A Year Without Beer

No beer. Zero. For all of 2017.

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

The Professor Wore Tweed

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

1/12

Well holy shit, we’re a month in already. January both clipped along and dragged; it seems like New Year’s Day was only a week ago, yet other aspects of the month seem like they were ages ago. It’s odd how our perception of time can be altered by all things great and small, including: our mood and health, people around us and world events, the weather and even technology. For, me, I truly believed this first month would be the worst, in that it would seem endless; living without the crutch / coping mechanism that is beer, I foresaw constant internal and external struggles. And yes, there have been hard nights and moments, but it has not been awful. It’s actually been rather good, and just the other day I noticed I feel better physically, psychologically, and emotionally.

Having noticed that, I thought it would be interesting to list 12 other things I noticed throughout this month:

My tolerance has lowered, so I have to be careful how fast I drink wine and cocktails. 

Wine now gives me headaches.

I’m not bloated all of the time, my breathing is better, and my allergies have not been as prevalent.

Clothes, namely shirts, aren’t as snug. This, of course, is in relation to the lack of bloat, but I’ve also lost three pounds.

It’s still taking longer than two seconds for me to fall asleep, but it’s no long upwards of two-hours.

Also, dreams are more vivid.

Waking up the next morning, I don’t feel like crap, nor am I ashamed of myself, and I can recall the night before.

Shopping routines have changed. Not only am I staying away from liquor departments, I haven’t visited the local wine shoppe or liquor store since the tail-end of 2016. (Thanks to that, I’ve already saved $490.)

I’m writing more.

For a while I was craving ham, but that seems to have stopped.

I’ve learned that I very closely associate fish and chips with beer. The connection is so tightly bound, I became exceptionally edgy while contemplating fish and chips as my forthcoming birthday dinner.

And, lastly, despite being set off by the idea of the ever-so-tasty cod and potatoes pairing so perfectly with beer, I do not miss beer. Though I think about it from time to time and still wonder what I will do when December 2017 melts away and births January 2018, I do not miss it.

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

A Dream of the Fantastique

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

Saying Goodbye to Old Friends

Roughly 20 years ago, I began telling stories featuring two characters — one of whom was very much a stand-in for myself, the other an amalgamation of high school friends. Over the years, I’ve seen them as teenagers and in their early adulthood, through strained relationships and forbidden love, and loss and growth. At some point, I pretty much abandoned them as teenagers, focusing more on their adult lives. Between the two eras, I knew they had a falling out, but I never knew what it was or how their final moment together took place.

Until today.

This morning, I awoke from a dream with the final scene fully plotted out. Dialogue was in place, long-held-but-unspoken frustrations brimmed over, the setting included the weather and a river cutting the town in two, and, of course, their goodbye. Every single aspect was there.

So I showered, made my coffee, and wrote as much as I could before work. When I had a break at work, I wrote more without missing a beat from where I had left off earlier in the day. And I wrote and wrote and wrote, until it was done. They were done, these friends. And my heart broke, not because I’m such a magical writer that the scene is perfect and ready for publication and so emotionally charged it will make everyone in the world tear-up. No, it’s because, I realized, I was saying goodbye to them. If I never write them again, I will be satisfied with that. The 29 pages I hand-wrote today brought a huge portion of my life to a close.

My right hand shook with excitement and completion, glee and satisfaction, but also the same sense of loss you feel when you say goodbye to someone for the final time. You know there’s a chance you will see them again in the future — maybe waking down the street or at a restaurant by chance — but you know in your heart you can let them go.

That’s where I find myself today. After 20 years of love and nurturing, I can let my babies go.

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

A Brief Journal

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

A Dream

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

Six Words

Yesterday’s entry took a toll on me. My anxiety skyrocketed as I wrote it, and it stayed in the stratosphere until I went to bed just shy of one o’clock. So, today, to keep myself at ease, I presented my pen with a challenge: write six-word stories, or six-word story starts.

And I wrote 102 of them, filling up 13 full pages in my journal.

So, presented here are a few of these six-word stories / story starts:

The door without a handle opened.

I used to sell my hair.

“Sleep well,” said the cockeyed parrot.

Laughing dogs drove him to murder.

He sold his body every night.

To protect him, she ignored him.

The noonday sun was too dim.

“Wait! Titanic was a true story?”

My chastity was stolen last night.

“Where’s my foot,” cried the runner.

The highlighted named were swiftly eliminated.

“Stop erasing me,” screamed the drawing.

Cancer. Stage four. Three weeks, tops.

Dogs can’t be trained to fly.

She hid her ring from him.

The principal took his panties off.

“So you’re not really a captain?”

Her eyes told the whole story.

“Yogis don’t own guns,” she insisted.

The cat knew all her secrets.

Life withers away for us all.

Saying no was not an option.

What are the scented candles hiding?

She counted. And counted. And recounted.

If everything’s a sin, why breathe?

He was reborn in Las Vegas.

“And your dick isn’t that impressive!”

The librarian was pushed too far.

Blood flowed down her milky leg.

Blackmail isn’t about money. It’s power.

Never laugh at a crying woman.

Advice is cheap in a bar.

The memory of her kiss evaporated.

“Slimey the worm has a family?”

As deaths go, this was okay.

He thought he was the first.

“Going down,” the toothless bum laughed.

“You did not spit on Superman!”

“Stupidity cannot be cured with fists.”

No one liked her favorite things.

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

Mechanisms

Two hours.

That’s how long it took me to fall asleep last night: two hours.

It’s my fault, really, in that I took a two-hour nap when I got home from work. The day wasn’t long or rough, stressful or even tiring; it was just another day at work. No, the reason I took such a long nap — when I’m trying to swear off post-work naps — is because of breakfast.

But first, a backstory.

Some time in early 2015 — around this time, as a matter of fact — I became depressed. Not sad. Not mopey. Not blah. Depressed. The idea of getting up to prove myself a productive human being on a daily basis held zero appeal. Strike that. It’s not that it held “zero appeal,” it’s that I saw no point. This, despite the fact that I had begun a new full-time career with upward trajectory after spending 16 years in a part-time job with zero possibility for growth or an open track to full-time status. This, despite the fact that I was now earning an annual salary that was double what I made before, with paid holidays, vacation, and sick time. This, despite the fact that I loved the new position and my employers appreciated me. Things were going exceptionally well for me, life wise. But — a month before my 37th birthday — I realized 40 was around the corner; I realized I was no longer in my carefree early 20s; I realized I had real responsibilities, adult responsibilities, like paying insurance premiums and fighting through the red tape that is health care. And the thought smothered me with a long, impossibly dark shadow. The only oases were My Wife, The Cats, staying home, and beer. Even podcasting — which has always been able to pull me out of my own head — held little appeal. In fact, if you look at the Edge of Forever back catalog, you’ll see a clear sign of this; at the start of 2015, we went from releasing episodes every fortnight to whenever-I-felt-like-it. There were months-long gaps between episodes, because I could not raise the energy or will to record regularly.

All of this lasted until roughly June 2016. During that time is when my drinking increased, and I began to put weight back on — neither of which helped the depression. As I waded through the mental muck, I began to pay attention to my body. Specifically, the signs of when things were going to get worse — mentally. This way, when I came through the other side, I’d know when I was about to fall into another hole.

This leads me back around to Monday morning.

As I made my morning coffee, along with a few eggs, the feeling hit me by surprise. It felt like a punch to the gut, then a blow to the head; everything inside me dropped then was coated in a foggy haze. For a moment I stood there, confused, not sure what the hell had just happened. But then came the familiar, unwanted abyss looming just overhead, on both sides, behind me, a few inches in front of my face, and underneath my feet. Almost at the same time, all of my energy for the day washed away. Mind you, this was not even an hour after waking up.

At that moment, if I could have crawled back into bed for the day, I would have. Covers pulled up over my head; the right side of my face sinking into a warm, soft pillow; closing my eyes, allowing the street noises of Chicago to lullaby me back to sleep all sounded like the best plan ever. But, one must adult, so I went about the day as planned.

Then I crashed for two blissful hours after work.

It was one of those naps where it could have easily — so very easily — turned into an all-nighter. Not specifically due to the sudden rush of depression from the morning, but more from the energy required to remain an upright, productive adult between 9:00a and 5:00p while the sinking feeling builds a nest in your soul. With anxiety, it’s draining enough to be on all the time at work. Add in the energy-suck that is on-coming depression, and you wind up with so little energy it’s almost laughable.

So I slept and slept and slept, knowing full well it would present an issue later that night. In the moment, though, I did not care; bed was all I wanted, and bed is what I had.

When it came time to turn in for the night, try as I might, sleep did not come ‘til after 2:20a. Though there was a hint of it shortly beforehand. At one point, My Wife got up to use the bathroom. As she crawled back into bed, pulling the covers up over her ears, there was a sudden double flash of lightning just outside the window, followed by thunder so tremendously loud The Cats jolted at the foot of the bed. My heart THUMP-THUMPed with excitement — I do ever so love storms — and My Wife squeaked in mild fright. Though the blast of light and window-shaking boom raised my adrenaline — keeping me up an additional 20 minutes — it was worth it to feel The Kitties snuggling back in for warmth and safety, for My Wife doing the same as she gripped my hand and pulled it toward her, for the knowledge there was an oncoming storm that would wash away all of the gunk and grime from the day.

This morning, tired though I surely was, I found I was better equipped to deal with the returning dread of aging. As I look ahead and see 40 is now a little over a year away, as more adult responsibilities find their way onto my To-Do list — including taking responsibility for my beer consumption — as the realization that I am, truly, not anywhere near my early 20s sinks in, I find I’m okay with it. Or, at least, dealing with it thanks to the mechanisms I’ve put in place throughout the years dealing with anxiety and the 18 months of depression I suffered throughout 2015 and 2016. It makes not drinking harder, especially since beer was one of those coping mechanisms, but pulling through it is something I can do. And doing so beer-free is something I need to do.

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

Changing Routine, II

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

Changing Routine, or I Need a Thesaurus

Some scrawled thoughts:

And now some drawings, I guess:

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

Bits and Bobs, I

Not to jinx myself, but it would seem my sleeping has normalized. Though I haven’t been falling asleep as quickly as before, there haven’t been any one- or two-hour sessions of nighttime ceiling-gazing in a few days. Getting up has been easier, too, yet I’ve been pushing it. It would seem 7:30 is my new wake-up time, even if I set alarms for 5:00, 6:10, and 7:00. Despite enjoying the extra, restful sleep, this has led me to having to decide between shaving and eating breakfast. As a result, I'm going without breakfast two or three times in the working week — which might (partially) explain why I’ve been so damn hungry lately. (More on that in a bit.)

Not coincidentally:

My Wife recently purchased me a bottle of melatonin. The first night I took said supplement was the first night of this newfound ability to fall asleep. While I did wake up after an hour (question mark) feeling wide awake, a few minutes later I was asleep again.

I’ve stopped taking post-work naps. Sleeping for upwards of two hours before dinner probably wasn’t making sleeping easy. When I was full of beer, it didn’t matter; the alcohol was going to put me to sleep, regardless of the nap a few hours prior. But when my body is adjusting to a lack of beer? Those naps, though needed, might not be conducive to nighttime slumber.

Now watch, after writing this I’ll get two hours sleep tonight.

Moving on, as I mentioned above, I am hungry almost all the time — especially after work. The one thing that will satiate the hunger? Ham.

Isn’t that weird?

In truth, I shouldn’t say it’s “the one thing that will satiate the hunger,” rather, it’s the one thing I crave. Not sweets, not other salty treats, just sliced meats. When I told My Wife, I wondered if my body was lamenting the lost calories. She, who’s much more knowledgeable as it pertains to human biology and health, suggested it was the loss of sugars.

I don’t know. All I know is:

That said, it’s not the only thing I’ve craved. Last night, I really wanted a shot of vodka — well, maybe two — to smooth the edges of a busy day. (Not a bad day, just a busy one.) I told myself no and got on with the evening, but I do need to admit that I wanted a little buzz for no other reason than to have a little buzz.

Along those lines, today I was doing fine. I didn’t want beer, vodka, wine, nothing — then someone got on my nerves. They weren’t trying to push any buttons, but buttons were pushed and all of my coping mechanisms kicked in  — looking forward to beer being at the top. I’m fine now, but there was a 30- to 60-minute period where all I wanted in the world was sliced ham a tall, cold Blue Moon to numb the annoyance.

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

Violet Beauregarde, in Reverse

You know what I haven’t felt this week? Bloated.

I never realized just how bloated I was all the time. Sure, yeah, I don’t feel skinny — ‘cause I’m not and never will be — but I’m not so uncomfortable I feel like I’m going to burst at the seams, turn into a giant blueberry, or that I have to suck my tummy in as I walk around. (Okay, that last part might be a fib. Doing just that has been a part of my life since I was a kid, so much so that I don’t even realize I’m doing it. In fact, I have to consciously will myself to not do it. But that’s not the point; the point is, I don’t feel as large as I did even one week ago.)

As of just two weeks ago, it was a given that I’d feel bloated after dinner, what with food and a four- or six-pack in m’belly. When I woke the next morning, I never gave much thought to the fact that I was still feeling the bloat. Since I never really took any lengthy break from dinnertime beer, not only did I create a cycle where I was never not bloated, but I forced myself to get used to feeling it into the next day and afternoon — with the discomfort only passing just in time to down the next multi-pack.

Today, though, I noticed the lack of bloat when a pair of pants fit better. By no means do they fit as loosely as I would like — there’s a long way to go before that happens — but being able to button them up without first sucking in my tummy with all of my might was a pleasant, reassuring surprise. A side effect of this endeavor, I do hope, is weight-loss, but bloat-loss was something I didn’t even consider because, again, I was so used to it I didn’t even realize it was there.

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

The First Hard Night, Addendum

Trying a new (well, old) handwriting style. Hopefully it’s a touch easier to read.

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

The First Hard Night

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

1/52

Week one is done.

And that’s all I really have.

I feel like I should have more to say, something profound. I feel like I should be furiously pounding away at the keyboard, telling tales of surviving the week. Of change and hope, health of body and mind, renewed energy and creativity.

But I got nothin, surprisingly.

Throughout the coming week, I’m sure, I’ll have some “Oh yeah! I could have written about that!” thoughts — which I will then write, because that’s what this space is for. But, for now, my brain is filled with Kermit.

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

Little Things

Little things change when you're trying to change. At this very moment, I'm at Target and I realized my shopping routine is now different. Previously, I would head upstairs to give the toys, electronics, and men's clothes a once-over. I'd then return downstairs to checkout the notebooks and pens, decide on beer for the evening, then wander around for a bit. Sometimes I'd play a game of Yahtzee on my phone, then go.

Now though, a once-major part of my shopping experience has been removed. It's only changed by maybe five minutes, but those five minutes had an impact on the rest of the evening. Each time I bought beer, there was a conscious decision on how tipsy or drunk I was willing to get. The thought process was something like this: Do I want the mellow buzz of a Blue Moon, or the dazed reality of a harder Lagunitas?

Going into this year, I knew I would no longer visit the local liquor shops, and that I would not go to the alcohol section of grocery stores — unless we’re looking for wine — so I expected a changed routine in that regard. But where I go in Target, that has come as a surprise.

[yearwithoutbeer-blog1]

Takeaways

Part of the problem is, I don’t get hangovers. Not overt ones, anyway. While I might wake up sluggishly and have a dry mouth — and, if I drank way too much, feeling like shit mentally — I never have headaches, bright lights don’t bother me, there’s no sickness or dizziness or any of the other things that come with over-drinking. The closest I ever came to a hangover was after a night of being poured heavy-doesn’t-even-begin-to-describe-it gin and tonics, then I-don’t-know-how-many whiskies, and there might have been some vodka along the way. (Looking back, I think the guy making the drinks might have been trying to kill me. And that’s not a joke.) The next morning, I was running on two-hours sleep and had to attend a staff meeting. Had it not been for said meeting, I’m sure I would have stayed in bed for the entire weekend. (After the meeting, when I returned home, I very well might have done just that.) But besides smelling like I had bathed in a distillery, a touch of crankiness, and pretty much zero sleep, I was functional.

And that’s the lesson I learned: No matter how much I put into my body, the next morning will be fine. But that’s not the takeaway I should have focused on.

What should have been my focus was: Just because the next morning will be fine, doesn’t mean I should put too much into my body. But I never learned moderation, not with alcohol.

This, I chalk up to a few factors:

I never drank as a teenager, except for a Zima here and there, and for my 19th birthday.

Excluding when I was teaching, I didn’t drink in my 20s.

It wasn’t until my 31st birthday that I began to drink regularly.

Because I didn’t have the teenage experience (RE: the “this is naughty and exciting” experimental years) or the post-college experience (RE: the “I’m an adult and you can’t tell me what to do” years), when I hit my early 30s and did begin drinking, I combined the “naughty and exciting” and “I’m an adult” experiences into one that, only now as I approach 40, am I reflecting upon.

Though the lesson is coming later than most people would have learned it, I tell myself at least I am trying to learn it. With that in mind, over the course of this last week — save for the nights when I found it difficult to fall asleep — I’ve discovered the early morning lethargy is no more, my mouth is not bone-dry, and there have been no shame-filled anxiety attacks to kickoff the day. By absolutely no means does that suddenly make me a morning person, or even cheerful to see daybreak, but waking up feeling like my body is mine goes a long way to solidify the “moderation is good” message I’m now trying to learn.

Now, as for the “Today I Would Have Purchased” section, which, in the last entry, I noted would soon be changing: it’s going away. While I will still be squirreling away money on a daily basis, it will be a set amount: $15 / day. The reason for this is twofold:

There’s a yearend financial goal in mind, which cannot be reached if the per-day transfer fluctuates.

You can do the math to figure out what I’m aiming to save.

More importantly, thinking about the beer I would have had each evening was not helping matters.

It was sort of like having the beloved 23 oz. beer glass on the table; I don’t need a constant reminder of what I’m actively trying not to consume.

Because I have no proper ending to this post, here’s a random, crummy picture I liked better before I colored him in.