My Breakup Letter to Booze

I bid you farewell. I’m taking my life back.

By Kirsten A. Miller

My Dearest You,

Lately, it feels like I’m caught in a battle with us. Honestly? This isn’t new. I’ve been wrestling with us for what feels like ages. I know this isn’t the best way to break up, but for now, it’s the only way I can bring myself to do it. 

We’ve woven the tapestry of our lives together thread by delinquent thread since the formative years of high school—high school sweethearts, that’s what they’d call us. The stench of sweaty hallways and the echo of football stadium spectator cheers still linger in my mind, a testament to the birth of our shared dysfunctional journey. 

Well, actually, we met long before I was capable of being your friend. We were introduced by my father, and then later, my mother would form a deep and intimate relationship with you. I was molded around you. You taught me many things while growing up; fear, mistrust, disappointment, embarrassment, loneliness, anxiety, self-hatred, and yet, seemingly, confidence, wittiness, and courage. And I’m sure some other great lessons that I can’t think of right now. 

My first taste of you was under a bridge with my bestie, on our way to Gil Stadium. You persuaded us to walk to that football game and be dangerously flirty and reckless. We were 14. We had so much fun with you that we became a trio. You helped me to feel like I belonged. You coaxed me to feel like I was enough. 

After that, we went to many high school events, dances, and house parties together. You were there the first time I kissed my first love. You were with us the first time we had sex and every subsequent time after that. You persuaded me to be ready for this intimacy when I wasn’t. I was 15.

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I learned to need you, especially after our move from New Hampshire to Florida the following year. Your numbing properties, your listening ear, and your unwavering support were the lighthouses in the storm, beacons of courage that I clung to dearly. 

Our first weekend there, you helped Mom and her man begin our hellish journey together. A man who had been her kryptonite since she was 16. I didn’t know this new adventure was going to be our rabbit hole. This move was supposed to be our windfall. A major change that would make life better. 

Whatever you put into his head that first evening in our new home as a blended family caused him to slap my mother repeatedly in the face in front of me with a wet dish towel. They were fighting and the cruelty I was witnessing was out of my realm of comprehension. I don’t know why you encouraged this in him, but you did. 

I stood in front of him and made him stop. At the tender age of 16, I was steeped in a state of fear and confusion. I did not want to be the reason this romance didn’t work out. It was our first night together in our new "better" life. No more apartment living, we had a home in a real neighborhood. Mom wouldn’t have to worry about how to make ends meet. We would be living the suburban dream. We said goodbye to everyone, even our pets, trading our calm NH life for the unknown.

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I tried to believe that night was an anomaly, and I focused on making friends and starting at a new high school. You provided me with the confidence to meet new people. You granted me the liberty to unshackle my terrified, introverted self, allowing me to wear a comfort that seemed tailored to my very skin, especially with boys. I let my walls crumble and chucked my self-respect out the window. You pretty much became the pilot of my decision-making process, guiding me through choices that never would’ve popped up on my radar if you weren’t in my life. 

Remember that time I wrecked Mom’s car in the driveway, and you encouraged me to leave anyway and tell her a lie about it? That was only the beginning of many lies you and I would tell. Or the time I purged my guts out at the drinking table during a high school condo party while playing quarters? It took me a while to live that down. 

Oh, and those condo bashes hanging out with you and the party host, when we were tucked away in that loft like we were the stars of our own cringy reality show. The ears we must’ve serenaded with our naughty teenage behavior. But you, my dear partner in crime, had this magical ability to flick off my worry-switch. Seriously, your “whatever” vibe should be bottled up or something (pun intended).

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There was a final straw with you, him, and my mom. The spring day I came home from school and picked up the mail on the end table by the brown plaid sofa. I flipped through it, distracted by my now 18-year-old problems (like I seriously may not graduate due to a failing algebra class) when something in the air shifted and it felt like the Earth was off its axis. 

My mom was sitting on the sofa in a strange position. She was hunched over, her hands between her knees avoiding looking up at me. I was standing over her. I said, “Mom?” and she looked up at me with the saddest, most depleted, defeated expression. My stomach flipped, spreading prickly painful goosebumps all over my skin.

Her right eye was completely swollen shut and black.

I could not breathe.

She probably weighed 100 pounds by this point. She was trembling. 

I said, “What the fuck, Mom!?” She started protecting him and you, saying some bullshit like, “He didn’t mean it, I moved my face into his fist....” I mean the crazy coming out of her mouth—because of YOU and both of them and their twisted, fucked-up relationship.

I still feel the echo of my voice, tinged with that urgent kind of hope, as I reached out to my brother halfway across the world. “You’ve gotta help us,” I remember saying, the desperation clear even across the ocean. He was far away in Germany, wearing his uniform, and here we were, trapped in a house that felt more like a psychiatric prison. 

We needed a hero, and I just prayed that somehow, he could be ours. And he was. Within a couple of weeks, he cashed out some credit cards and we were out. We left the “new dream life” in the rearview mirror and moved to a low-income housing project starting from scratch.

As my mom often said, “Back to square one.” Again.

I had you though, and my Mom had you, and that was what got us through. We didn’t even own a toaster or a telephone, but we made sure we had you.

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And now, almost four decades later, it’s been fun, but we must sever this relationship. You’ve taken so much from me, so subtly over the years, and then again, not so subtly. 

Lost time. Lost memories. Bad decisions that hurt many people. The people I loved the absolute most. 

Oh, how you’ve been so good at convincing me that I need you, that I can’t live without you. You’ve led me down a road of destruction that has left carnage in my wake; a teenage pregnancy, infidelity, divorce, my broken-hearted daughters, financial ruin.

You even brought a new love into my life, but you would be a central part of us too. So central that I sit here now, on our back deck of the beautiful life we’ve built, contemplating our future. His rock bottom has become mine, and I don’t know what’s next for the three of us.

I know he can longer be with you.

You have come so close to destroying him, it’s time for him to make a choice. You or me. But that leaves me at odds now too. Because I can’t be with you and him at that same time now either. That won’t work anymore. And then there’s my youngest girl, a young woman, sitting next to me now, uncertain, broken, worried. She’s me at 17 looking at my mother. 

How did I get here? 

You brought me here. 

I let you bring me here. 

You are toxic, and it’s time—for me, for him, for this family to end this. You have never served me well and it’s taken this monumental moment for me to finally see my truth. I bid you farewell, and I’m taking my first step toward true freedom, true love, true living. I’ve got me, and I’m taking my life back.

Sincerely,
Finally Free

Now you.

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

• On your sobriety journey, did you find yourself needing to let go of certain things or relationships that no longer served you?

• Have you written a break-up letter to alcohol or other substances? If so, how did it help solidify your commitment to a sober life?

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.

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Kirsten A. Miller is an artist, educator, and life coach specializing in grief. Kirsten lives with her family in a small mountain town in southern California and is currently working on her professional recovery coach credential through IAPRC. Learn more about Kirsten at RavenCreekStudio.com.

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