Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget

I remember being vaguely aware that I drank differently from the way other people did. I can’t remember ever turning down a drink, not even once; it would have been like a puppy turning down a proffered treat. Why not? Sure, I’ll have another. Drinking is fun. It feels good.

All of those things melted away when I drank. The bottle was my friend, my companion, a portable vacation. Whenever life was too intense, alcohol would take the edge off or obliterate the problem altogether for a time.

But then something would snap, some uncontrollable process would kick in, and all of a sudden it would be two or three hours later and I’d be on my sixth or tenth or God knows what glass of wine, and I’d be plastered. I couldn’t account for it, couldn’t explain it, couldn’t even rationalize it, although I struggled mightily to. I seemed to get drun