I drank because

a prose poem

Photo by Ambitious Studio* | Rick Barrett on Unsplash

I could, because it meant I was old enough, even though I wasn’t; no longer a child, even though I was. It meant I was sophisticated. I drank because my parents drank, my whole family drank. I drank because it was there. Because it was legal even if you were underage, which was eighteen then in Texas, if you were with your spouse or family, and I was with my family and they drank and I drank too. We were all drunk together. I drank because it took away the fear of opening my mouth, being someone in a crowd of people. I drank because it took away the shame, knotted in the pit of my stomach, caused, yes, by the things I did when I was drinking but drinking was like saying fuck it. I drank because it was fun, because the world opened, anything was possible, even though nothing ever got done. I drank because it softened the edges, blurred the lines, took the pain away. Gave birth to dreams, not dreams coming true through the hard work, say, of putting pen to paper to write that book, but the dreaming itself. On a late spring Sunday afternoon, sitting outside at T.G.I. Friday’s, a pitcher of sangria on the table, knowing I’ve gotten too drunk too soon again but not caring because I’m making plans. I’m going places, sitting at that table going nowhere.

“I drank because” was recently published in the February issue of Anti-Heroin Chic. The poem was inspired by Moira Magneson’s poem “He drank because.”

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I haven’t had a drink in over thirty-nine years. Ultimately I drank because I’m an alcoholic. The circumstances of my life could have been completely different, and I believe I still would have turned out this way. I do come from a family that drank a lot, and I wouldn’t have made it to treatment without the help of my parents, particularly my dad who told me a truth I could no long hide from.

Thank you so much for reading. If you would like to read more of my poetry, my book Gathering the Pieces of Days celebrates the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of our days. You can get your copy from Unsolicited Press, Bookshop.org, or Asterism. If you use this link to check out all the books at Unsolicited Press, I do get a small commission.