BEHIND THE BOTTLE

I have never been an emotional sharer. I tense up when hugged, never cry in public, and deal with my personal problems by myself. This comes partly from nature and partly from years of repression training with my best friend from high school, Mark, who was chronically depressed, thanks to his abusive father. Mark made me promise not to report his father or his multiple attempts at suicide to anyone. Reluctantly and ignorantly I agreed, vacuum sealing my emotions inside. I couldn’t tell my other friends I wasn’t sleeping because I spent my nights on the phone with Mark, afraid that if we hung up, he wouldn’t be at school the next day. And I couldn’t bring myself to vent my teenage preoccupations about guys, grades, and groundings because when I saw the medical tape peering out from under the long sleeves Mark always wore, they seemed too trivial to deserve a voice.

Since nothing could be let out, I learned to distract myself from my thoughts. I watched marathons of movies with zero intellectual value but countless happy faces until it’d been days since I’d slept. I rode my bike for hours until, stranded with flat tires and screaming quads, I had to call my dad for a ride home. When I got stressed out, activities like this kept my mind from rehashing the things that bothered me. These escapes formed my habit of diverting my thoughts instead of unloading them.

So after going to college, while I sat humming and doing homework early one morning, a friend asked how I was so chipper despite the fact that I’d only stumbled home three hours ago and I made the connection. That night the biggest problem I had ruminated over was how to safely descend four flights of stairs to go from one party to the next and nothing more pressing entered my mind. Drinking had become another diversion for me. I, therefore, technically fall into the statistical category of drinking “to cope,” which has been stigmatized as the unhealthiest reason to drink. But every Friday night I don’t sit on my couch, sulking until those first fermented drops enter my blood stream. I’m not depressed and I don’t drink alone and I haven’t given up on my other, arguably healthier, stress relievers.  But I do drink and it leaves me mentally refreshed instead of hung-over.

I took health class like everyone else so I know that alcohol doesn’t solve anything and I don’t expect it to. It’s like a young mother who just needs a night by herself without a loaded diaper in her lap and spit-up in her hair. She doesn’t want her baby to be gone when she returns; she just wants a few hours where she can think about something else. It’s the same with me. After five drinks my focus is limited to what is directly in front of me and safeguarded from my worries. Occasionally I really like that, so I do use alcohol as an escape and despite what all the PSAs say, I don’t see anything wrong with that. 

The author: Kristen Klempert. I was born and raised in a relaxed, slow moving, small town environment that can only be found among the sunshine and retirees of South Florida. I’m currently a student at Washington University in St. Louis majoring in Philosophy, Neuroscience, and Psychology. In other words I learn a lot of B.S. and tell myself it’ll be applicable in the real world. I love cooking, but am wary of recipes. I love movies, books, and overly dramatic TV, but I get why too emotionally attached to the characters. And I drink enough pop on a daily basis to burn through a car battery.

The Piece: This started out as a story for my nonfiction writing class, but after sharing the first draft I was surprised by how many of my peers felt it was inexcusable to drink to deal with your problems. Most seemed to believe that it was a one way ticket to AA. So I decided to write about my own unashamed perspective on drinking to cope, as a healthy, happy woman.