48 Hours

Giving up the right stuff

Miller Jr. in 2008, back when I never could have predicted where we’d be now.

A couple of things.

1. I quit drinking. Again. I hit my own version of rock bottom. Again. The part that bears on the theme of this blog is not the family size tube of Pringles I inhaled, or the spins, or the compulsive hurtle to the kitchen for another glass. It wasn’t even the shame or regret. It was the fact that I drunk-texted my son.

2. Ever since Miss Miller’s trans identification and my subsequent dive down the gender ideology rabbit hole, my relationship with my now nineteen year-old son has been dotted with conflict and turmoil. Where once we joked till we howled with laughter, now, we—well we don’t so much argue. To be fair, he’s struggling with his second year at college. I can see so clearly how he takes after the personality disorders on my side of the family—anxiety and depression.

3. The point is, ugh, what am I even trying to say. My son thinks I’m a mouth-breathing Republican lizard, where really I am a nostril-breathing Independent who no longer goes hysterical over things like covid and climate change, but who gets wracked with fury and frustration over the glorified victimhood and gender insanity that the left coddles and encourages. Having been ADAB (assigned democrat at birth) and having raised my kids as such, it is rather mind-boggling how far from left I’ve traveled. It’s upended all the harmony we once shared. And so I drank.

4. And then I wrote him a text, weeping over my phone whilst soaked in a combination of tequila, some Portuguese white blend and extruded potato powder. Telling him that I’m still hilarious and philosophical and that I miss him so much and that I love him, my son. Man, I love the hell out of that kid, who now calls Mom a “homophobe” because she criticizes the trans craze.

5. It should be noted that Miller Jr. smokes weed. And it’s gotten to the point—exactly as it did with me back in high school—where daily use births a paranoia that only quitting can cure.

6. So in the name of walking the walk, I decided it was time to lay down my mason jar of homemade margaritas, my bottle of white, and my own stash of medicinal marijuana. Because I can’t just have a couple. Glasses. Hits. I have to have too much for comfort. Most nights of the week. And some afternoons. I’m a girl of extremes. All or nothing. So now we’re trying nothing.

7. Which reminds me. I gave up drinking on Friday, November 1, 2019. For over 800 days. And when I started back up in January, 2022 it was with a juice glass of pinot noir standing at the kitchen counter. It wasn’t because of covid burnout. It was because of Miss Miller. Because of trans. But it was still me pouring that glass and lifting it to my mouth. Here I remember what I love about conservative values—personal responsibility. Yeah it sucks to be the one to blame, but it’s also fucking liberating and empowering. And I’m better than this. I’m better than holding my head in my hands every morning on the toilet, wondering why I got so wasted. I’m stronger than the guilt and shame I pour down my throat, even if it feels so good going down—at first.

8. And if I want to lead by example, if I want Miller Jr. to lay off the bong, I’d better do the same.

9. So that’s more than a couple things. I just wanted to come clean, confess that I’ve been escaping from the stress of family life in the wake of trans in a way that was starting to cause more problems than it was solving. It’s funny how you really can never run away from the things you need to face. Ha. Ha.

10. Over 600 days since I picked up that glass of red, I’m 48 hours sober. I’ll let you know how it goes.

🙏🏼