I Never, Ever Blamed Myself.
The first few days in London were rough for me. They were substantially rougher for my family.
I hadn’t been without a drink in a very, very long time. A day hadn’t passed in two years that I didn’t imbibe, so as I withdrew from alcohol I was – to put it mildly – a bit irritable. I snapped at anyone who tried to interact with me. I complained about everything. I detested everything we did, everything we saw, everything we ate, everywhere we went. I griped incessantly. I whined and moaned.
And while alcohol withdrawal was a major portion of my poor attitude, I believed to the core of my being that my family was responsible for all of my problems, so I believed they deserved what I was spewing.
Some of the rage I tossed at my family may have been a normal response to growing up. But most of it came from completely avoiding any introspection. I refused to process what was happening inside me during the years that I drank.
I never, ever blamed myself.
Since I couldn’t see what I’d been doing to myself, I blamed my parents for everything that was wrong in my life. My dad had taken a job when I was 14 that required the family to move from my beloved hometown, and I had never forgiven him for moving me one too many times.
It was his fault that I was who I was, how I was, what I was.
I blamed my mom not only for putting up with this obscene injustice caused by my dad’s job choices, but also for continuing to point out all the good in the situation – any situation. I refused to see the good, and doubled down on the crappy hand I’d been dealt. Whenever an upbeat or encouraging word passed through Mom’s lips, I growled at her, insisting that things were much, much worse than she could possibly comprehend.
Without alcohol, all of these childish torments came back with a vengeance. I subconsciously played this relentless blame game every time I was near my parents; it should have surprised no one when my complaining started – and didn’t end.
It was my dad’s idea to include me in this trip to London, though I didn’t know it at the time. I have him to thank for the moments and events that followed – many directly, some indirectly – and I am certain that, by the end of Day One, my dad would have rather I’d stayed in the United States.
I complained constantly while remaining stone-cold sober for five. whole. days.
By Day 6, I’d generally ruined everything we did on our only-ever family trip to Europe. And my dad, who would have done anything in the world to make me happy, had one grand gesture left, one last-ditch effort to make me grateful for everything.
It was the night before we were scheduled to fly to Paris for a three-day French adventure.
And it was New Year’s Eve.
My family was staying in a hotel in London near Trafalgar Square, the “Times Square” of London. Trafalgar Square was insane. I’d never been to New York on New Year’s Eve but now I was enmeshed in a world of wild wonder, where all the young British punks I adored were out in full force to celebrate.
Everyone was drinking.
My dad, who had already provided me with the trip of a lifetime, had one more idea.
He said: “Let’s go to a pub!”
And for me, that was the very beginning of the absolute end.
