This piece was written by one of our dear readers—a woman with something real to say. Each month, we handpick the best submissions for Dear Reader because we’re after that PROVOKED bite: truth, intelligence, and heart. These stories come from women our age—women who’ve lived enough to know better and still care enough to tell it anyway. Because being seen and heard matters. Because storytelling is how we stitch ourselves to one another. And because when one woman speaks her truth, another finally recognizes her own. — Susan Dabbar, Editor-in-Chief
From small-town parties to midlife exhaustion, I confused escape with healing.
This time is going to be different. Last time was going to be different … and so was the time before that. I keep believing the promise, the lie. I tell myself one drink will blur the stress, quiet the anxiety, turn off my brain for a little while. But one drink turns into another, and the calm I’m chasing never comes. By the time I realize I’ve crossed the line, it’s too late.
The next morning, everything’s blurry. My stomach churns, my mood sinks, and I have no motivation to do anything. It happens every time. And each time, I wonder why I keep doing this to myself.
It becomes an excuse for what I don’t get done, which only makes my anxiety worse. I fall back into the same loop—running from the stress all day, numbing it at night, and waking up right where I started.
The cycle continues.
The Same Pattern. Different Poison.
My abusive relationship with alcohol started in high school, not long after the one with my boyfriend did. Small-town weekends in the early ‘90s meant parties on dirt roads and paying someone older too much for cheap beer. Most nights, I carried the same wine cooler around for hours, pretending to drink like everyone else. But my real focus was keeping my friends safe and “out of trouble”—not getting drunk and acting foolish myself.
Being mature too young had a price. On the rare nights someone else played party mother and I’d secured somewhere to stay for the night, I drank hard. I drank to relax and forget my responsibilities for a while.
Alcohol helped me turn down the voice of worry in my head.
At the same time, my boyfriend was tightening his control—who I talked to, how I dressed, and where I went. Alcohol turned down his voice too. People who’ve never been in that situation often ask why someone doesn’t “just leave.” It’s not that simple. Abusers don’t hurt you at the beginning. They learn your insecurities, feed on them, and convince you no one else will ever love you.
While trying to cut back on drinking a few months ago, I realized how similar those two relationships were. We often talk about a drinker abusing the drink, but that’s wrong.
I haven’t been abusing alcohol.
It’s been abusing me.
When Numb Became Normal
It showed all the signs.
The beers at the brewery controlled how I planned outings with my friends and husband. My social events centered on only going to places that served alcohol. Before we even agreed on plans, I was already thinking about where, what, and how much I would drink.
That third glass of wine on a Sunday afternoon didn’t want me to get the laundry done or the bathroom cleaned. It was jealous of my work, my writing, my walks. It convinced me that spending time with it was “self-care,” that I was relaxing. What it was actually doing was feeding my anxiety, keeping me from crossing things off my list that would’ve made me feel better.
And the older I got, the harder it was.
My mind still believed I could bounce back like I used to, but my body disagreed. After my hysterectomy, everything changed. Instant menopause caused weight gain, hot flashes, sagging skin, and hair loss. I tried to forget it all with another glass of wine, expecting my body to forgive the damage, believing the promise that it wouldn’t be like that the next time.
But after five decades, I’m tired.
The stress of a demanding career, caregiving, helping with grandkids, and the overall weight of the world is exhausting. I spent so many years taking care of others that I didn’t know how to care for myself. I believed, like so many women of my generation, that a glass of wine at the end of the day was “relaxing,” that comfort food and television were self-care. But often, what we call self-care is really just self-soothing.
A way to numb out the world.
Calling It What It Was
One of the greatest tragedies of any abusive relationship is how it convinces you that you don’t deserve better. That’s what alcohol did for me. It kept me from my goals, from the satisfaction of working through fear, from the joy of a simple good mood. The hangovers gave me an excuse to stay small—to put things off until tomorrow, or the next day.
But with maturity has come discernment. I’ve learned to trust the feeling that tells me something just isn’t right—for relationships, for habits, for me. I’m recognizing what my drinking really does: how it makes me feel, what it keeps me from doing, and how it comes between me and the people I love.
Feeling productive and clearheaded almost feels a little unnatural now. But seeing my drinking for what it really was—a long abusive relationship—gave me the clarity I needed to finally walk away.
If you or someone you love is struggling with alcohol, help is available. In the U.S., you can call SAMHSA’s National Helpline at 1-800-662-HELP (4357) or visit FindTreatment.gov for free, confidential support and treatment options.
