BY ANN DOWSETT JOHNSTON
When I was st i l l dr ink ing-- back in 2005 and 2006 especial ly-- I had a f ine-tuned r i tual at the end of every day . I would take my heavy br iefcase f rom behind my carved oak desk as Vice-Pr incipal of McGi l l Univers i ty , to a beaut i ful French bi st ro cal led Alexandre’ s . There, I would ask for a table for one. The wai ter Francoi s , who loved me, always looked a l i t t le wor r ied as he pul led out my chai r . Once set t led, I would order a glass of dry whi te and a goat cheese salad, opening my br iefcase on the table. Four glasses later , as Francoi s brought me the bi l l and expressed hi s hear t fel t wi shes I would f ind a par tner , I would tax i home and open another bot t le, nest l ing into the corner of my sage green couch. I would cont inue to work . I would dr ink two more glasses . I might play a l i t t le Van Mor r i son. I might dial my sweethear t Jake. I might dr i f t of f . I t was a r i tual . Every s ingle night , I would consume my s i x glasses . And so i t went for several months . And then, somet ime in the spr ing of 2006, af ter my cous in Doug was k i l led by a drunk dr iver , my dr ink ing changed. Si x glasses could become eight . Fuzzy nights turned to blackout nights . I decided to qui t dr ink ing. Oh yeah, said addict ion? Watch me. And addict ion dug in. My dr ink ing ramped up. L i fe was hel l . I t would be s i x months before I hauled my sor ry ass to a meet ing, and eventual ly to rehab. Fast forward s i x years later , as I was doing the research for my book DRINK: THE INTIMATE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN WOMEN AND ALCOHOL , and i t came as no surpr i se: women dr ink di f ferent ly than men. Pandemic notwi thstanding, men dr ink in groups , in publ ic: out in bars or pubs . But women? We dr ink alone, in a highly r i tual i zed habi t— whether i t be at the ki tchen table, as Susan says, or in our bedrooms, or nest led in the corner of the l iving room couch. ( I l ived alone. )
We love our dr ink ing r i tual s and holy recommi tments to the numbing process . The escape hatch, the sacred r i tual , the decompress ion t r ick . We di sappear down the neck of a bot t le, quiet ly and alone. I solated. Just where the corporate wor ld would have us : quiet , and alone. In the end, I hid alcohol f rom my lover Jake—wine in a cof fee mug. I t was my di r ty secret . In the winter of 2007 , r ight at the end of my worst dr ink ing, I entered the netherwor ld of dr ink ing more, of black ing out on a regular bas i s . Of shaming mysel f . Of di sappoint ing al l who loved me. My bot tom? Get t ing drunk at my cous in’ s wake. Fal l ing in a gorgeous Hugo Boss dress at my best f r iend’ s bi r thday dance for her three chi ldren at a fancy Toronto museum. That night I made the rehab deci s ion, wi th my f r iend and my son at my s ide, dr ink ing tea at 3:00 am. And that ’ s the way i t was for me r ight up unt i l the cold January of 2008 when I booked mysel f into that gorgeous rehab outs ide of Boston. In the four weeks , before I enrol led in that faci l i ty , I had to take that deeply ent renched habi t of i solat ion and smash i t , one day at a t ime. Wi th the help of a sponsor , I went to regular meet ings : rooms ful l of 350 people who had done just what I had—put booze f i rst . My sponsor was proact ive. We met for cof fee. We tal ked. I re-emerged into the wor ld. I reached out to f r iends . I went to the movies when I would have been home dr ink ing. I went to dinner wi th others . I ci rculated in the wor ld. I smashed the i solat ion habi t . When I ar r ived at rehab, where I had a stunning s ingle room in a her i tage home, I met other women who at tested to the very same behavior : r i tual s of i solat ion, alone wi th thei r bot t les and favor i te glasses , fur t ively hiding f rom fami ly and f r iends .
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