I saw a t-shirt that said, “Retired Blackout Artist.” 

There are so many times I miss my old drinking self. I was a short, dark-haired lady with a tolerance for alcohol so high that I could drink an old school biker under the table. It was who I was, a persona I created for myself to justify the alcoholism in my head. I was the lady with a nice rack who would order two vodka martinis, dirty as her first drink at the bar. I thought she was funny and fun. I know the reality was much different. Double fisting martinis all night was not artistry, it was insanity.

Still, I mourn that person. I was her for 30 years. She was my alter ego, and she was fun. She was also my shield, my armor, a way to protect all the brokenness inside me from spilling out. I hid all that pain away behind her. Nobody wanted to see what was under the cocktail napkin and lip gloss warding off wine stains on my lips. I thought people wanted to see what kind of shenanigans I would offer up after five martinis and a bottle of wine in my belly. They didn’t. For those that love me, it wasn’t a fun ride. It was a scary-ass rollercoaster.  Picking me up and chasing me down. Cleaning up the messes I left. Knowing one loose screw could derail the whole fucking thing.

I am sorry.

But even knowing all of this, I still miss her. With her, my penchant for the dramatic, my wild side was left unchecked. The freedom I felt from my otherwise regimented life was intoxicating in and of itself. It felt good. She helped me master the art of blacking out, of functioning in a haze. She was the one who assured me a shower and makeup would hide all the sins from the night before and the fact that I was still drunk when my alarm went off. It felt good. Until it didn’t. Yes, she took me to some crazy fun places. We saw a lot of things together. I thought she was my friend, but she didn’t really love me, I didn’t love me.

It’s been 406 days since I’ve heard from her. I miss her, but I wish her the best. Things with us were never really good, and she would have been the death of me. I learned a lot from her but I also hope I never hear from her again. I hope her retirement is going well. Mine is. Being without her is a struggle. I fought hard to hold onto her but sometimes it’s just best to part ways.