I saw a t-shirt that said, “Retired Blackout Artist.” I found myself smiling but sad. There are so many times I miss my old drinking self. In my head, I resembled Karen Walker. A short, dark-haired lady, who had a tolerance for alcohol so high she could drink an old school biker under the table. The lady with a nice rack ordering two vodka martinis, dirty as her first drink at the bar. It was who I was, a persona I created to justify the alcoholism in my head. I thought she was funny and fun. I liked being her. I know the reality was much different. Double fisting martinis all night was not artistry. It was insanity. 

I mourn that person. I was her for 30 years. She was my alter ego and she was fun. She was 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 that. People wanted to see what kind of shenanigans I would offer up after two bottles of wine in my belly. Until they didn’t. For those that love me, it wasn’t a fun ride. It was a scary-ass rollercoaster, probably with clowns. 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. It felt good. Until it didn’t. Yes, she took me to some crazy fun places. We saw a lot of things together. And she helped me master the art of blacking out, of functioning in a haze. I thought she was my friend, but she didn’t really love me. I didn’t love me.

It’s been 306 days since I’ve heard from her. I wish her the best. I hope her retirement is going well. I learned a lot from her but I also hope I never hear from her again. Sometimes in life, it’s just best to part ways.