“How do you get through a divorce?”, I asked.

“You always make sure you have lots of wine, especially when the kids are at their dad’s.”

That’s one piece of advice I received when I was in the early days of separation. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it; everything was so new and so raw. The days shimmered around the edges, the way a mirage does in the desert. I wasn’t sure if they were even real. I felt I was walking on a wire – like I didn’t know which way was up, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was so passive in those early days. I honestly had no clue what the future would hold.

So, I took my friend’s suggestion to heart. Sure, I can drink, no problem.

That’s one of the things that I’m good at. But it made me feel like shit. It didn’t boost my confidence, it didn’t make me feel worthy, it didn’t magically make all the heartache or any of the uncertainties any better. It filled my life with a big black void. That void was right there waiting for me, ready for me to drop into and get stuck. That’s exactly where I remained for the early months of my divorce.  

I was a good mom. I was always there for my children. I feel I have to say this, so those of you who are silently, or maybe not too silently, judging my parenting skills understand.

My children didn’t miss a game, or an activity. I was up early every morning making them breakfast, making sure they didn’t miss the bus. But I had a raging headache, and a fake smile plastered on my face.

I felt empty and hollow and that smile was there, but the rest of my thoughts refused to catch up. I was falling deeper and deeper. Those fancy bottles of wine I cracked every night, made me feel worse about myself. It took the mild anxiety and fear about my unknown future, and multiplied it, until it felt like a crushing weight on my chest. It exacerbated the mild depression I was feeling after having a marriage crumble and my identity along with it.

It wasn’t until I got rid of the wine, when I threw all those Sauvignon Blanc bottles out, that I started to heal. And I know that when I talk about my sobriety, my friends say a silent prayer to themselves, thankful they’re not in my shoes, that they are in control.

But I know they’re not. I see the signs. They’re the ones who joke a little too often about how they need a glass of wine, or what the hell it’s 5 o’clock somewhere. They’re the ones who are always posting alcohol memes on their social media accounts, or pictures of them drinking and of their fancy drinks. They’re the ones who when I say I’m only serving non-alcoholic drinks, show up with a six pack or two bottles of wine (I know the old me sure as hell would have) and I’m not judging, but I wish there was a way I could talk with them, and let them know it’s okay to reach out for help. I wish someone would have reached out to me earlier.

I also know that when I talk about my sobriety, Frank Gallagher from Shameless, comes to mind. Passed out behind a dumpster, in a puddle of vomit, with a bottle in a paper bag by his side.

But, I was just a mom, on a couch, with a bottle of wine, trying to get through a divorce.