My Frenemy

An essay about an alcoholic and her bottle

Portmanteau is a fancy word for mash-up, and I really want to use it, so I'll do it here with a seemingly self-revealing analysis of my abusive relationship with alcohol. 

Alcohol and I are frenemies – a portmanteau of friend and enemy which, however fortunate, lends itself to this melodiously mashed-up word. The term most often exits the mouths of teenage girls when describing a delightful-turned-demonic friend. Indeed, the progression from friend to enemy to frenemy is an unexpected mess; because I’m sure as those teenage girls would attest, my Frenemy was the perfect embodiment of something I loved and hated at the same time. Unlike these girls, however, my Frenemy was not a person, it was a bottle…well, many, many bottles; seven-years of one long drunk. And now that I’m sober-minded and spiritually-centered, I repeatedly ask myself the same question: How had I come to live under the thumb…or the bottle…of my dear alcohol Frenemy? Here’s our story.  

FRIEND
The first encounter between me and booze was chummy--that’s the best word for it. Although our compatibility was instant, I remained wary due to the many stories I'd heard of her destructive tendencies. I was careful getting to know her. Just a few months later, however, Frenemy was fully integrated into my life and [I believed] enriching my time with others. She accompanied me to parties, bars, work events, late evening-musings at the fireplace, phone calls with old friends, boring family functions, and dinners under starry international skies. As my companion and war-buddy, we decided to carpe every diem going forward. People liked us together, and…that’s how it got started. I felt beautiful, funny, witty...relevant. Finally. That empty space isolating me from others was filled. 

ENEMY
After a few years of [mis]using Frenemy’s talents, my head started getting scrambled. Our time together was never as much fun as it was in the beginning; those early days hanging out in the sunshine, with friends…when people still wanted to be around us. Apparently, she was bringing out the worst in me but I could never attest to what it was people were upset about, so I just apologized. A lot. After a while, I did what seemed right and began lying to everyone. Oh, nobody wants to be around us anymore? That’s fine. We’ll hang out alone. I prefer it that way. We could get as loud and silly as we want without any of my asshole friends judging us, is what I told myself. But the truth was that by this point, our relationship was very quiet. Very strained. We didn’t laugh anymore. We hung out mostly in my room alone with the tears and the tears and the tears. 

At some point, comments from friends and unbearable hangovers led me to pursue other things.  Getting distance isn’t ever easy with the bottle; she’s clingy and insists on accompanying me everywhere; lurking in my room, hiding in my car, sneaking in at the park, lingering around breakfast. While I wasn’t ready for a break-up, I suggested a break--the coward's go-to move when she doesn't have the self-respect to actually make a change. Change is scary. But I tried. Enter: compromise. I promised myself that this time I would really control her, because it was just willpower I was lacking. If she can’t keep her distance, and I can't seem to get away from her, then we'd only hang out on weekends… and for no more than two drinks. Except for special occasions—then no restrictions...And, maybe as part of our deal, we can spend a few hours together during the week—just a little while at dinner. Yeah, I just keep changing seats on the Titanic. Moving from the bow to the stern to the cabin...that ship was going down and I thought I just needed a better view. 

It's futile to make a deal with booze, because it doesn’t compromise. It always wins while letting you think you’re in charge. It’s part of the brain-fuck. So when she started showing up everywhere I went, this time I didn’t fight her off. Our prearranged “controlled” encounters resulted in a complete loss of control. Goals were dismissed, romantic relationships destroyed, and productivity recognized in the past tense.

FRENEMY

In her magical nature, and in a way only she was able, she convinced me not to judge myself and made it all seem OK. But, I starting hating her, and I needed her. She haunted me....but, keep your enemies closer, right?  As days, months and years went on this way, self-loathing seeped into all my pores. There is no level of verbiage capable of expressing how much I hated myself. But she loved me. Something loved me and present like mother never was, available like sister never was, didn't blame me for all the wrong things like father.  

I knew my time with Frenemy wasn’t healthy, worthwhile, or constructive. She loved me when I hated myself, but then made me hate myself for hating myself. I relied on her and ignored her wreckage; I gripped her tight while calamity spawned from our embrace. And despite any attempt at control, our time together always ended the same way: self-destruction in clouds of chain-smoked cigarettes and open legs welcoming the next bad decision.

BREAKING-UP
Even as a drunk, I was clear-headed enough to know that self-loathing is not a healthy result of friendship. Shame took over my insides. If everyone has a bottom, we reached ours. This came when I almost lost the thing that was more important to me than the bottle: my sister, who made me decide between her or Frenemy. Three years later, I know that dumping her was the best decision I ever made.

Our very tiny world thrived on one daily task: get as drunk as possible without anyone finding out. And small worlds belong to small girls. Indeed, my world grew expansive we parted ways. I pour healthier things into my body, heart, and mind while attempting to alchemize self-loathing into self-love—a seemingly impossible task with her at my side (or my insides). Although I think of her fondly sometimes and remorsefully at others (like any ex-friend), I recognize her as part of a history I can't change. A history that ends in the survival of a healthy woman as well as the divine death of a scared little girl.

Suppressed feelings because they didn’t know where to go

So they went down

And then i swallowed some more whiskey

So they’d go farther

Washed those feelings away.

Take another swig, says I,

We got another one creeping out