Limits

I place an invisible boundary line around alcohol. Do not cross over. If you do, you are a failure. 

The struggle begins. 

Not necessarily from a weak moment, but the expectation I’ve placed on myself. 

One that requires perfection at all costs. 

After all, alcohol is bad. 

Bad people drink alcohol. 

You are a bad girl. 

Bad. 

Alcohol was not allowed in my home. I was a little girl when my dad quit. He struggled to stay kind when intoxicated–so, he eventually stopped. 

There was no discussion on whether it took time, or he went cold turkey. 

It was just that way. 

No talk on limits, or acceptable social situations, except the understanding that alcohol is just plain trouble. 

Anyone who drinks alcohol? Bad. 

So, I wonder, all the talk of something bad, it was as if my curiosity eventually led to cheap varieties purchased by older, bad adults who thought okay to by alcohol for underage youths in need of trouble. 

Then the battle began. 

I am not-at-all mean, and the only tables I may break are the ones that hold my weight because I am an overly mushy one dancing to unfamiliar songs, telling everyone in the near vicinity how wonderful they are, “I love you man!”

But, once the alcohol exits, conviction enters. 

Then condemnation. 

Always a battle because good girls don’t drink. 

It’s engrained in me. I know it is not truth. But, lies told long enough are believable. 

Someone close to me said, when she had a drink one day during her alcohol-free journey, “It’s just a blot on an otherwise perfect record.”

No jail time for her. 

She likely didn’t beat herself up, calling herself horrible names. 

What a difference. 

I’m not placing blame here on another, or on alcohol. But, I wonder if, when told something is bad, how often we want it even more?