Today is Day 10 of Creativity Boot CampThe prompt: Full Bodied
**for those who are new around these parts... this post might make more sense knowing that I'm a recovering alcoholic. Almost five months sober... and though I don't let it define me, it's definitely a part of who I am, and always will be. You can find several posts on my journey if you click on various labels over on the right (sobriety, addiction, alcoholism, etc... ) but here's the beginning.
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I never took the time to notice undercurrents, hints or tannins. I never used the word full bodied to describe a glass of wine, but some people do.
And so that combination of words alone makes me think of the heaviness of a full glass of wine in my hand. Cradling it, begging it to not disappear so quickly, knowing that it would.
Most nights I can turn a blind eye when the talk on twitter turns to glasses of wine at the end of any given day. I smile and laugh when I'm told that someone drunk blogged, or was under the influence when they sent me a barely cohesive email. I've been there, done that, glad to have moved on. Except sometimes I wish I was still there.
I've told people, and will continue to do so, that the only persons drinking I have a problem with is my own. And I truly mean that. I know that not everyone who drinks has a problem, but I always will. I've had my share of people who have tried to make my alcoholism about them. It's not. I can say without a doubt that me being an alcoholic is all about me. And I don't mean to sound selfish or self centered. It's hard for me to own that, but it's a necessity.
I don't think I've mentioned the recent girls night out when I felt like being decadent and ordered a non-alcoholic mocktail. The waitress brought me booze. I took a sip, thought it tasted a bit off, but didn't have enough time to comprehend the situation before the waitress came over, apologized for the mistake, and switched out my drink. To this day, I don't want to know what I would have done if she hadn't rectified the situation.
A few weeks ago I packed up all of our alcohol consumption paraphernalia. Wine glasses, shot glasses collected over the years. Silver shakers and clear green margarita glasses. Many sets down one or two glasses, a graceful drunk I was not. Three boxes, packed up carefully with bubble wrap and newspaper that stained my fingers black with ink. Boxes of stemware making their way, like hand me down toys trains, to a bachelor pad where they'll no doubt be given another chance to drown a few sorrows and celebrate the joys that come from being uninhibited and seemingly care free.
I miss the weight of wine in my hand. There's a different weight to the glass when it holds the ability to take cares and make them disappear. The glass that for some contains at least four others, one always leading to the next. That weight... the heaviness. Full bodied.
So most days I happily turn my head when others are talking about wine, or margaritas, sangria or mixed drinks. I can think of other meanings when I read words that drip with boozy entendres. Most days I'm aware and grateful that the world around me is a little better because of my sobriety. I know that nothing awful has ever happened because I didn't pick up a glass (I know I heard that somewhere... but I can't remember where... ).
But today I'm tired, and weary, and desperately searching for something to take the edge off of the here and now. To take the edge off of me, full bodied and bursting with reality.