It’s been about 3 or 4 years since I last had a drink. 

It sounds stark when put on paper like that. The last time I was seriously drunk was in February at a former friend’s birthday party. I had a couple of beers and could not stop vomiting, despite the low ABV of the watery PBRs and well tequila that was previously consumed. It was shocking, I used to be able to hang. I could chug whatever you put in front of me, dance on tops of bars and just throw it back with the best of them. The occasionally embarrassing evidence still exists in Facebook photo albums of years past. 

Welp, not anymore, buddy. Even the lightest of beers and spirits became a gastrically insurmountable task. I was so confused. What happened?

It turns out that my gastric system was more akin to swiss cheese, just peppered with holes from peptic ulcers. When I asked my gastroenterologist if I could drink again right after he diagnosed me with stress-induced ulcers, he said in a charmingly thick Venezuelan accent, “Why would you pour poison directly into your body?”

Well, when you put it that way… I had to quit. He bluntly explained that with the current state of my gut, any sort of alcohol intake leads to “increased intestinal permeability”. The peptic ulcers made holes all throughout my gastric system which meant that foreign compounds were entering my bloodstream in a dose- and time-dependent matter. My body was simply rejecting what it thought was poison time in and time out. 

And ever since, it’s been a continually weird question to navigate, “Would you like a drink?”

Because, yes, yes I would. I want a drink so badly. I would kill for a glass of wine. I would do cartwheels for an ice cold beer. God, I miss cocktails so much. Imagine a life without champagne. It sucks. 

But repeatedly vomiting up stomach acid simply isn’t my idea of a good time, so I abstain. The societal rules of alcoholism don’t apply to me. The moniker “sober” feels heavy and full of connotations — that it should only apply to the recovery community. Now, I’ve gotten more accustomed to the squints and stares when I refuse a drink. I say, “it’s a medical thing,” because talking about the explosive nature of what happens to my insides with the slightest mention of a shot of whiskey isn’t good table manners. 

I firmly believe that it’s a demonstration of love, affection, and acceptance from some of the most important people in my life that they meet me where I’m at: that I will projectile barf with the slightest hint of alcohol inside me. I’ve never been happier, and yet I miss drinking terribly. I miss the warm, collegial feeling of whiskey sliding down into my belly. I miss the iridescent bubbles in champagne and the crisp taste of beer. I miss the stress relief and the bonding that comes with popping open a bottle of wine. 

Despite my nostalgic cravings for a cold one, what I’ve noticed most is how telling it is when others react to my refusal of alcohol. Turning down a drink can introduce some staggering immaturity and insecurity in folks. Occasionally, I see the rapidfire mental calculations of: Is she an alcoholic? Can I drink around her? Is this weird now? They truly don’t understand and since I don’t carry a coin representing my years of not drinking, they don’t know where to place me. I’ve had men on Bumble reject me. I’ve had colleagues question me in ways that border on unprofessional. I’ve had uncomfortable stares and stuttered “Oh, I’m sorry”-s and people, frankly, just making it weird. 

It’s why I’m so grateful for the ones that don’t. 

Clare set the standard for how I should be treated in a situation with alcohol and I am so thankful for her example. She will enjoy her drink. Offer me a sip, if I’m feeling up to it, and when we split the check, she’ll get the tip so it’s fair. It’s a perfect balance without shame or awkwardness and I adore her for it. She’s a good friend. We still go to bars together and have a good time. She even introduced me to my boyfriend Jake, a bartender. I’m over the moon for this guy and he regularly makes me all kinds of teas, mocktails, and even bought me a Soda Stream because I was spending so much money on LaCroix. He’s thoughtful, adorable, treats me like a queen, and really good at his job. You can see the bartender in him through and through, as clear as a gin and tonic. He has a Fernet tattoo. There’s currently a pink peppercorn-lemon verbena syrup cooling in my fridge from a concoction he whipped up a while ago. Whenever he introduces me to his restaurant friends and they bring us drinks, he proudly announces, “She doesn’t drink!” still gobsmacked at this star-crossed turn of events: a bartender and an occasionally stoned political consultant happily spending as much time together as we do. I politely turn down the drink and say, “Oh, no thank you. Just weed for me, please. But Jake’s drinking for two.” And because compromise is key in healthy relationships, Jake will double fist cocktails and I get a grapefruit soda water and a joint. It’s the best. The ones that I love most have proudly set the standard of how I should be treated in situations where people tend towards sloppiness and, “well, I was drunk.” 

My relationship to alcohol remains something that I routinely examine, I always believe it’s good to figure out how you feel about substances. And despite my thorough auditing, I remain in a place of grief, nostalgia, and gratitude. I mourn the romance of throwing back a couple of drinks with my close ones. I miss the blurry nights and warm intimacy of being just drunk enough. Now, mostly, I am grateful for those who don’t make drinking situations unbearably boring or weird for me. 

But, above all else, I want this to serve as an acknowledgment, a tip of the hat, and a free drink for those that I love and that create the space for me I need to thrive, at least gastrically speaking. 

Cheers, bitch.