Drunk Mom: A Memoir

Alcoholism is not drinking, just like hemophilia is not bleeding.

that the next time she drinks she will be able to drink just enough and no more to find that perfect balance of being buzzed but not falling on her face. And in order to find that ultimate happy spot, an addict will drink just enough—just one more—to perfect that balance. She is almost there, in fact. Perhaps one more drink will add a nice polish t

I don’t know if I really need a program that deals with addictions—I wouldn’t go that far—but at the same time, just in case, I know that I could do something to learn to manage better, to perhaps train my body to only want a bit—a can of lemon-tinted beer or two, no more—and to not disappoint me with another blackout.

So I’m looking for a commitment I can adhere to once a week tops, something I can explain—to myself, mostly—as a social thing, a thing I do to get away from the baby. Sort of like an activity that a girlfriend would tell me to partake in, a yoga class or ballroom dancing, to get me away from the baby. Some kind of me-time.

I juggled friends and environments.

And the morning after is exactly the same as the morning after the last time: full of anxiety, fear, shame, confusion. And the morning promises to self are exactly the same as the last time: I will never do this again. And in the afternoon, the insanity quietly suggests: Perhaps tonight it will be different. Perhaps tonight you can just have a coup

Nothing in my most recent history testifies in favor of this belief,

Asking for help means there will be consequences and they will be dire.

An alcoholic who is in the throes of addiction believes