Drinking is a tradition in my family.
My grandmother died of cirrhosis of the liver at 34. Before her death, she guzzled bottles of bourbon from the moment she climbed from bed to the time she stumbled back into it at night.
She had once loved to swivel her hips and dance – even without music. But by 33 my grandmother couldn’t crawl from bed.
Striding to the kitchen to retrieve her whiskey jug was as likely as an infant leaping from its crib to pluck a bottle from the fridge to feed itself. Still, she would sooner let go of her own life before the bottle.
When she lost the strength to heave herself from bed, she started to slip the paperboy extra money to drop off bottles of vodka.
“I begged her to stop,” my dad said nearly 30 years after his mother’s death. He was 16 when she died. “She just wouldn’t listen.”
My dad was 10 the first time he got drunk. One night, he snagged a bottle of bourbon from my grandmother’s stash and locked himself in the bathroom. After awhile, my dad wanted out of the bathroom but was too inebriated to open the door. When my grandmother heard him struggle with the knob, she jostled it open, yanked him out, snatched her bottle, and from then on, would track its volume with a black magic marker.
But that wouldn’t matter. My dad crawled from the bathroom carrying an obsession for alcohol that would spill over into his adult life.
My dad met my mom at a party. She was 18 and so drunk a mutual friend had asked my dad to "babysit" her. They drove around all night and talked. They married one year later, had three children in four years and got divorced while I – the baby – was still an infant.<br/>I didn't realize my parents were divorced until I was six. My dad had drifted in and out of our home so often it was an easy mistake.I didn't realize my parents were divorced until I was six. My dad had drifted in and out of our home so often it was an easy mistake.
I didn’t realize my parents were divorced until I was six. My dad had drifted in and out of our home so often it was an easy mistake.
The cycle was always the same: My dad popped up promising to change and my mom let him sleep in her room until he fattened her lip, knocked one of her teeth loose or shoved her through a window.
My mom was also an alcoholic. She often stocked up on liquor before food: a hamburger bun smeared with ketchup could pass as a meal. Every night, she pushed back Budweisers until stumbling to bed. She tried to wait until my brothers and I fell asleep before starting. But sometimes she couldn’t resist. On the nights restraint evaded her, she would haul us to the bar and plop us in front of a Pacman arcade game or drag us to the liquor store to wobble around its aisles.
I was five when social services yanked my brothers and me from home and plunked us into foster care. We shuffled in and out of the system until my mom finally gave up drinking.
I was four the first time I tasted beer. One summer day, I lifted a fountain cup from a can-cluttered table and took a drink. I gagged. I choked. I spit the liquid back into the glass.
It took 10 years for me to realize I had tasted beer. On a fall night, when I was 14, I snuck into a shed with friend and a 12-pack of Natural Light. When I took my first drink, I saw myself standing at that table again, beer cans towering over me. My reaction didn’t change much: Instead of spitting, I swallowed and took another swig.
After four beers, l felt good – felt free. That pleasant feeling overshadowed the negative experiences I had associated with alcohol, and I spent several years chasing it. <br/>Before long, I developed a drinking ritual of my own. By 21, I would dart home after work and begin chugging beers, sometimes drinking 15 before finally passing out. In the mornings, I would wake, the room whirring and grab a beer to curb the spin or slip some Kaluha into my coffee to weaken my headache. As the years inched on, I grew dependent on alcohol to feel at ease.Before long, I developed a drinking ritual of my own. By 21, I would dart home after work and begin chugging beers, sometimes drinking 15 before finally passing out. In the mornings, I would wake, the room whirring and grab a beer to curb the spin or slip some Kaluha into my coffee to weaken my headache. As the years inched on, I grew dependent on alcohol to feel at ease.
Before long, I developed a drinking ritual of my own. By 21, I would dart home after work and begin chugging beers, sometimes drinking 15 before finally passing out. In the mornings, I would wake, the room whirring and grab a beer to curb the spin or slip some Kaluha into my coffee to weaken my headache. As the years inched on, I grew dependent on alcohol to feel at ease.
Last week, the Amethyst Initiative – a group of more than 100 college presidents – announced its ambition to lower the drinking age to 18. Although I encourage the discourse Amethyst has spawned, I oppose the idea of weakening existing laws. According to the Center for Disease Control, youth who drink before 15 are five times as likely to become alcohol dependent than people who start at 21. Relaxing existing laws makes alcohol more accessible to younger crowds. This is dangerous, not just in terms of drunken driving or alcohol poisoning, but in terms of lifestyle. The earlier someone starts drinking, the less likely he will be able to evolve from unhealthy drinking patterns, which are common in young drinkers.
Allowing alcohol to slip into the wrong hands too early can create an addict for life. I’ll spend the rest of my life battling the behaviors I established in adolescence. I’ve since quit drinking, but sometimes the cravings are so strong I have to ask myself to wait just five more minutes before trudging to the liquor store across the street.
The urge to drink springs on me. I’ll be doing fine and then, wham, I’m rummaging through the liquor store carting a bottle of vodka to the counter.
But there’s a feeling accompanying this urge to drink – déjà vu. My grandma’s image hovers over me every time I stumble home so drunk I have to struggle fretfully to find the correct key to shove into the lock. It’s there when I wake up weak and wobbly from a night of pushing back tequila shots secretly saying ‘this is the last time.’ And it’s this image that inspires me to clench my teeth, clasp my hands and tell myself to wait at least another five more minutes before giving in.