Alcoholic Autonomous

From the time I started drinking at age 14, I truly believed that if alcohol ever became a problem in my life, I would see the signs and stop before things got out of hand. My father's alcoholism and the accompanying emotional battering toward my sisters, mother and myself left me with a strong impression of what booze could do to a person and everyone they were supposed to be caring about.

I enjoyed several years of tipping the bottle without any major life consequences; the worst being, perhaps, an occasional two-day hangover or waking up next to someone whose name I only vaguely remembered. I saw drinking first as a means of fitting in with my oh-so-mature friends (some of whom, sadly, could name 10 brands of beer before they could do fractions), then as an outlet for social spontaneity. Finally, liquor became a regular fixture in whatever the weekend brought; whether a night at the clubs, a house party or a camping trip. Everyone I grew up with drank, and any consequences it incurred equalled either a day's worth of lamentation or a funny story to tell.

Since that fateful 14th birthday when I downed my first "half-pint" or so of vodka (straight, no less), I've graduated high school, moved out on my own, achieved a bachelor's degree, had a serious relationship, moved to the other side of the country and am close to achieving a Master's. Despite this, my drinking pattern has scarcely changed. 

I suppose I could reason that, if I've come this far, drinking must not have given me that much trouble. The problem, though, is that I sense liquor is slowly morphing from the reliable, foolproof friend it once was into a testy, unstable foe. Getting drunk still gives me that wonderful, free feeling of not caring what I do or say. But now, more often than not, it also strips me of all emotional control. 

This became poignantly evident during one of my latest binges, when I accused the guy I had been dating of being unfaithful based on the mere fact that I ran into him at a club when I didn't expect him there. Not surprisingly, he hasn't called since. I've tried placing some of the blame on him by reasoning that, up until that last nasty encounter, our relationship had been quite good, so his fucking off must have a deeper context than my one drunken slip-up. In reality, I acted like a complete idiot, showing him just how insecure and emotionally infantile I really am.

I haven't stopped drinking since that night, but I've tried pacing myself in the hopes that less alcohol consumption will equal less embarrassment. If I were courageous, I'd call it a day and quit altogether...Guess I'm not ready to give up my old friend just yet.