Eric is the love of my life. True to the fairy tale depictions of such things, I knew soon after meeting him that I had met my soul mate. In every way, Eric is everything I had always imagined my ideal partner to be. He is naturally kind, innately compassionate, astonishingly intelligent, genuinely thoughtful, uniquely funny, adventurous AND stable (very rarely do those last two attributes go together in the same human being!). On paper he was everything I was hoping for, and even more miraculously, in the most mysterious and intangible way, it just felt right. And he drank. Most nights, Eric drank.
For our first date we met at a Japanese noodle shop in Las Vegas that felt like a spot one would find in Tokyo, complete with plastic models of the food options at the restaurant’s entrance. It felt familiar to us both as we had each lived in Japan previously. The Air Force had brought Eric there with his two young children and wife at that time. My now former husband’s work as a musician had brought me there with my then one-year-old first son. Eric and my first date flowed into discussion of living abroad, travel and being outdoors. We agreed with relief that we both preferred to go hiking than club hopping. I sensed a kindred spirit in Eric.
We decided to meet again and I suggested maybe we could grab a drink. I like a glass or two of red wine on occasion but have never felt an attachment to drinking alcohol. I have unintentionally and repeatedly gone long stretches of months and years without a sip of alcohol and not given it a thought. I sensed a hesitancy in Eric when I mentioned having a drink. I asked if he liked to drink. “I like beer.” He said. “I like beer a little too much. I’m trying not to have it much.” Had I heard what he was really telling me, I might have asked him to explain. But it was our first date and I had learned socially to temper my inquisitiveness in order to be more palatable. I held back because I was afraid of appearing too intense. I did not ask him why he seemed hesitant. I did not ask him if meeting for a drink would not be good for him. Had I asked, I might have learned what I would later learn, that Eric is an alcoholic. But that Eric is not the kind of alcoholic one thinks of when one thinks about alcoholics. Eric is not a brawl picking barfly like Micky Rourke’s portrayal of the notorious Charles Bukowski. Eric is not the tragic self destructive “bad drunk” played by Nicolas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas. Eric is a “good drunk.” Had I asked, I would have learned that he had spent most of his life feeling more interesting to others (and perhaps, more interested in others) when drinking. That Eric had trouble just having one drink. That Eric had lost days to hangovers, sure, but that Eric is a “good drunk.” So good that no one who cares about him has ever asked him not to drink. In fact, to the contrary, those who care for Eric, enjoy him while he is drinking. He is not belligerent or abusive when drunk; he has never destroyed a relationship or lost a job while drinking. Eric is playful and amusing when drunk. He is the most dangerous kind of drunk there is. Eric is a “good drunk.”
Had I known this, I would have suggested a different spot for our second date, not out of fear of his drinking, but to be supportive of his best interest. But I did not know and I did not ask. And so we met at a dimly lit Tiki lounge and had a couple drinks. I had red wine and Eric, who had said on our first date that he likes beer, had beer. We ended up talking for hours that felt like minutes. I know to be true without a doubt that our easy and connected conversation was not owed to alcohol. Then on our third date we met for dinner. Eric’s breath smelled of alcohol when he greeted me. To kill time after he got off work and before I was able to meet, he had popped into a bar nearby. He did not seem intoxicated and I thought it is not unusual for someone to have a drink after work so I did not think too much about it. As we continued to see one another, it became clear that we were a fit. We had endless and rich conversations about our values and passions, art and literature, our hopes and aspirations for the future, our children, our pasts. No topic was out of bounds and I felt like each moment I spent with Eric brought us closer. We enjoyed motorcycles rides, hikes, road trips, restaurants and coffee shops, music, cooking and movie nights at home, cuddling and sex. And alcohol. Always in the background, or the foreground, there was alcohol. Not everyday, but most days. And sometimes so much of it that the next day was a struggle to rise to, or we didn’t rise to it at all. But still, everything was good. Really good. Like a “good drunk.”
As mentioned, I felt early on that Eric is the love of my life. But I wondered about his drinking. I wondered if, though he was obviously a “good drunk,” if the drinking was not a crutch, if it was not a dependency of some kind. And then the wondering became worrying. Then it began to scare me. I had fallen in love with Eric. I had fallen in love with an alcoholic. But he was a “good drunk.” And, as is dangerous with all “good drunks,” I could not find justification to complain about his drinking. Eric was not the first addict I had been partnered with. I had been married unknowingly to a sex addict who after our divorce became a drug addict. I had dated and lived with (again, unknowingly, until I was in too deep) a porn and food addict. I had casually dated, and realized only retrospectively, another alcoholic. I refused to be the reason someone quit their addiction. I refused to have yet another man try to quit something for me. An addict needs to want to quit, an addict needs to find their own self control, their own reasons, their own motivation. I already had a sense of Eric’s immense personal integrity. This was extremely attractive to me, sexy in fact, and made it easy for me to trust Eric. After a lifetime of being close to people who did not turn out to be who they said they were, Eric’s honesty and values were a luxurious relief.
And so I drank with Eric. And I waited. And I drank with Eric. And I waited. And I fell more in love with Eric. And I stopped thinking about the drinking. I stopped worrying about the drinking. Everything was good, after all. Then one morning, after we had been together almost a year and had drank too much wine the night before, culminating in a confusing and emotional discussion about something one of Eric’s coworkers had speculated after learning about my recovered drug addicted former husband, Eric said he wanted to stop drinking. Eric said he was an alcoholic. He had never had the shakes that signify physically dependent withdrawals, Eric said. He had never had anything really bad happen because of his drinking, Eric said. But, he said, he was an alcoholic.
Again, I have never been overly attached to alcohol. My injurious use of mind altering substances (including alcohol) and sex began too young at thirteen. I realize how young this really is as I watch my now fourteen-year-old son navigate his emotional development without partaking in drugs, alcohol and sex. By the time I had finished college at age 21, I was mostly disenchanted by partying and had already done most of the substance related damage I would ever do. I do struggle with other kinds of addictions that are generally considered benign within my cultural framework. It was a simple and obvious choice to join Eric in sobriety from alcohol. I believe that even if I were more attached to alcohol, that I would choose to be sober with Eric. I believe I would choose Eric every time, in every situation. I can not imagine an indulgence that I would choose over Eric, that I would choose over his well being. Over twenty years ago, shortly after my non-smoking and still quite young aunt died of an unexplainable case of lung cancer, I quit smoking cigarettes. I had chain smoked since adolescence. Quitting was torturous. I dreamed about smoking for years afterwards, sometimes with pleasure, waking with a sense of guilt. Other times the dreams were nightmares, involving my relapse to smoking against my own true desire, and I would wake with deep relief that it was only a dream. I avoided any place that allowed smoking, I stopped socializing in the same way. It was many years before I could be around a smoker without a sickening pull to join them.
My detrimental mental habits are largely shaped by repeated betrayals of various kinds. I am by nature vulnerable and emotionally transparent. These qualities are innate but I had learned over my decades of living, that they were either undesirable qualities or viewed as a weakness. I have craved (and before Eric never found) a refuge; a place where I could be without armor. Like an addict seeking a fix, I was jonesing for sanctuary. After an especially vulnerable conversation, where I described to Eric some of the wounds I was working on healing, he wrote me a note and tenderly offered that sometimes, “I imagine that I may provide you a safe place to develop and explore your sensitive nature, free from those who would exploit this wonderful gift.”
Eric and I seek to create for ourselves, each other, and those we care for, a sanctuary, a refuge. This means seeing and accepting those we love for who they really are. This means creating healthy boundaries for ourselves that involve not sharing space with those that would do us harm. This means creating healthy boundaries to share space in ways that serve each other and the greater good. This means creating and sharing space that supports health, creativity and sanctuary. This means understanding that even when something is good, it can often be even better if we open ourselves to the infinite possibilities. Eric is a “good drunk” and I choose to be sober with him. And we are good together.