Guest Contributor – Amy Liz Harrison
For as long as I can remember, I felt like a grape that was different from the rest of the bunch. From the outside, I looked like everyone else in my white, privileged demographic: I grew up just before the Silicon Valley tech boom, with San Francisco, the beach, and the wine country of Napa Valley just a short drive away. My Aunt’s family owned a vineyard in the pacific northwest, and I grew up hearing the Biblical passage of John 15 in Sunday school, which used a wine metaphor to demonstrate the concept of connection between the vine, the vinedresser and branches. I was present and accounted for at every family function and every Sunday at church. I loved feeling like I belonged.
Growing up, I compared my insides to everyone else’s outsides. To me it seemed like my feelings were bigger and more exaggerated than everybody else’s. I assumed, from my perspective, that everybody else had been given the rules to life, the knowledge, and adequate insulation to handle the blow of their emotions. I was connected technically to the vine; I had a full church, family and school life. But still inside, I felt disconnected- my head was incessantly busy, overplaying scenarios and conversations in my mind- and my heart had a constant dull ache from loneliness. I over-felt. I over-thought. I over-analyzed. I felt like my grape skin was just a little too thin.
Save for a few sips of a wine cooler or a fancy blended drink here and there, I never drank before I was 21. My first Thanksgiving when I turned of age was the first time I ever had champagne with dinner. I remember feeling warm and tingly, alive, and talkative and interesting. I didn’t hear the constant brain chatter between my ears, and I felt capable of anything. But the next time I drank, I felt a little loopy and wobbly, as if I were not in control. I didn’t like that feeling, so I would stop before I ever got to that point. At the time, I was what one would refer to as a “normal drinker.”
Right after college, I got married, having known my husband all of five months. Dating back to the days of Dionysus, grapevines have symbolized prosperity and fertility, both of which were to become a part of my life in my adult years. My husband was an Australian accountant at the time. We moved to the Pacific Northwest when I was pregnant with my first baby and started building a life. A few more years and three more babies and I was in the thick of it, doing the deal as a stay at home mom- running the nonstop house machine. Diapers. Dinners. Laundry. Homelife. Churchlife.
Meanwhile, my husband was growing his career, and a peculiar thing happened. We had been catapulted into a social status that came as a welcome gift when he began working for an airline and eventually became an elite executive. I realized every event was focused around wine, whether it was a children’s picnic or a 7 AM flight. Wine tasting on business trips. Wine pairings at social events. Even every person’s house we went to had a wine cellar once a certain price point was reached. The presence of wine became assumed to work and social events alike. Never referred to in these circles as liquid courage, or a social lubricant, it was more like the expected elite elixir of the 1%.
Often I was pregnant and couldn’t drink. But when I wasn’t, I definitely joined in the revelry and merriment of drinking, mostly because everyone else was doing it and I wanted to feel a part of the group. At first, I could have a glass of wine or two at an event and it was fine. I reacted quite normally, not experiencing any kind of marked difference in my body, and there certainly weren’t any mental twists or obsessive thoughts. I could take it or leave it, and I didn’t think about it again until the next instance. However, drinking opportunities became more prevalent. I didn’t mind the wobbly feeling anymore when it hit me, in fact, I started to really enjoy it. With more frequent encounters involving wine drinking, a very personal dance with the drink began to develop. It grabbed a hold of me and began to slowly pull me closer. As my alcohol consumption progressed, I loved the way wine drinking made me feel: Like an adult. Relaxed. Creative. Purposeful. Glamorous. Connected to others. Like I was fun. Like I was a desirable woman instead of a mom whose only desirable trait appeared to be my ability to cook and clean. I felt free. And I wanted more of that feeling.
Even socially drinking opportunities seemed to be everywhere. Enter the chardonnay playdates at neighbor’s homes. Neighborhood Book clubs where the book was never mentioned. One day I noticed that I didn’t want to go to a restaurant with my friend because there wasn’t any alcohol at that particular establishment. Eventually, I started to realize when I was controlling my drinking, I wasn’t having fun. And when I was having fun, I was out of control. But I refused to admit that I was no longer in charge of my drinking. I reasoned that I could slow it down any time I wanted to, but I just didn’t want to yet. I was fine, I told myself! After all, I was raised in a nice area, my parents were educated, I was educated. My ego and privilege clouded my potential admittance that I was an alcoholic. There had not yet been a situation in my life that I couldn’t get out of for the right price or the right promise.
Wine drinking had started out as a habit and later became a necessity while folding laundry or emptying the dishwasher, or any other menial task. Consequences began making appearances. Falling down the stairs and breaking my leg. A year later passing out in the shower and breaking my nose. My appearance displayed various levels of dishevelment. Looking in the mirror every day only to meet glassy, vacant eyes who wondered where their owner had gone. Alcohol had smothered me and smashed me flatter than a vat of grapes.
The cognitive dissonance of Sunday morning church began to feel constricting, almost suffocating. In a way I felt like I was living a double life…One part of it was entangled in an ever more toxic magnetic draw to the wine bottle. The other part of it was still trying to magically mend my religious world so that God was enough to intoxicate me. I grew increasingly resentful and jealous of my husband, whose career continued to skyrocket as I grew more fearful that I was insignificant. My kids were such amazing blessings but my selfishness punctured the purity of my love for them. The disease of alcoholism had officially taken root and it was spreading to all parts of me. The inner sanctum of my soul was delicate and becoming more brittle by the day. All I could think about was myself, how I felt, and where my next drink was coming from.
By this time, there was nothing left that was glamorous and fun about drinking. I was like the sediment at the bottom of the wine barrel. I started down the parade route of the delusional. If God wasn’t going to help me return to normal drinking status, then maybe doctors could. I became a reassurance seeker, seeing psychiatrists and psychologists, all the while fabricating how much I was drinking. I was looking for someone to tell me I wasn’t an alcoholic, and validate why I was drinking so much, and encourage me that certainly I could just stop drinking so much if I wanted to. Anxiety and postpartum depression were legitimate issues I faced, but I had thrown alcohol on my problems, which set them ablaze. I was drinking morning, noon and night by this point. Barely holding it together. Showing up to parent teacher conferences drunk. Excusing myself from hosting duties at parties so I could go take a “nap”, surfacing hours later only to be searching for the reisling bottle I had started earlier. Not even I could deny the progression of my drinking.
Finally my husband had had enough. He persuaded me to go to a treatment program for my postpartum depression, which unbeknownst to me at the time, was actually alcohol rehab. It was there I first heard about the concept of a three part disease: body, mind and spirit. Still caught up in denial, I secretly could relate to the first two, but the idea of a spiritual malady I wrote off immediately. My pride assured me I did not and could not be suffering from any kind of spiritual predicament…after all, I was raised in the evangelical movement of the nineties. Went to a Bible college. Was a church member and bona fide Bible study leader. I assumed these concepts meant I was on God’s VIP list and that I was untouchable.
I was, however, interested in the physical allergy theory discussed at rehab. I had never heard that before, and to think that maybe it wasn’t entirely my fault was groundbreaking for me. So I definitely had the allergy of the body, and the obsession of the mind- all I could ever do at that point was think about drinking. In fact the obsession of the mind planted a seed in my head that maybe I could drink again after having had this 30 day break. On a walk one day a couple blocks from my rehab, our cohort ambled past an Italian restaurant and I gazed into the window. Beautiful wine bottles proudly displayed their artistic and beckoning labels.Wine in wine casks statue next to red wine decanters. My mouth watered. I could almost smell the wine, and I decided right then and there I would be drinking as soon as I left treatment.
And I did. I was dropped off at the airport, fresh from treatment, and I bellied up to the bar. I returned home, lying to everyone that treatment had cured me. And I did kind of believe it, always clinging to the optimistic hope that I’d be able to return to how I began, as a drinker who wasn’t tormented by booze, but could take it or leave it. I started taking vitamins, reading moderation books… all the while drinking.
But you can’t prune when it’s actively raining. I could not improve myself or have effective self examination while still drinking, ultimately my spiritual life and connection was clouded and I didn’t have the correct tools. The later you prune, the more opportunity for bud breaks. I postponed my admittance because of my pride and ego, and I relapsed. I reaped the appropriate results for my effort: a disastrous harvest.
Finally, I got pulled over and arrested for a DUI while driving my 4 kids home from school one day, 2 weeks after returning home from treatment. Pain has always been my greatest motivator, and In one incident, my wall of denial was ripped down and my world disintegrated in front of my eyes.
Rolling around on the rubber mattress all night in jail, I knew I had no choice but to surrender. They say there’s nothing you can do to keep a person who is ready to get sober from getting sober. There’s nothing you can do to rush the process and ready the vine before its’ time. I had to admit to my innermost self that I was an alcoholic before I was ready to try. I had to totally surrender, and I did.
I was terrified of failing at sobriety, but it was not an option not to try. Broken soul, devastated family and denial finally shattered, my husband paid my bail and returned me to rehab. He didn’t know what to do with me anymore, and that made two of us. Nothing had kept me from drinking- not my limited freshly gained 28 day education on alcoholism, not reflecting on how much I loved my husband and kids- not God. In complete defeat, I now knew I had the spiritual malady too. The delusional thinking, my rationalizations and justifications on why I wasn’t an alcoholic had vanished. Like a squashed grape, my pride had been pulverized, and I was left with the gift of desperation.
In the church, the act of eating the bread and drinking the communion wine represent death of the old life, and the start of a new one.
I, too, had to start over. My previous vine and connection to the church had become too corroded, too diseased. I needed a whole new spiritual experience. But instead of researching a bunch of new options to “fix” my spiritual life, I just let go. And that’s when My Higher Power gave me a new seed, for a whole new vine. I had to set aside everything I thought I knew and build a whole new ecosystem. It was time to plant. In order to create a fertile and healthy growth habitat for the seed, it was necessary for the dry and cracked soil of my old life to go through a complete upheaval.
I cleared out all the rocks and debris in the soil, and placed the seed where it would be sure to absorb the optimal amounts of water and sun. Then I connected an irrigation system…I had to attend to every bit of the environment in order to support and sustain and hopefully grow the new seed. I followed the directions laid out for me in treatment. I went to 90 meetings in 90 days.I did all the homework. I took relapse prevention classes. I handled my legal situation.
I couldn’t do anything to actually make the new seed grow, I just had to follow directions and turn the results over to a power greater than myself. It was going to take time. I realized that I didn’t know how exactly to navigate the directions, so I got a sponsor. As my new seedling began to sprout a bud, my sponsor gently helped me set up guidewires. I learned to follow suggestions, and became willing to try things I didn’t understand, I went through the steps with my sponsor, and left no stone unturned. Through attending to the young vine, and through the action of these esteemable acts, I was slowly rebuilding trust in my relationships with my kids and my husband.
I did everything I could to protect the small seedling of sobriety. I watered it frequently through meetings and fellowship. I handled the buds carefully so they don’t get damaged for the first year, eliminating as much temptation as possible. I still craved alcohol, and I wanted to make it easier for my vine to become firmly established. I needed a clear pathway for the root network to solidify, so I even moved to a new neighborhood both to make our family’s life less complicated logistically and my neighborhood drinking temptations fewer. I practiced self care even though I didn’t yet understand the importance. One day at a time, I asked my Higher Power to remove my cravings. Meanwhile, I tended to the vineyard which had once been destroyed by disease, and cared for the delicate new vine and did everything I could to help its’ growth. Eventually that obsession for alcohol was removed.
Over a decade later, I am honored to say that my relationships with my kids have been restored, as has my marriage. So much so that we have added 4 additional babies to our family, and it’s nothing short of an unexpected blessing beyond measure. I require regular pruning-I need to care for my recovery vine through every season, inspecting and pruning so that I don’t grow dormant. I look for vine balance: where do I need to adjust? Does the vine provide enough shade so that the clusters don’t burn? Is the vine producing enough quality fruit? Is my program of action dynamic enough to prevent fermentation?
I’m not done, however. I know my mind will not miss an opportunity to trick me into thinking I’m cured of alcoholism. Like a grapevine stretching to the sky, I keep reaching out, seeking, and taking action. I stay planted and in the middle of the sun and water, chasing after that verdant soil, no matter what.
Because I like the results, I keep my hands in the dirt and my eye on how the vine of my recovery is growing. It’s become all about monitoring the vineyard, weather and climate management. Taking an inventory/examining the vine and the scars of the previous cuts. I practice meditation and reflection: how did this vine perform last season? Did I get the yields that I needed? Do these shoots look like they grew productively? Did they have enough canopy to effectively ripen the clusters? Also, play the movie all the way through and consider what I desire to produce long term. How will the choices with the cuts I make today affect next season, and the seasons to come?
Do I have the correct tools necessary for effective growth? Do I have quality ties to affix the wires to the delicate vine? Are my shears sharp, and can they slice through the vine with precision? Despite my still chattery mind, I know that I don’t have to believe or act on everything I think. If my attempts to stabilize the vine seem weak or fragile, or the vine starts unintentionally growing off in a different direction, I stick closer to the bunch and go to more meetings, I add fertilizer; more book studies, more workshops, more fellowship. I have tools now, two of my favorites being gratitude and reframing a situation, which are essential for growth. If there is anything that needs adjusting, this is an opportunity to make a quick prune snip or reshape the vine if I get off the beam.
Today, I do all I can to let deep roots of sobriety grow and remain firmly planted so that when the challenging weather arrives, I know what to do…I bring in a vine shelter: my sponsor and friends in the program to surround me and support me. A few years ago I almost died of an acute cardiomyopathy resulting in a 7% ejection fraction. Lying in the hospital bed, I had branches of AA friends come visit and help me through that medical challenge without trying to escape my emotions. I’ve had multiple surgeries, and I have leaned on sober alcoholics in recovery for their partnership in prayer and processing. I learned that tough times are inevitable but suffering is not, and though so much of life is not in my control, I can control my actions and my attitude if I’m connected to my recovery irrigation support and my Higher Power. I do my part as the vinedresser, and my Higher Power harvests the fruit…what happens to it is not my business. The sense of belonging I was searching for has been found in my vine shelter, and it continues to get better and better over time.
I look back on my journey this far with such a thankful heart, and I can barely breathe at the sight of the lavish bounty of healthy grapes before me. I have had the joy of experiencing a spiritual awakening as a result of doing the steps, and I see that my past has truly become my greatest asset through carrying a message of hope and recovery to others. I have abundance in the areas of my life that matter the most: an abundance of support, an abundance of access to tools for living sober, and an abundance of spiritual peace. I’m continually amazed that I gained everything by giving up one thing, having the privilege of reaping such a robust harvest as I watch my cup run over with a full aroma of a satisfying bouquet. Sobriety continues to produce the sweetest surprises, one day at a time.
Before I was a sober mom of eight living in the suburbs of Seattle, I was a creative dreamer and Evangelical Christian kid growing up in the 1980s (read: pre-Google) in Mountain View, California. I eventually returned to my birthplace of Los Angeles for college, and after graduation, I headed back to Silicon Valley—where I married an Australian airline executive just six weeks later.
Grounded by life as a young teacher turned stay-at-home mom to four kids, I watched my husband’s career soar. He gained altitude with promotions that had us relocating often, while I found myself weighed down with excess baggage. Depression, isolation, boredom, and a devastating crisis of faith led to more than a few extra glasses (okay, bottles) of wine and a platinum elite card-carrying membership in the Mommy Wine Club. Eventually, that lifestyle earned me a shiny pair of silver bracelets (not Tiffany, mind you—handcuffs) and a stay at King County’s largest “hotel” with very non-optional exit privileges. Two trips to rehab and the unwavering support of my husband laid the foundation for a new flight path.
I’ve learned the hard way what happens when you forget to put your own oxygen mask on first. Some flights are turbulent, and sometimes you have to change altitude—and take bold action—to avoid a crash. Sifting through the wreckage of my past with countless hours of professional help became my personal “black box,” revealing an untreated ADHD diagnosis. Now, I know that if I give my recovery priority boarding, everything else in my life can fly first class.
Over a decade and four bonus biological babies later, I’ve written two humor-filled autobiographical books about my experiences with alcoholism and ADHD, co-authored an anthology, and earned my Master’s in Publishing from Western Colorado University. I’m still married to the same Aussie, who continues to support my ever-evolving flight plan. -Amy Liz Harrison, MA, CPC, CLC
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