. And just like a bad breakup, I knew I had to be gentle with myself in the beginning. After all, I was only experiencing what alcohol was made to do: get us hooked.
I jumped into “Quit-Lit” (literature about quitting alcohol) and submerged myself into the sober universe. I learned how alcohol exacerbates mental health issues and how it increases your risk for cancer. I made a “sober” Instagram separate from my personal account and followed hundreds of sober people. Any and everybody. I started taking AA seriously and started going four times a week. I started actually listening to what people had to say at the meetings. I discovered new hobbies, went for long walks with my dog, and babied myself. On the days the cravings were bad, I’d go for a run, take a nap, or take a bath. I nursed myself to sobriety and strength. Something clicked.
I am still 28. I wake up before the sun, six months sober, to make coffee and care for my kids. I kiss my husband as he goes off to work. I breathe in my morning cup of joe and take a look around. Calm. Life is good.
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About the Author: Lacey Fox is a mom of two from the beautiful state of Michigan. She enjoys doing volunteer work in the recovery industry and setting a good example for her kids.
Follow her on Instagram @thee.sober.millennial
Photo by Mathilde Langevin on Unsplash
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