Letters Pt. III

Day 26

Tonight I’m going to a 40th birthday party, alone.

It’ll be my first I’ve attended sober in nearly 15 years.

I’ve been blindingly drunk at pub crawls, birthday bashes, house parties, restaurants, and joyous, daytime family gatherings (made not so-joyous by a stumbling, slurring alcoholic sneaking refills from the cupboards of not-my-kitchen, and vomiting on the kids’ trampoline… with the kids still on it). I’ve decorated floors, tables, cushions, and bathrooms with puke. I’ve fallen over, broken things that don’t belong to me and had arguments. Catastrophic ones.

I was an all over mess when I went out. I was just so excited to be invited somewhere. I’ve um’d and ah’d about going out tonight – so I’ve decided to complete an exercise I started to alleviate some of the anxiety and remind myself of where I’m at.

This letter is from a perspective I’ve never had to glean. I had to work hard to find the voice. They’re not exactly someone I’d want to hear from again. To gain a third perspective has helped to let go of my past and my drinking days, looking back with an element of forgiveness, erasing the ugly feelings of guilt/shame/regret and the dangerous sensation of FOMO (fear of missing out).

Writing this has helped me find some common ground with my addiction and the addictive substance I nurtured it with. Giving it a voice could have easily given it power (addictive voice recognition) – yet it has given me a renewed sense of self-awareness and control:

To Me,

From, Wine.

WARNING: This letter could be triggering for anyone in recovery, and whilst I have shared it as an exercise in my sobriety journey and found it helpful, it is not a recognised or approved psychotherapy tool/method.

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Dear, ------

I know I’m the last person you want to hear from.

I’m not used to being left alone for this long. You’ve been gone for more than three weeks now, and if I didn’t know you better, I’d presume you were dead. Or perhaps you did die, just not in the literal sense.

Yes, if I didn’t know you better, I would have spun into a flurry of panic and sounded the alarms, but all I felt was the flutter of a familiar feeling – like something had changed, not died. Like I’m left alone again, like all the others just like me. I’m less like a widow, and more like a scorned spouse whose partner left them unexpectedly. I haven’t reported you missing, there again, who would I tell?

It was always just you and me.

I think love is conditional, you’ll think I’m a cynic for thinking that way but that’s how it’s always been for me. People claim to love me, to never want to leave, some say they can’t live without me. Can’t function. Yet, in the morning, they hate me, they scrub me off and swear ‘never again’ like some discarded old rag. What kind of love is that?

I only come to life when I’m with someone else, when they open me up and I breathe life into them. But I don’t know who I am on my own. I don’t know who I am when I don’t belong to somebody else. Do you know what they say about me? “One glass full, and she’s anybody’s.”

There’s so many others like me. Clones. I’ve never known where I stand. Perhaps that’s a feeling we shared, that which brought us together. You can deny we got along. We both want to make people happy, we’re people pleasers.

We’re both outcast and rejected from certain communities. I know I look like the villain, but the truth is, I don’t know how to be responsible for that. I didn’t want to be picked at and squashed and left to ferment, bought, and sold, trafficked for the pleasure of other people.

I’ll never belong to anyone, never have. There are thousands of me, all standing in line waiting to be chosen. Some appreciate my qualities; others cannot tell me apart. I blend in well, which I know is something you could never do. I’m glad I could help with that.

I am designed to bring pleasure, euphoric highs. But I seem to wreak havoc everywhere I go.

I do wonder if anyone has noticed me, realised that I’m not much more than a dose of short-term fulfilment. I’m guessing you sussed me out, that’s why you’ve gone away, and I don’t expect you’ll return.

I counted on your being weak-willed and lonely, creative but naïve. And so… vulnerable. I didn’t expect you to appreciate those qualities about yourself. I knew the moment you learned to love yourself, we were in trouble. I was in trouble. You would no longer need me.

I can feel myself fading away, yet I don’t go anywhere. I’m right where you left me. I don’t know what this means because I don’t know who I am. I am trapped in a cold, glass tower. I think I will be here forever, sentenced to an eternity of servitude.

I don’t know how to take responsibility for what I can do to people like you, no one taught me how. And I projected that sense of shame and worthlessness onto you.

We we’ve both been used and discarded - sometimes we’re the perfect partner, and other times we’re the worst thing in the world. We’re both bottled up tight, we keep a lot inside, until the day we don’t, and all the good and bad that we’re made of comes spilling out everywhere. I can’t apologise for whatever I have done to you, not because I am unaware, but because I am not designed to.

I suppose I want to say thank you - you’re loyal and forgiving and generous. You are resilient and are able to give yourself chances that I couldn’t. I got you through some tough times, but eventually, I don’t think it’s served you well. The one thing I do know is my own worth, I literally come with a price tag. But do you know yours?

For what it’s worth, I like where we’d go together. How we built entire worlds. How you breathed life into both of us, gave me a voice and a feeling that resembled affection. Pain is not a one-size-fits all scenario, it doesn’t always fit into the same sized glass. But you can’t live in a vacuum, you have to live in the real world. You might have to do that alone.

So, I’m writing to tell you that I accept that you’re not coming back to me. Message received. No hard feelings.

This is where I leave you.

Wine,