Choice Over Disease

At thirteen, I experienced my first buzz. I recognized, at age thirteen, that I had a relationship with alcohol that was different from those around me. I cried because I loved it, I cried because I was scared of how much I loved it, I cried because I felt that what was going on within me was different from everyone around me. At thirteen I stepped onto a road that would lead me close to death. Maybe that was the day I became an alcoholic. Maybe. Or maybe that was the day I chose to be an alcoholic. In either case, that was the day that my profound relationship with alcohol began to rule my life.

At sixteen, my best friend, called me an alcoholic. This did not come from anger, it did not come from spite, and it did not come from ignorance. My best friend lived with a mother who drank daily, and in excess. My friend learned, from a young age, what it meant to be in alcoholic; she lived with a mother that seemed to eventually choose alcohol over her own daughter. Then this daughter turned to me, and told me, with sincerity, “You are an alcoholic.” I rejected the idea in anger. I drank less often than my peers and I did not need alcohol everyday like her mother. I merely consumed too much when I drank. I drank to the death, and was unable to accept the idea that I was an alcoholic. Alcohol almost killed me numerous times, a number that I could once count on one hand, then two, then I lost track. I was intrigued by substances that would haze my mental state; I turned to alcohol, weed, and prescription drugs. I experimented with them separately, and then I would mix two, and eventually consumed all three. I owe my survival to my friends, who stayed by my unconscious side as my breathing diminished, as vomit made its way up through a body that alone would have choked. I always survived to see another day, a day filled with personal disappointment, followed by a week or more of depression.

After every binge, I awoke with minimal recollection of how I got to where I was. I would wake up with the taste of vomit on my breath, in a bed that wasn’t my own, or in my own bed, lying in piss and vomit. I always woke up, often wishing that I hadn’t. The only ladder available to me, the only one that I chose to pull myself out of the depths of death, was an escape to pure life as I saw it. My friends could not fathom how I could go out for a three mile run after a night of heavy drinking that brought me close to death; I could not fathom any other way back to life. I craved for nature, for strength within my own body, for comfort in my survival, for passion to continue living even when I craved death. As I ran, I escaped into life. Into survival in its most simple form, I made note of my quickened heart beat, of the air entering and exiting my lungs, of the pain coming over my legs and disappearing as my attention trailed somewhere else. In this state, I was human, I was life, I was not the events of the previous night, I was life in its most present form. In those moments, I found peace in the present and strength for the future. On those runs, I fell into conversation with myself, that in this moment I was experiencing what it meant to be alive. Running gave me an option; I had given myself a choice.

My choice did not save me immediately; for years I chose wrong, but those years did not kill me because I had the taste of life on my tongue. At twenty, I managed to get a hold of my drinking. I couldn’t recall the last time I threw up and my mornings were not filled to the rim with depression and disappointment. I was proud, I was in control, and then I wasn’t. When I turned twenty one, my birthday outing ended similarly to all of my nights that I had once counted. I sank into depression. I was consoled by others, “That’s how your twenty-first birthday is supposed to go.” This wasn’t how my twenty first birthday went; this was how a countless number of nights had passed from me, never holding a tight enough grip on my wrists to take me with. For me, it wasn’t a normal twenty first birthday, it was a relapse. I relapsed. And dove head first into depression, once again.

That was the last time that I sunk that low. Every bout of depression, every ounce of vomit, every bad decision, came from me. I knew from the my first experience of a buzz at thirteen, that alcohol, and eventually other substances, affected me in an unusual way. I bought into its effects for eight years. For eight years I begged for death, but it was never granted. I came out on the other side.

For eight years, I felt that I was a victim of substances that had more control over me than I did over them. I was a victim of inanimate abuse. I would look around at others, who had a grip on consumption, and I questioned, why, why was I so different that I was not blessed with this level of control? Why was I so weak in the face of alcohol that it would take me out and then put me into a state of depression when I survived its blow? I begged the question, why me, over and over. I was a victim to such an extent, that I was offended by anyone who proposed the idea that I could have control. That I could drink to a level of intoxication that would not kill me. I argued this idea, in that moment, being a victim was more comfortable, though it sounds like insanity now.

In being a victim, I relieved myself of any responsibility that I held for the outcome of a night out. That is the smallest responsibility that I did not have to own. In being a victim, I relieved myself of any responsibility that I held for the outcome of my life. That is the biggest responsibility that I did not have to own; there are many responsibilities that I did not have to stand for in the middle. In being a victim, I gave up choice; I gave the power over to a bottle, a pipe, a prescription pill.

I am not a victim. In retrospect, I was never a victim (and I write that with great difficulty, for I am admitting I was wrong for eight years, and there were many people involved in my having been wrong). I had a choice, between life and death. Drink to the point of death, or feel life in its purest form. I had two identities that could not coexist successfully; alcoholic or athlete. Suicidal victim or driven fighter. Exercise gave me a clear understanding that I had been choosing no matter which way I went; I was not forced but was an active participant. I was not a victim of disease, but a chooser of identity.

I am now twenty-four, still young. I am not alcoholic. My dialogue around alcoholism is not one that is accepted; not one that is supported. I stand by my word, I am not an alcoholic, I am not a victim, I am not ruled by a disease. What is my relationship with alcohol now? My relationship with alcohol is still different than many others’ relationship with alcohol. I recognize that in admitting that, there are many people that would claim that I am an alcoholic, and there are many people that would claim that I am in denial. There are also those that would claim that I was never an alcoholic. That I was just young, binge drinking like many others, and that I grew out of it. A doctor may say one thing, a psychologist another; I choose to speak for myself. This is my voice, this is my experience. I can only speak for myself. I think I was an alcoholic, my journal writing that begs me to stay sober, my writing that questions what the hell is wrong with me when I kept bringing myself near death with alcohol as a tool, is a statement that I had a problem with alcohol. Which, in its most simplistic terms, is the definition of an alcoholic. I had a problem with alcohol, yes. I still have a profound relationship with alcohol, yes. However, I choose to say, that I am not an alcoholic. This is where I find power. This is where I find power of choice. This is where I find the power to have control; this is where I take responsibility for my actions, for my drinking, for my life. This works for me, I truly believe this can work for others, but in their own specific ways.

The same thing that works for me is what I see as being one of the greatest dilemmas, barriers, in what I want to do with others. I am stepping into a world where my choice of dialogue, where my choice of action, is suppressed, and bluntly just not allowed. Alcohol almost killed me multiple times. I went completely sober multiple times in my life, for six months at a time, and I had a countless number of relapses. I am not sober. This is a choice I have made, and this is a choice that works for me. I found that when I went completely sober, I was still, to an extent ruled by alcohol. I was ruled by the idea that I could not have any, ever. Then, when I did, I took my action as a break in sobriety, and I would begin drinking to the death again. I was either sober, or on a downward spiral. I was on a roller coaster ride of very high highs, or severely low lows. Having to be one way, accepting that I have only two options, and the second that I chose the wrong one I sink, does not work for me. I choose differently.

My way of choice is not the right way of choice. It works for me, but it may not work for everyone. My job is not to impose my ability to have one drink, among everyone else who has struggled with alcohol, who struggle with alcohol currently. That is not my intention. My choice is no better than the choice of another, who chooses not to have one drink because in having one drink, they may relapse into drinking in damaging ways. My goal is to have that individual see just how much power they have, in making that choice. I want that individual to see that they are not making that choice from the dialogue of “victim” but from the dialogue of “chooser.” They choose to stay sober not because they are an alcoholic, but because staying sober is conducive to how they want to live.

We have the power to save ourselves from whatever demons take hold of our throats. We left our necks vulnerable; but we can choose to fight. “Choice.” A short word in the English language, one overlooked, and tossed aside; but one so powerful when fully accepted as real. When we recognize that our circumstances and our view of our circumstances is a result of choice, we recognize that we are powerful, we have the ability to choose again, every second we can choose again.