A moment of insanity, or a means of survival?

I realize that lately I don’t drink because “it’s fun”, or we’re at a party and there’s not much else to do, or even if it’s for the sake of happy hour. The bottles at home have been polished clean, with my last one brought over to a birthday potluck dinner last night; those bottles were untouched for months, and in just a few weeks they’re in the trash.

Yesterday someone mentioned that me drinking straight out of the wine bottle (to my credit, no one else wanted it, there was only a bit more than a quarter left, and there were no more glasses around) looked like second nature, and for that one moment I was caught so off-guard that I pushed the bottle away from me. I didn’t want to question that comment; I didn’t want to hear the basis behind that judgment, or worse still, I didn’t want to find my own self agreeing to it.

It’s one thing when we’re all making merry and joking around that we’re all alcoholics, but not once until last night did I actually ponder over the severity of that statement.

When someone pictures an alcoholic, one paints the image of a disheveled looking person with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, stumbling over their steps and slurring their words. But could that actually be just another stereotype – just like all those other stereotypes we think of, like, slut, workaholic or bimbo – we use to tell ourselves, to reassure ourselves that we’re never going to turn out that way?

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