I drank my last drink September 15th of last year, after a nine-month bender that saw me through family trauma, sexual assault and the unraveling of the post-divorce life I was building. Inside that deep terror, I drank Sauvignon Blanc deep in the couch cushions of my favorite friend’s home, whose smells and softness were familiar and safe. I drank tequila in bars and at parties where my friends twinkled. I spewed vomit in parking lots and driveways and on nightstands and bathroom floors. I went to lunches that turned into happy hours that grew long and dark. I cried on barstools, and watched my familiar life grow smaller in the distance until its taillights blinked and it was gone.
Count me in as one of those quiet supporters. And maybe for some baked goods too.