A few months back, my grandma stayed with us and I found her cooking dinner in the kitchen one afternoon. I had a terrible day at work, and my family isn’t the “let’s talk about it” type. I do not communicate my emotions well, or sometimes I find I just can’t do it well. So I grabbed a bottle and drank the problems away.
My grandmother saw me, her 20-something granddaughter, drinking a tall glass of beer alone at 5 in the afternoon. I saw her give my glass a look, that little, judgy, disapproving look that all grandmothers serve, then go back to her cooking. Part of me felt like I disappointed her a bit for following my grandfather’s footsteps (but he’s good now, he doesn’t have a drinking problem anymore).
In my head, I channelled my inner Brandi.
When I find myself having writer’s block, I reach for a glass. When I’m feeling shitty, I pop a cork open. When I get disappointed (yet again) by another person, I grab a cold one. When I want to celebrate not spitting on some entitled, rude douchebag’s food, I DRINK TO THAT.
While I do not drink that often and I do not drink until I pass out, it still is on the top of my list of things I use to cope with stress.
Maybe I do need to find another way to cope. No, definitely do. I always find myself seeking out an escape, whether it’s a fictional fantasy world or a messy reality TV show (RHONY IS LIFE). Sometimes I need a break from my own life.
Now that sounds pretty sad. I know it is. But don’t get me wrong, I love my family and I am forever thankful for everything. The dissatisfaction I feel is toward my own damn self. I have this urge to break away and do my own thing, but it is also scary and that opens a whole other jar of anxiety and stress. So I keep a bottle of Beaujolais in my room, just in case…