At the start of the year, I gave up drinking.
I was not in crisis, but I had my reasons.
I didn’t like what alcohol did to my body or mind. I wanted to save the money that beer and liquor cost. And I wanted to ensure I was always in a situation where there was someone sober that could get behind the wheel.
It was a necessary move. A calculated one. But I wasn’t prepared for what would come of it.
For while my decision made me feel healthier and more fulfilled, it also opened me up to a constant line of questioning.
Why did you stop drinking?
What’s wrong with having a cold one now and then?
Did something bad happen?
Is there something wrong with booze?
Is everything OK?
I tried to anticipate the question. To have an answer at the ready.
But in truth, I felt like I was in that scene in Forrest Gump when the media bombarded Forrest with questions about why he was running.
As question after question rolled in, he gave one simple answer.
I just felt like running.
I can relate to that. I just felt removing alcohol from my life was the best thing to do. Simple as that.
And getting a barrage of questions about it quickly wore me out.
I understand the source of these questions. I don’t live in Utah, or a dry county in West Texas. Drinking is very much a societal norm. And I’m an outlier.
Yet, I find the line of questioning troublesome.
You see, the first question in the series is innocuous. People want to figure out what keeps me from raising a glass or clinking a beer bottle with them.
But once people find out I didn’t make my choice because of alcoholism or a DUI, they start grilling me with question after question.
They simply can’t grasp that someone would shun drinking all on their own. That no demons would be involved in the decision.
I’m not sure why this perception is so prevalent. But I don’t like it.
Why must we hit rock bottom in order to better ourselves?
I fail to see how that trajectory does anyone any good.
For when we wait until we bottom out to seek change, there’s collateral damage. Traumatic things happen. People get hurt. Or worse.
Sure, it makes for a better story when someone reforms themselves and emerges from the darkness. When an antihero finds redemption, everyone soaks up the narrative.
I know this pattern well. I’m a storyteller and a former news producer.
But are the warm fuzzies of a comeback from despair really worth the price paid to get there? Are they worth the suffering, the ruined lives and the traumatic memories that ensue when we let bad habits spiral into disaster?
Not at all.
I might not have ever hit rock bottom with my drinking habits. I might never have seen firsthand the misfortune and devastation that alcohol can bring.
But I wasn’t willing to take that chance.
I wasn’t willing to cede control of my mind just to live without inhibitions. I wasn’t willing to shed my dignity just to make it onto the dance floor. I wasn’t willing to drag my body through a round of beers — let alone 10 rounds with Jose Cuervo — just to fit in.
No, I drew the line. No demons were going to come out of that bottle. Not for me anyway.
Now this is not to say I think drinking is a bad thing. What’s wrong for me might not be wrong for everyone.
But the Rock Bottom Paradox needs to go.
We need to stop looking to the chasm as our source of redemption. To stop glorifying the canyon floor as the launchpad for the stars.
Far more good comes from righting the ship before it teeters over the edge. From finding salvation through pre-emptive action.
It won’t make for a compelling Hollywood script. It won’t make us memorable or legendary.
No. Instead we will all prosper. No one and nothing will have to be sacrificed for us to see the light.
Isn’t that worth it?