Gin From a Milk Jug

I was eleven when my step-father first got me drunk for the amusement of his buddies. He had some friends over and we all went out on Lake Erie for the day. One of them had a boat, and another had picked up some water skiing equipment. My father brought me and a gallon jug filled with gin. It wasn't the three drunks dragging me all over the lake from behind the boat that almost killed me that day, it was the precedent they established later in the afternoon.

I enjoyed the first hour or so of the expedition - no one was drunk yet. We cruised around for quite awhile before they decided to try water skiing. Of course they never had, and I am not sure they even knew how to rig the ropes and bridal. I had no idea they had no intention of skiing themselves, that was why I was there. We tried several times to get me up on the skis. Eventually, they decided that I should stand on the end of the pier and they would slowly pull me into the water. When this didn't work, they had me move back about ten feet to get a sliding start. I bounced a few times across the concrete pier before I hit the water.

Eventually they gave up, either the novelty of the endeavor wore off, or the whole thing was just too frustrating for them. They pulled me into the boat, and my step-father told me I should have a drink, that I had earned it. I took the jug and took a big swig. I wanted to spit it out, but even at eleven, I wanted to impress them. I managed to get that first drink down and promptly took several others. The last thing I remember for awhile was their laughter.

I was lucky in a way. During that period of his life, my step-father had many acquaintances he could drink with, and it was only the odd occasion that he offered me alcohol. Later, other members of my family weren't that lucky. He needed partying buddies, but he would inevitably go into a rage and fight with or alienate them. Family members are forever.

I wish I knew why I admired my step-father when I was younger. He was my role model I guess, whether I liked it or not. As a teenager, he would often take my friends out buy beer for them. They thought I had the coolest dad in the world. I didn't drink often when I was younger, but when I did I drank a lot. I soon became proud of my prowess, and I ignored the dangerous signs there were there from the beginning.

I buried the baggage of my childhood deep inside me. It affected me obliquely in many ways, but I had it basically under control. I didn't think about, didn't feel victimized, didn't think I was screwed up. But when I drank, the darkness emerged. Like my step-father, I would drink to excess and I would go crazy. Unlike my step-father, my violence was never directed at anyone - it was more self-destructive. I would wake up the next day not understanding what had happened. It never dawned on me to figure it out, I guess I supposed drinking and anger were natural partners, and besides the one benefit of living in that household was the immunity granted anyone the day after an event.

So, for twenty-three years, my only outlet for my suppressed pain was the occasional binge and subsequent outburst. I can honestly say I never got into any significant trouble in my life when I wasn't drinking. Now, it has been seventeen years since my last drink, and I still haven't found an outlet for that pain. Perhaps this blog is a start.