Sublime

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.

I still called it a “drinking problem”; I couldn’t make the leap to alcoholism because that was too great an admission, far too final.

That, of course, is how an alcoholic starts not to notice it. Just this one time. That’s how you put it to yourself: I’ll just do it this one time, the same way a jealous woman might pick up the phone at midnight to see if her lover is home, or cruise slowly past his house to check his lights, promising herself that this is the last time. I know th

got drunk in a paradoxical way that numbs feelings and gives you access to them at the same time,