Hate and Love and the Dog Food
Photograph ©2022 David Bivins
I was making a batch of food for my dog tonight. I use the Instant Pot and a recipe I modified from one we got from a vet we used to have. It takes a bit of work, and because of the space I need to do it, it usually happens in the evening, after dinner.
When I was drinking, I would often forget to do it until pretty late, like after 10pm, and then be like “oh shit, I forgot to make the dog food” and stay up way too late, pounding beers and doing the work. I’d crawl into bed, drunk, angry, dog food made and ready for the next two weeks.
There was nothing that different about dog-food-making nights; I would be sitting in front of my computer drinking any other night. But I was thinking about it while standing next to my partner in the kitchen, scooping rice out of the Instant Pot and putting into the large stock pot where I mix everything together. “I used to drink while I did this,” I said. “Do you miss that?” she replied. “No, I fucking hated it.”
My last few years of drinking I hated almost everything, especially myself. I hated drinking because I had no control over it. I hated going out to buy beer, because it was so complicated: if I didn’t have any, I might have to walk a few blocks to get it if my corner store was closed. I would switch which stores I went to because I thought the people at the counter would think it was weird that I was buying three six-packs every night. Before one of the stores on my corner was bought by Muslims and they stopped selling alcohol, the owner once asked me “do you think you’re drinking too much?” as I set down my (at the time) daily dose of two six-packs of Budweiser tall boys. I never bought beer there again. I had been seen.
I hated it because I couldn’t tell anyone about it. Not my partner, not my friends, not my doctor. I once lied to my doctor and told her I drank a few beers a night. She told me it was too much, and I don’t think I ever went to her after that.
I hated getting blood work done because I knew it would come back with ominous numbers about my liver. I was in California for work once when my doctor called, telling me that my bloodwork was good, see you next year. I drank that night (not really worth mentioning because I drank every night) with my workmates and couldn’t shake the feeling that I wish the results had been damning, a reason I had to quit.
I hated hiding bags of empties in my home office and waiting until no one was home to try to quietly carry them down from the fourth floor to the street, the bottles quietly clinking together, terrified that someone would come out of their door and see me and be like “WTF is up with all those bottles?!”
I hated hiding boxed wine in my closet even when I thought it was clever. So compact and powerful yet so shameful.
I hated not knowing what happened the night before. I had a dream that I saw a mouse staring up at me from behind a piece of discarded clear plastic that was on my floor. It might have been a mouse. It might have really happened. I don’t know.
I hated trying to act casual while I asked the flight attendant for a double of whiskey, then asked again. I hated that I knew exactly when they’d be coming back down the aisle so I could ask again. And just as much, I hated it when I knew I had to pick up a rental car at my destination so I couldn’t drink on the flight.
I hated scouting every work destination (I had to travel a lot) to see what the local laws were - could I buy beer at a grocery store? Would I have to go to a package store? I tagged the likely spots to get 12-packs of decent beer in my phone so I could stop on the way to the hotel.
I hated pacing myself every time I drank in public, whether socially or at a work function. Was everyone noticing how many times I went to the open bar? I knew the bartenders didn’t care. I was a good tipper and I never did anything obnoxious.
I hated that at a certain point my tongue would get thick and I would struggle to say what I meant to say. It meant I had to stop talking to people and get out of there. I was drunk and everyone would know.
I have so much gratitude for the people who helped me get sober, how I never once felt judged and how much they emphasized compassion and love. When I couldn’t talk to the people I loved most about how I was dying inside, figuratively and literally, I could talk to these strangers and learn to listen. Eventually, quickly, even, they weren’t strangers, but it took that distance for me to overcome my shame and talk plainly about how fucked up I felt. And even then, for the first few months, I hated that I would go to meetings and then march right over to the store, saying to myself “my only job is to not drink,” and buy more beer.
I love myself now, and I love what this process has done for me. I love that I used to be drunk and I’m not anymore. I don’t hate what I was. I’m sure as hell happy I’m not there anymore, but I have compassion for drunk David.
I’m also really thankful that I can still make the dog food even if it is a pain-in-the-ass job. To be honest, it goes a lot faster and smoother without all the drinking.
I love you,
David
