Yesterday I posted about having my last drink without knowing that it would be my last drink.

This is because I had no intentions of quitting.  I just wanted to lose one pound a week by not drinking two days a week.  As much as I consumed (2000 calories a day, remember? - more than what's allowed in a daily diet), it was all night drinking.  That doesn't sound right -  I basically only drank at night.  Even while unemployed, I waited until 5:00.  Sure there were exceptions, but I wasn't a wake up and need a drink lush. 


April 8, 2013 was a Monday.  I resisted the urge to drink because it was my new diet plan.  I figured I'd skip Mondays and Wednesdays.  I didn't like it, but I didn't drink.  5:00 came and went and the hours passed on.  I was annoyed and uncomfortable, but I did it!  When we went to bed that night, Robin informed me she was proud of me.  I told her there was nothing to be proud of, that I was counting the hours until 5:00 (p.m., thank you) Tuesday. 


I did not fall asleep easily.  No surprise.  I was accustomed to drinking until I was about to fall asleep, a/k/a pass out.  Every.  Single.  Night.   For many many years (decades) I would be able to socialize with people and drink like a normal heavy drinker.  But what nobody knew, except Robin, is that it didn't stop when the party was over.  I was literally just getting warmed up.  I'd come home and pour some more.  I typically drank out of a 24 ounce plastic cup that would have some meaning to me.  Like when we went to Myrtle Beach with Ingrid and Deb, I wound up with a few Fat Tuesday cups.  Or Halloween cups.  Or Christmas.  The point was it was the biggest size glass I could justify without going straight for the  Big Gulp.  I'd fill it with ice, then fill it with vodka, give it a little swirl and ... voila.


By 3:00 a.m., stuff started to happen.  I'd only dozed on and off and suddenly I found myself sweating, full of anxiety, headachy, and nauseous.  My chest was tight.  I woke up Robin at 5:00 because I was scared.  We thought I had the flu.


I started throwing up and could not keep even the slightest sip of soda down.  This went on for a few days.   A few very long days.  I was in full blown detox and was too sick to even go to the doctor.


In order to feel not dead, I did try sipping on vodka.  Like everything else, it came right back up immediately.  I wasn't sleeping, I was constantly throwing up, had a terrible headache, every time I went to the bathroom, it was black, and I had an awful pain in what I imagined was my liver.  It felt like someone had wrung it out very very tightly and it was slowly unraveling.  I wondered if I was dying of liver failure. 


I felt sorry for Robin.  She was scared and didn't know what to do with me or for me.  I'm sure I was unpleasant to be around, to put it mildly. 


Luckily I wasn't working at this time.  Everything in my system was messed up.  I kept telling myself that I deserved it, because nobody can drink like that for so long and get away with it.  What did I expect?


In the back of my mind, I knew that if I made it to the other side and started feeling better, I'd want to drink.  But for days and days, going on weeks, I wasn't feeling better.  I finally had to face the fact that if I survived, I would have to not drink.  I could not ever go through this again.  This was a warning.


I finally started feeling physically better.   I drank some milkshakes and ate some mashed potatoes.  Yogurt became my best friend.  Toward the end of two weeks, I went to the doctor.  "Kim!  You were detoxing!"  She lectured me about how dangerous it was for me to quit like that, how I should have been hospitalized, and how I could have died. 


Then the hard part began.  The constant pounding head and vomiting was the easy part.  Now I had to deal with NOT DRINKING.  When I was sick, it was a breeze.  Now I was feeling better, and ready to start living again.  Drinking was part of my daily life and had been for over 30 years.


But I couldn't drink.  Not allowed.  Nope, can't drink.  What I'd been through was truly a wake up call for me.  It was my rock bottom.  I'd never been in trouble with the law, nobody ever broke up with me over my drinking, I never lost friends or family, I never really even made too much of an ass out of myself while drinking.  I'd never lost a job, never even called in sick with a hangover.  Sure my liver numbers were terrible and I couldn't lose weight, but it wasn't enough for me to give it up.


My wake up call, my rock bottom, was the two week period starting April 8th, 2013 when I was forced to see how fully addicted I was to alcohol.  Without it I felt like I was shriveling up and dying. 


I tried stopping before.  One time I went three months.  Other attempts included weaning down, just drink on weekends, no vodka, but anything else, and AA.Years ago in Miami I went to a shrink to help me stop.  After six months and thousands of dollars later, I'd had made no progress whatsoever.  We were both frustrated with each other.  In the final session, she told me I would never stop drinking - that I was the worst type of addict to treat.  I guess I'll never know what she meant by that.
 
It's always on my mind.  I miss it terribly.  I miss the buzz, the nightly mini vacations from reality, the relaxation, the bliss, the happiness, the warmth, the surge of energy, the forgetting, the taste, the smell.  I miss it all, and know that I cannot ever have it again.  I've cried because I can't drink.  I'm jealous of people who can drink like a normal person.   My heart has beaten out of my chest at the thought of never again.  Sometimes I can't believe it ...I don't drink ... I quit drinking.  I dream about it an awful lot.  In those dreams, I know I'm slipping, but make promises that I will just get right back on track.  I am always so thankful when I wake up from those dreams. 


Yes, I miss it, but I'm not tempted.  And that's huge.