One of my biggest fears about quitting drinking was that it would dissolve friendships. Alcohol was the bond I shared with certain friends and without it, I feared we’d inevitably part ways. Once I took the risk of quitting drinking – and of seriously changing my social circle – the results were surprising. While some friendships fizzled, others grew stronger.
Simon (names have been changed to protect the [mostly] innocent), who has become very dear to me in the years since I stopped drinking, was once someone I would have called a drinking buddy. He and I went out to gay bars and straight bars and drank cocktail after cocktail. As the nights progressed – our eyes narrowed, voices raised, and speech slurred – we would flirt with the people around us and vehemently argue whatever points we were making. Stumbling home, we were often too out of it to really be concerned about our own or each other’s safety.
Since I stopped drinking, my friendship with Simon has evolved in unexpected ways. While we still go to bars together – he orders his usual cocktail while I sip seltzer with lime – we do other things too. Usually we see movies (especially horror and indies), go for walks around Cambridge and Boston, and meet for coffee or Indian food. These times have afforded me the opportunity to get to know Simon in a different way than when we got together primarily to drink. I’ve learned about his extensive knowledge of, eclectic taste in, and extremely strong opinions about music. I’ve heard stories about what it was like to grow up gay in a rural New York town. Most of all, I’ve had the opportunity and privilege to really discover Simon as he is, with all his beautiful quirks, wisdom, humor, and curiosity.
Other friendships I assumed would last forever have ended. Ned was about my dad’s age. He lived upstairs from me in the North End of Boston and we became one another’s friend and confidant. Ned and I didn’t drink together, save for the occasional glass of wine (one for him, two for me) at his favorite pizza place. We preferred long walks to Harvard Square – a 6-mile distance for us that provided plenty of time for him to tell me his stories and me to tell him mine. Even though we were separated by about 30 years, Ned and I were at similar stages of self-discovery, especially when it came to relationships, and we often discussed our current love interests, or lack thereof. Our exchanges were quid pro quo and tended to be very balanced except if one of us was experiencing a particular relationship crisis.
About a month after I stopped drinking, everything seemed to fall apart. I needed the support of friends in a way I hadn’t before. At that time, Ned was in a stable relationship and needed our talks less. My desire to work through the subtleties of what I was feeling became too much for him. When we did speak, I sensed his urgency for his turn to talk. Sometimes we could only connect for 15-minute increments that were scheduled days in advance.
Sobriety provided me the time and clarity to evaluate situations honestly. I realized that my friendship with Ned no longer provided what it once had; what started out as mutual respect and friendship had evolved into rote exchanges in which Ned assigned himself a superior role. At one point, I decided to tell him how I felt, that I was glad he had found peace and happiness in a relationship and that our 10-year friendship had meant a lot to me but that I could not continue it in its current state. Sadly, I never heard from Ned again.
As it turns out, some of the people I thought were drinking buddies were really strangers I happened to share a table with while others were true friends. Other friendships lasted beyond their natural expiration date; though they weren’t necessarily drinking buddies, my decision to continue the friendship – conscious or unconscious – was likely also under the influence.
Before my second daughter was stillborn at 38 weeks, I probably would have told you that I had a lot of friends. I did seem to have a lot of people who loved me, and hung out with me when alcohol was involved. When two people called to see how we were, I started stewing in the bitterness and resentment that comes to define a lot of alcoholics. Or rather, maybe just this alcoholic. Where were these so-called friends? Six months after Lucy died, a friend came to talk some sense into me. “You don’t understand, Angie,” he said. “These men cry for you. I saw at the bar with them last night, and they were all tearing up at your loss. They just don’t know what to say, they are afraid to upset you or make it worse. You need to call them.” And I screamed at the only person who was still my friend, “ALL THEY HAD TO SAY WAS I’M SORRY!” And you know, it wasn’t long after that that it hit me that those guys that I thought were my friends were never really my friend. They were really just drinking buddies. And they really could not, because of their disease, and I really could not, because of my disease, talk to each other about the death of my child. It was a bitter lesson, but I do know that today I would not have gotten sober without that realization. Thank you for this blog. It has meant a lot to me. I blog myself, and have just come out of the closet with my drinking. It is scary and really important for me. xo
Thank you for sharing this, Angie. I don’t think it’s ever easy to realize the people you thought were friends simply weren’t. But the way in which you came to this realization sounds very painful. On the other hand, painful realizations often lead to important changes and movement toward taking better care of ourselves, as you certain have done.
I just read your latest blog post and it is beautiful and revealing and very, very brave. I understand the feeling of being out there on the high diving board – worried that everyone is watching, or that no one is – and doing a colossal belly flop. We’re risking judgment and embarrassment. I think it’s a risk worth taking; it helps me to put my experience into words and, from the comments I’ve received, I think it’s helped some other people as well. Thank you for walking this path with me and sharing yourself.