Looking Up

 I celebrated the thirty-third anniversary of my sobriety by purchasing a few beers for my son. If this seems like a strange way to observe the occasion, please take a moment to listen to my story: I never drank because I liked the taste. I never drank because I liked the feeling of being a little tipsy. I was on the express train to Face Down Town just about any time I picked up a drink. Contrastingly, my son can actually speak some mild authority about the brewing process and about what beer pairs well with certain meals. I would share a six pack with someone if it meant that we were on a fast track to buying a second. My son often shares a beer with this mother. 

I am saying that ours are two a very different experiences. What a difference a generation makes. I learned about drinking from the stories my father told me. His was a somewhat troubled youth, but always told in a way that made the danger sound a little less dangerous, and the tough times a little less tough. And for most of my youth, I stood on a principled pitch from which I would announce that I didn't need drinks or drugs, because I was high on life. 

Which was true right up until the first time I got high. Once I had been drunk and woke up the next day having survived the experience, I felt emboldened to see how much closer to the edge I might push myself. It was a game of Truth or Dare, where the truth was I didn't have a clue what I was doing. I wanted to give everyone around me the impression that I did. I did not. I was doing that thing that younger folks like to do: make it up as they go along. And perhaps that was what kept me going back to that particular well over and over again. I have always been rather tightly wound, and being drunk or high was a way to loosen up that had the added bonus of making me appear carefree and uninhibited. 

It never occurred to me, way back when, that I could choose to lower my inhibitions through a conscious and concerted effort. The chemical reduction of my normal reserve was a socially permissible excuse. Up to a point. Once I was on that slippery slope, I wasn't able to slow down. Or stop. 

Not until I hit bottom. And the best thing about that moment was that if provided me a way to climb back out that gave me a view of all that I had been and eventually all I could be: A husband. A father. A teacher. A survivor. A dad who could pick up a six pack for his son who was going off for a few days to put a new transmission in his car. 

Cheers.