As soon as I was old enough to realize that other people were smarter, prettier, more stylish, had more money, more friends, and everything else, I began pretending that I was better than they were, even though I knew that was not the case. My family was about as dysfunctional as it is possible to be before the social workers pay a visit. I desperately wanted a beautiful and stylish mother, a strong and loving father, a big brother I could look up to, a sister who looked up to me, a grand home with air conditioning and wall-to-wall carpeting, a Cadillac and Jeep Grand Wagoneer in the driveway, and a horse in the open lot next door. What I had instead was a mentally unstable and unstylish mother; a mean drunk of a father; an autistic big brother; a sister who was smarter, prettier, and more perfect in every way; a tiny and unimpressive house with no air conditioning and a single bathroom for seven people; an embarrassing boat of a station wagon with manual transmission; and not a horse in sight. Being me was a tremendous source of humiliation and the only way I could live with it was to tell myself that we were the superior ones (in the same way that my father frequently congratulated himself on being "an ingenious and talented fellow").
As I moved into my college years, I told myself that, despite hard evidence to the contrary, I was smarter than everyone else, that my clothes were more stylish, that my choices were smarter, that I was a great dancer, a gifted artist, and didn't need friends because no one was smart enough or cool enough for me. It was the only way I could make it through the endless days of my young adult life. And then I met someone who broke through my defenses and I discovered that I was not the person I was capable of being -- a shattering epiphany -- and I spent the next few years making up for lost time.
For most of my young life, I blamed my father for my failures but after becoming a parent, I forgave him because my children taught me that nature trumps nurture at least 75% of the time. Sure, if I had been nurtured, I might have had a better childhood but there is no guarantee that I would have been happier or more successful. I was in my fifties when I decided to drop the weight of resentments and delusions and accept myself for who and what I am. Once, in a therapy session, I had attempted to explain my experience of reality as hiding behind a "false face" because I didn't want to show the horrors of my real face to the world. I knew that if people in my life saw the "real me" they would be horrified and I would be completely alone. My therapist didn't understand what I was trying to say because to her, I was a troubled soul possessed of undeveloped gifts, a pretty young woman who was capable of giving and receiving love. When she communicated this, I got out of therapy because she obviously "didn't get it." The truth was that I had denied my reality for so long it had grown to mythic size in my imagination -- I was filled with self loathing and disgust -- and therefore was convinced that my "true" self was something that needed to be exorcised.
At some point in my early twenties, I decided to live my life like a "normal" person and that meant getting married. Rather than learn to love my true self, I decided to improve my alter ego. This meant I had to redesign certain elements of my history into something more mainstream so that I could pretend that I wasn't as mentally ill as I actually was. It also meant that I had to become an educated person. I immersed myself in classic literature and philosophy, absorbed as much as I could from visits to the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC, and the Metropolitan Museum in New York. I attended art gallery openings and began painting and drawing again. And then I met the man who would become my husband. He was highly educated and cultured and had his own psychic burdens; we were well matched.
As we approached our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, my daily glass of wine was becoming a major problem because I was using it to self-medicate. I was depressed and wished desperately that I could drop everything and check into a psychiatric hospital except that too many people depended on me to be there for them; so I said nothing other than "keep it together, keep it together, keep it together." The paradox was that at the same time, I was happier than I had ever been in life. I had it all: happy marriage (at last!), beautiful children, gorgeous home, and the pony I had always wanted.
Despite this success in life, my drinking began escalating and my mental health continued to deteriorate. I knew that I needed to quit drinking but I couldn't bear the loss of my best friend and confidante. Without the numbing gloss of wine, I would be too alone with myself and that idea was intolerable. My "aha moment" came after a fundraising gala where I had many glasses of champagne and many more glasses of red wine and was so staggeringly drunk that my husband noticed. I knew it was time to quit.
Quitting drinking meant telling my family that I had a drinking problem in addition to being dangerously depressed. They didn't buy it but went along with my decision to go into an outpatient substance abuse program for people with depression. I didn't exactly buy it either, but I knew I was in trouble and didn't want to die just when my life was going the way I had always wanted it to. I accepted the terms of the program and threw myself into it because I had to know if drinking was problem or a symptom of a deeper problem. The entire time I was in the program and the many months afterwards when I didn't drink, I told myself that once my depression was under control, I would have a drink to see if I could drink responsibly.
It took two years, but the occasional glass of wine became a daily glass, then two, then ... I was back to where I was when I entered rehab. I was at a crossroads and I knew that if I didn't quit completely and forever, I was going to end badly. So, for the first time in my life, I was honest with myself and my family about my abuse of alcohol and how addicted I was. July 4th, 2013, was my Independence Day and I have been facing reality ever since. I am no longer afraid or ashamed to be honest about who and what I am, warts and all, and people in my world have begun responding in surprising ways. The greatest benefit has been the removal of the false face. As soon as I allowed my true self to show, I felt a great heaviness fall away and a warm bright light surround and lift me up. This lovely feeling is so superior to the temporary relief provided by a glass (or two...) of wine that I am learning to enjoy social situations for the first time in my life.
Living without alcohol successfully means living honestly with yourself, accepting what you cannot change, pushing yourself to grow, and knowing your limits. It means allowing others to share your world even when -- especially when -- you disagree.
For most of my life I defined success in material and economic terms. Now I know better: success is about relationships beginning with my relationship with myself. Today I can look in the mirror and smile at the person smiling back at me. She is not perfect, she has many flaws both innate and of her own making, but there is no one else she would rather be or other life she would rather live. That is freedom.
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