It’s holiday time, and most people have gone off on vacation or at least adopted a heavily modified daily routine. Beaches are filling up, and the city seems to have given in to a well-earned rest. Morning traffic has eased up, the bike ride through the city to the office, competing with a swarm of like-minded Copenhageners, no longer feeling like life and limb are on the line. There is actually room on the bike lanes now.
I am only a few days into what should be a relaxing and wonderful time, and already I am unreasonably bored, with a slight edge of the usual melancholy and depressive tendencies. You see, the gods have seen fit to bless me with a complex mind, one which thrives on occupation and structure, and as I go on holiday myself, my rhythm uprooted, then comes the unrest. The depression. Everything turns sour and bleak. I struggle to find calm, my mind starts to question what I am spending (or not spending) my time on, if I am productive enough, if I could’ve done more with my life, now and in the past. It is pure agony. I don’t do this on purpose. It sneaks up on me, and even 40 years in, it still takes me by surprise.
Though I’ve never been formally diagnosed with ADHD, both my doctor and my psychologist have hinted at some tendencies in that direction. This comes as a surprise to no one. Just about everyone in my social circle has it (even before the diagnosis suffered from its current cultural inflation), and they’ve always joked about me, my weird strict discipline in upholding one regimen after the other, and how I am the last man stubbornly standing, letterless in a sea of hyper-focused, scatter-minded friends.
What these 40 years of life have taught me is how to cope. I thrive in rhythms and habits – they stabilize and calm me, but if taken away, my motivation and mental equilibrium crumble fast. My alcohol habits were a great inhibitor of this stability. They seemed intent on pulling me down from this platform I’d built. So they had to go. At least for a while. I spent years thinking about what a life without alcohol would mean, all the potential consequences it would have, and even though I could name an abundance of positive side-effects from a choice like that, the few negative ones weighed heavy as lead on me. One in particular.
How would it affect my relationship with people around me?
How would I connect with friends, if we couldn’t go grab a beer? What would I speak to my dad about, if not what great bottle of wine he had managed to get a box of recently? How would I attend celebrations, or just something as simple as a Friday beer at the office? Wouldn’t I stick out like a sore thumb in any situation where alcohol was present? My mind circled these questions, the fear of the worst answers holding me back for years, before I managed to take the plunge.
Do I regret it so far? No, absolutely not. It has brought so much more cohesion and clear sight into my life that I can hardly believe it possible. Do I still have off-days? Yup, absolutely – the beginning of this holiday being a great example. But my rebound time has improved significantly now that alcohol is not involved. It was such a major piece of the puzzle, and I cannot overstate the effect of removing it.
At least for a while, at least for this year. I’ve yet to conclude if I can live the rest of my life, looking at a finished puzzle, that one blank spot staring back at me where alcohol used to be. Where my brother’s homemade brandy for the annual Christmas lunches used to be. Where those moments with my sister and her husband and a glass of red wine on their kitchen floor while the stew was bubbling away in a pot, used to be. Where that weird-looking, funny-tasting sour beer brewed with cherries, rosemary and vinegar, that my buddy had found in some obscure shop and just had to share with me, used to be.
I don’t know.