Do Not Take With Alcohol
May 14, 2008 by Robin G
A few nights ago I got thoroughly buzzed on a beer and a half. Buzzed enough that I woke up the next morning with a mild hangover. I laid in bed, scraped the fuzz off my tongue with my teeth, and wondered what the hell had happened to me. The girl that, by the age of 18, needed a half bottle of 60 proof to get fucked up; who could line up the tequila shots and knock them back with surgical precision; who drank eight different mixed drinks on her 21st birthday and didn’t even puke (unlike certain Wookiees I could mention).
Medication happened, that’s what.
I have battled with the sauce since I was sixteen. I do not like to use the A-word. I prefer the term “unhealthy drinking”, which means “Drinks for reasons she ought not, and is not good at only having ‘a few’.” The A-word means “Needs alcohol to make it through the day.” I have not been there, and God willing, I never will be. But the road to hell is not lined with primroses. It’s lined with martini glasses.
When I got my prescriptions, the doc looked at me as seriously as a chirpy middle-aged woman in knee-high leather boots can look and said, “No alcohol.” That lasted about 48 hours. Then I had a few glasses of sake with my sashimi, wandered out into the street, and stood in the blistering cold for ten minutes, trying to figure out where my apartment was. (It was, for the record, exactly where I left it, a block and a half away.) Since then I have taken the “Do Not Take With Alcohol” label a bit more seriously. It helps that when the meds are working, my anxiety is like a crazy great-aunt locked in the attic — I can hear her clawing at the door, but she can’t get past the deadbolt to barrel downstairs and try to stab me with a steak knife. And when my anxiety is locked away, I don’t need to have two beers to stop my hands from shaking.
I test it anyway. I have the extra beer, and I have it when I’m wound up or shaky. I have it because it tastes good and somehow seems like less of a concession than a half tablet of Klonopin. But the extra beer now comes every couple of weeks, rather than every couple of days. And that is better.
I am posting this to remind myself that it is better.
Is it bad that my first thought at reading the line about not knowing where your apartment was, was “How do I get this medication?”
Having medication that works is like taking your first breath after being under water for a long time. For me, mixing booze with the meds meant that the meds didn’t work. And I was not willing to put up with that (once I figured it out, which sadly took quite some time, mostly cause I was hoping that I’d just get a better buzz if I mixed them).
It’s hard. It takes time. But you’re right, every couple of weeks IS better than every couple of days. And you’ll be able to keep improving that. And it’s also OK to mess up once and a while, so remember to be patient and gracious with yourself.