Breaking the Cycle: A Journey Beyond Alcohol

From family shadows to personal recovery

My mom and dad have been married 39 years and I’m the youngest of three. My brothers are close, both in age and confidence. Each preceded me by a decade and some change, so I guess you could call me a surprise. I was little, but I was perceptive. Whenever we ate dinner (before my brothers went off to try life on their own) I knew there was always a sixth chair bellied up at the table. A ghost in our hallway watching as we silently passed each other to brush our teeth. A behemoth breathing down our necks.

Alcohol was always there, like a shadow or a nasty cough. At birthdays, graduations, afternoon get-togethers. I could tell how much one of the men in my family had had based on the level of their eyelids. The lower they hung, the less of them was there. As I grew up, the insidiousness of my family’s imaginary friend became more clear, less imaginary. The whispers after dark made more sense. So did the mood swings and random absences. My dad and my brother had a monster on their back they just couldn’t shake. My mom did what she was able to manage the volatility, and I learned that the best thing I could do was be a very good, exceptionally quiet, tremendously obedient daughter.

I kept my head down. I got straight A’s. I ignored the comments my classmates made under their breath. I ensured that if there was ever tension or stress, I was not the source of it. I stayed busy with extracurriculars. I wasn’t a star athlete, but it was a small town, so I didn’t have to be to stay on a team. Every so often my mom would take me to look at open houses or to go stay with family a few hours away with no notice and no goodbye to anyone else in our house. We’d frequently return to silence that lasted days, the duty of messenger between the two sides falling to me.

My brothers were long gone by then, at least physically. I leaned on the oldest when I was small, but as the world turned and people moved on, my dad’s inheritance sunk its claws into him, too. Now, when I go home, I find pieces of him scattered on the lawn. I collect them in case he wants them back one day, but it’s been decades and he hasn’t asked for them.

I’ve been sober now for almost three years. My relationship with alcohol wasn’t one of dependence, but of formality. I never liked it, and I couldn’t handle it for shit. I didn’t even get drunk until the summer after my senior year of high school, and I can still remember the full force of that hangover. I drank because that’s what you do, right? I didn’t know anything different.

I did that song and dance through my undergrad, but it always felt forced. I hated the taste of anything that had alcohol in it, and I hated the feeling it gave me more. Control was more my cup of tea, anyway. Whenever I turned down a drink, I was told to “loosen up” or some similar phrase that implied I was too tightly wound. It was everywhere, ingrained in everything. Just like home. I had to come face to face with the fact that my relationship with alcohol wasn’t the same as other people’s. It wasn’t a fun thing I did to blow off steam. I had never had a positive association with it. From the very beginning, it only led to hurt, or turmoil, or leaving.

When I stopped drinking, I thought I could still carry on as usual, be the fun sober friend. But being in the same room as alcohol was stifling for me. Seeing it alter people’s behavior, their eyes, even if it was harmless, made my vision blur and my throat close. I felt trapped, like I was under a magnifying glass every time I was asked, “Why aren’t you drinking?” My hands would clam up, and I would stutter and walk away, because at first, I didn’t really know. I wasn’t sure why being even alcohol adjacent sent me into a tailspin.

Every time I write about my sobriety, I uncover another moving part of why alcohol affects me so deeply. I know, initially, I didn’t stop drinking for myself. I wanted to be an example. I wanted to prove that life can be lived without a drink in hand at every holiday or football game. I wanted to illustrate to my nieces and nephews that that doesn’t have to be their normal. It was shortsighted, ignorant, hopeful, maybe, but it was worth a shot for a young 20-year-old with a lot of questions.

My actions didn’t impact anyone but myself. My dad and brothers don’t even remember that I am sober and offer me a drink each time I go home to visit. The anger of that has worn off.

That control I loved so much did rear its ugly head, and the line of addiction in my blood came to me in different ways. For a young girl who understood the best way to help out was to be small, I developed a strong and silent eating disorder. I hid my illness well. I felt like it was my duty to. If I hadn’t gotten sober, I don’t think I would have had the strength or belief in myself to address what was behind that wall.

No longer drinking was the first step in my ongoing recovery. I’ve been self-harm free and in recovery for my eating disorder for two years—and for that, I will never take another sip of alcohol again.

Now you.

We’d love for you to share in the comments:

• Have you found that giving up alcohol led to a deeper recovery in other areas of your life?

• What’s one cycle in your family that you’ve broken or are trying to break, and how has it changed you?

And if you found this article helpful, please tap the little heart. It lets others know there’s something useful here and will help us grow this community.

---

Lene Wipplinger

was born and raised in Montana, and is a trail runner and former educator with a deep appreciation for the natural world. When not exploring local forests with her dog, Larch, she channels her love of language into writing poetry and essays. She draws inspiration from the western landscapes where she grew up and resides, and her passion for the places she feels lucky to explore. You can find Lene’s newsletter at:

Veiled Larches

.

---

Want to be published on Sober.com? If you’re sober and interested in contributing, we’d love to hear from you. Reach out to our newsletter manager here for submission guidelines.