Cancun 2015

Denial, survival, and the freedom in letting go.

Graciously letting go of things well passed their expiration date has never been my strongest suit. Historically, I’ve opted for the “white knuckle” approach to endings, desperate to squeeze the last little bits of life left from every crumbling dream, holding on for dear life because it was not the way I’d planned the thing to go. I once stayed in a relationship with a man who was cheating on me, of which I had definitive proof, because we had already planned a vacation for my upcoming birthday and I had spent nearly five hundred dollars on resort wear. “I’ll just grin and bear it,” became the mantra for Cancun 2015. I’m sure you’re wondering how the trip went-was I, in fact, able to grin and bear it? No. I spent the entire first day downing mojitos by the pool like it was my goddamn job and by the time we went to dinner I was primed and ready for a dramatic, sloppy showdown over the letters I’d found in his gym bag from his side piece (turns out she thought I was the side piece, but that’s neither here nor there and not worth breaking down in this particular post). The relevant piece of this story is found in its larger-looming theme. That’s right, I’m talking about that big, shiny, alluring, irresistible, “comes with a price but baby oh baby do I want it,” familiar song called….denial.

I’ve actually found denial to be quite effective at certain points in my life, like that one time I agreed to go on a winter hike with a new friend in upstate New York and only made it through because I committed to a bit in my head where I was a weather lady on channel 2 only “reporting” the weather, not trekking through it. I drive a lot for work and on more than one occasion I’ve relied on denial to get me to the next available restroom after one too many cups of coffee. It’s really quite effective to turn the radio up to full volume and scream the lyrics to 90’s country songs when you need to distract yourself from a bursting bladder.

Then there’s the month of August in 2019, the beginning of the end as I like to call it, when I developed a slight hand tremor that would kick in around eleven in the morning most days and seemed to disappear later in the evening. This is where things got dicey. I remember feverishly googling one afternoon, “causes for hand tremors,” and skipping over any links with “alcohol” in the text. I was somehow more satisfied with the possibility of early onset Parkinson’s disease than the glaringly obvious explanation of alcohol abuse. We’re talking World Class denial. Sure, I had been polishing off a bottle of white nearly every night for several months at that point, and almost always had a couple of beers before my evening shift at the restaurant but, like, who didn’t? Plus the wine I drank was completely organic and natural and trendy and expensive. I was even seeing a new psychiatrist for the anxiety attacks and insomnia. Everything was under control.

When my new doctor suggested that I quit drinking to alleviate the anxiety I felt a deep sense of shame. This would be the cycle I found myself in for several more months-denial to shame to denial to shame. I was mindlessly hurling myself around like a rock from a highway overpass and just as fucked up. Everything I valued was turning to dust right in front of my eyes and the girl in the mirror looked more like a poorly drawn cartoon character than a human being. Actually, I felt sort of like a cartoon character too, ridiculous and cliche. Reality was nipping at my heels and I was running out of road. The thing about truth is that the longer you avoid it, the bigger the ambush. It HAS to catch you, that’s the nature of truth. One way or another, I was bound to be backed up against the wall and forced to face the ugly, unvarnished truth. I had to quit drinking.

The other thing about truth is that it’s the only path to any sort of real freedom in this life. I think the irony of it all is that for so long I was convinced sobriety would feel like a prison, me just looking out barred windows at all the other kids having a big ole time. I actually thought alcohol was the gatekeeper of all things “fun,” and “free.” Instead, what I’ve found to be true is that alcohol was keeping my life very small. When I drank I’d plan my nights out carefully considering the distance from the bar back to my house, whether it was walkable or I’d need a cab, and preferred to stay in the neighborhood where I knew who and what to expect. Alcohol denied me any real growth, it asked me to stay right where I was even if things weren’t working. Alcohol kept me in stale friendships for the sake of popularity and in toxic romances for the sake of all inclusive boozey vacations.

Denial works…sometimes. Maybe it’s even necessary for survival…sometimes. We aren’t ready until we’re ready, we aren’t done until we’re done. My hope for you this week is that you’ll at least grant yourself the stillness to examine the ways denial has run it’s course in your life. What stories are you telling yourself that you just can’t stomach anymore? Where can you introduce a little more honesty, get a little more free? There’s no wrong answer and maybe you’ve still got a cold mountain to climb or few more clumsy strolls home from the bar, but when it’s time, let the truth have its way. Turns out I don’t have early onset Parkinson’s disease, and I’m really grateful for that.