BRATTLEBORO — I'm sitting in the bathroom, basically locking myself in solitary confinement while I type on my phone.
I'm not hiding from my kids - no, that would be cliché and no different from what I do every day. Hiding is my norm, but tonight I am hiding from something a little more dangerous and harder to avoid.
Tonight, I huddle in the bathroom and hunker down in my safety bunker because I need to prove to myself that I can go a day without drinking alcohol.
Sounds like borderline addict behavior, yes?
Yes.
Which is why I must sit here tapping on my phone, because standing in the kitchen nervously unwrapping dessert after dessert wasn't helping me win out the fight with habits and cravings, nor was it helping me fit into a pair of pants. Fall is coming, not that I want to feel confined to the fashion industry's fascist buttons and oppressive skinny jeans, damn it.
Do you ever try to tell yourself that you can't have something? And then obsess over having that thing because now you know you can't have it and wanting what you can't have feels so desperate and thrilling?
I never do that with wine.
* * *
I'm about to drop an atomic bomb of oversharing.
I drink every single day. But I don't drink as in “a French affair with baguettes on white linens and Cabernet among candles and laughter.”
Nope.
I drink as in “stressed out hair pulling, oh-shit-today-was-hard-these-kids-wear-down-my-strength-and-will-power.”
I drink as in, “It's 5 p.m. now! Socially acceptable happy hour!” Drink!
And then:
“Oh, man, my glass is empty already? Well, the kids are done in the bath, and it's bedtime anyways!” Drink!
And then obviously there's:
“Yay! Goodnight, munchkins! Kiss, kiss! Mommy is going to go be alone and watch educational programs about indigenous housewives.” Drink!
Every night. It's not even a cute routine. It's a full-blown ritual, minus a goat sacrifice.
There's never been a night when I skipped it. Except for pregnancy.
There are variations, though. Sometimes I don't have number 3. Or sometimes I start past the kids' bedtime, and I have only one glass. Then it's easier to justify.
But being honest - because truly there is nothing left to lose - I drink three glasses most nights.
Judge me. I deserve it.
* * *
I'm probably an alcoholic. The bright side is that I'm self-aware, I'm in control of my functions and faculties, and I never drive or go out or start bullshit fights with my husband. I'm the happiest, most mellow drinker ever.
Which is why I keep it up every day.
And it's why I ended up in the bathroom, terrified to go out there, past the kitchen, past the wine that is so smooth and fun and delicious.
I'm smart enough to know that if I'm struggling to break a daily cycle, that is a good indication that I need to do exactly that. It's hard, and I do not like it.
But maybe, maybe, if I get past tonight, I can get to the weekend and have Saturday wine and tell myself, “Hey Chrissy, you need to chill, girl. Wine is awesome, and unless you want to end up in rehab or dancing on the table, you'd better scale back to a reasonable level, because three drinks a night is a f-kton. And that's a real measurement.”
* * *
Coincidentally, I woke up today, like every other day, and I said, “Girl, you're going to eat carrots again and quit stuffing Fritos in your mouth hole all day. Health matters!”
And then I ate two magic bars. Because it's like wine. If I can't have it, it will be all I want.
There's probably truth in this saying that I have heard before: that things aren't a problem until you make them a problem.
But that is coming from a woman locked in her bathroom trying to avoid her own bad behavior.
Best to start addressing it now.
Sincerely,
The blogger locked in her bathroom gaining 10 pounds.