Five Year Chip

I came to being a non-drinker in an unusual way, and I say that as if there's a usual way. Multiple motivations exist for eliminating alcohol from our lives: health, religion, civic responsibilities, spiritual reflection, treating addiction, or even required-by-law. A favorite story of how someone came to be sober is from my brother Michael, 61. I won awards for my humorous and poignant short stories written about our coming-of-age years as the unattended children of 1970's suburban privilege. ("Family Time" by Gillian Zed.) Much of that time I was covering up, cleaning up, or coping with, my idolized brother's escalating addiction to liquor. He, like our father, was a mean drunk.

Co dependency: we used to call it love.

When he was 37, Michael was ordered to do 30 days sobriety by the courts, and he did his time, attended AA meetings, got counseling, had his pee tested. He's a US Veteran, a former biker, and generally a 'Don't tread on me' kinda guy, so that demonstrated extreme tolerance for somebody else's rules. His bros at the bar had a calendar with red X's marking down his required time and when the highly anticipated day arrived, Michael did not walk through the doors. He had - in spite of himself- listened in those meetings, and some of it rang pretty-damn-true as to the potential source of his life's fuck ups. The drinking buddies hunted him down, wanting to know when the party was going to start??! But, without the blinders of alcohol, Mike had recognized the fork in the road ahead of him. He saw the choice for the second half of his life, building healthy relationships with his children, reconnecting to family, creating a useful existence, and by the grace of god, he took it. After a lifetime of booze being his best friend, that was brave as hell.

"You know what, guys," he said to the beer-in-hand crowd, "I'm gonna give it another day." He has not had a drink in 25 years. One day at a time.

Gillian Zed, brother Michael & Mum Fall 2019

If you'd told me in my early teens - when we were hustling pool on the boardwalks of New Jersey, selling pot at the top of our brick home's sweeping spiral staircase, and hanging out in a chopper shop - that Michael would one day give up drinking, for good, I'd have called you delusional.

I make a distinction for myself between being a 'non-drinker' and being 'sober' because I smoke a lot of pot. Aside from pregnancy, I've smoked weed my entire adult life. For medicinal reasons, for recreation, cannabis is my anti-depressant and coping medicine. I live where it's legal and at 59, a breast cancer - and now spine surgery- survivor, honestly I could give zero fucks if you think it's a bad idea. But, I also respect that to some people struggling with recovery, smoking pot is next door to drinking, or using, and I'm not about to welcome them on board my boat that does not float solidly on the 12-step program. I believe in, can testify to, the power of the program to, as the Avett Brothers so poetically put it, "Make men out of monsters", but I'm a spectator to AA. I'd never try to fly under the false colors of someone who is 'SOBER' because I recognize that's a whole level of work that I'm not doing, or interested in doing.

No steps for me. No higher power (I actually do believe in the power of the Universe, so box that up how ever you want,) No meetings, fellowship, sponsor, or sharing. Sorry, no.

The Forsyth Hotel, Georgetown, Seattle

Not drinking is a choice for me. Not a requirement. Sadly, after being raised and surrounded socially by alcoholics, I am very clear about the ugly physical and crippling mental addiction associated with the disease of alcoholism. Yeah, I don't have that. It was so unattractive to me after years of Mike's bullshit, I didn't really drink until my 30's, required as part of a 'show biz wife' Hollywood lifestyle from my first marriage. My heaviest drinking came during breast cancer recovery: a year living above a bar in a strange neighborhood. I made some of the best friends of my life on that bar stool.

Still, in choosing to remove booze from my life, I also, inadvertently, diverted myself away from a litany of bad behavior and some very depressing people. I lost weight. I also lost 'friends' who just weren't comfortable sitting across from a ginger ale. 

I've written previously -on this blog and else where- about the devastating and tragic loss of my best friend Terri and the subsequent fallout in my life of crippling grief and depression. (In comparison, it made surviving breast cancer look like getting a cavity filled.) It was that event- loosing a young, vibrant, funny as fuck, 33 year old woman to the decimation of full blown, untreated, addiction- that facilitated a dramatic, life-changing decision for me. People in recovery often speak of their turning points in terms of hitting rock bottom. Their breaking  point of no return, like my brother's fork in the road, the get-saved-or-die-place. 

Looking back, I'm devastated realizing the coping-with-cancer drinking phase of my late 40's, overlapped with Terri's early-but-ascending commitment, emotionally, physically and economically, to getting and staying drunk 24x7, which began in her late 20's. I never saw it coming. Even after all those years dealing with Michael, I missed it entirely. I was stunned discovering the depths of her fall in the five years since I moved away. I listened to everyone's stories, peeling back moldy layer after layer, in a Seattle hospital waiting room, while she lay in what I knew was an irreversible vegetative state. I swung emotionally between remorse at failing to know what was going on, unable to save her, and fierce anger that she was so neglected by those who were supposedly closest to her. 

So, in reality, it wasn't MY rock bottom that flipped the switch for me to walk away from liquor and all the lies it told. It was my closest friend's decent to a hell she would never recover from. 

People in AA - or any recovery program really- sanctify specific dates for what they represent: a personal achievement. The day of their last fix, sobriety date, 'clean' anniversary, often acknowledged annually at their regular group meeting, with a cake, or at minimum, a chip. A chip is essentially a small disc 'trophy' recognizing your accomplishment of time kept sober. Folks put them on key chains, or in their pockets as talismans and reminders. There are several versions of chips, often including the Serenity Prayer and the AA symbol. My brother's sobriety birthday is- no irony here- St. Patrick's Day. (I'm sure he has a good story for that one.) He was gifted a fancy metal coin chip for his 20th.

Terri with my 'Fuzzy Palmer', Georgetown

My 'stopped drinking' date is the same as the day Terri stopped breathing. Today. 3/26/15. So, as intended, I am forced to associate this horrible date, one of the worst days of my life, with one of the most powerful decisions I have ever made for myself. And today it is five years.

In breast cancer world, five years is a magic mark. No recurrence can indicate full remission for certain types of cancers: you're in recovery mode, not the 'will it come back' nightmare. It's a goal post to pass with flying colors and joy. (Passing the ten year post-cancer mark for me was like brushing my hands off after a stint in the garden, that's done, Mother Nature- take it from here!) But in grief, I'm not sure where five years has brought me. I cry less, true. I recall more Terri memories that make me laugh and less that piss me off. I have JC, her sister, in my life now, and she has me. I'm writing- and fucking sharing -about it all. So, sure, I'll take the five year chip. I've earned it.

People need support to ensure their success with big life changes that have the intention of improving health and well being. As it turned out, I had a running start on my non-drinking lifestyle because my husband had quit drinking six months previously, seeking relief from debilitating acid reflux. (It worked.) He continued to supply my pinot and I'd order a drink if we went out. It wasn't a big deal. But when this all went down I warned him on the phone to clean out whatever booze was still in the house: 'I'm not going to drink for a year. It's too much.' It's been a much easier path to maintain as a couple. It is not a decision we re-negotiate everyday; it's second nature now. We're still big fans of cuisine, but when we waive off the wine list, the server's disappointment is palpable. Being non-drinkers hasn't expanded our lives socially in Sonoma Valley, go figure.

Much like my brother's friends, my Georgetown crowd were astounded by my decision. I presented it as I felt it: a way to honor Terri for the next year. Mourning. Shiva. I knew every sad thought would be followed by the desire for a numbing elixir in the form of a rich red wine, well chilled vodka, or a frosty beer, and there was going to be a lot of sad thoughts.

The year arrived, and I visited Seattle to recognize the anniversary with folks, ready to 'toast' our friend. They were again perplexed at me saying I was going to continue to not drink, for an undetermined amount of time. There's no easier way to shake the foundation of a self-professed 'functional alcoholic' then to tell them you voluntarily gave up drinking. That weekend I watched, bored, as our circle of friends, in the name of Terri, drank themselves silly night after night. Weed would never catch me up to their booze buzz, and eventually I'd leave, unnoticed, to walk back 'home' in the dark, dampness of industrial Georgetown. 

Mementos in the cookie jar.

In knowing my recovery from the deepest of grief, with its abyss of pain and depression, is possible, I know also that I will continue to choose to not drink. I miss many aspects of alcohol, especially with its embedded presence in the community I currently live in. (It's not called 'Grape Country'.) But, like my brother, husband, and many other family and friends before me, when I lost Terri, I saw a choice and the potential consequences. I felt I had paid a big price for participating in a liquor-laced lifestyle. 

I'll never return to those painful times. 

Occasionally I spy a particularly attractive cocktail in a restaurant, or smell a olive-rich dirty martini wafting by me at a bar, or spot the label for that favorite pricey pinot noir we used to buy by the case because I was worried I'd run out, and I do a little double take. It's like a milli-second of 'Yummm!'. A very old habit. It goes away quickly, usually with a smile. 

But sometimes, often on an emotional trigger date, an anniversary, a birthday, the entire Christmas season, I will start to think about how good a drink would taste. Usually in the car, between destinations, it goes like this: I really want a drink! What bar is nearby, what would I order, what would it taste like, wouldn't it be delicious, isn't this a great idea, NO, no, no it's not a fucking good idea, why am I even thinking about this?

And then I'll see the date, often 26, Terri's number, and recognize the pain prompt my body felt even before my brain. Fuck me, that explains it. God damn subconscious. And I drive by that bar, go home and pop a ginger ale, smoke some pot, pet my cat, and I process the memories. I acknowledge the pain and try to move past it. Alcohol is the siren of self-destruction that depression tells us is comfort: a lie I can rise above, and refute, again and again. In my heart, I'm committed to my health, my recovery, my journey, and not drinking is intrinsic to that .

I'm gonna give it another day.

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Dedicated with much love to Becca @reblouread who really did the fucking work to earn her 10 year chip January 2020.