Scars

I have two scars on my face.  Both are the result of my drinking gone wrong.  

The first scar came to me freshman year of college.  After spending way too much time at the campus pub one night, I was walking through the dorm lobby and fell…landing on my chin.  I got up, said I was fine, and tried to continue to my room but the blood was gushing.  I ended up getting 11 stitches and a really big bandage.  Not a big deal.  I was in college, a “drinking” school to boot.  This wasn’t out of the norm.  I considered myself hard core.  Hell, now I had the scar to prove it!

Fast forward thirty-three years to September 2013.  My husband and I are attending the wedding and reception of the daughter of one of our “drinking” friends.  All the drinkers decide to meet at a bar before the ceremony to wish the parents well.  I only had one glass of wine.  It was a very generous serving, right up to the top.  After the ceremony we returned to the bar for another round…or two.  My husband and one of our friends left to switch cars around so I rode to the reception with some other people.  By the time he got to the reception I was drunk.  Not sure how drunk but it had to be pretty bad.  He became very angry with me and we left.  I have no recollection what I said or did but he was one pissed off guy.  He yelled at me on the drive home a few times.  I remember him asking if I needed him to pull over because I was notorious for puking.  No I didn’t.  I was “fine.”  When we pulled into the driveway he left the car.  I sat there waiting for him to calm down then I would go in.  When I got out of the car I realized I couldn’t walk very well.  I staggered and stumbled in my nice dress and heels.  As I was trying to navigate the two small steps to our front door, I missed and fell, landing on my face on the wood deck.  I finally made it into the house torn and bleeding.  My husband took one look at me and freaked out.  He blamed himself for leaving me in the car and not helping me in.  At least I could comprehend that it was my fault and in no way could he take any blame.  I did not go to the hospital that night.  Maybe stitches would have helped but I was not going to embarrass my husband and myself.  This time around being a hard-core drinker and having the scar to prove it wasn’t cool, it was sad and depressing.  A 50 year old drunk woman.  Gross!  I sobbed myself to sleep that night after promising my husband I would stop drinking.  And I did.  For thirteen days.  Then I started again.  Until January 29, 2014, when I decided it was time.  Time to quit drinking.  Time to stop the stupidity, the lying, the sneaking, the hiding, the self-hate and loathing.  So I did.  And here I am.  Sober.