Alcohol and eating disorder recovery
*Trigger warning: Alcohol use
Very early in my recovery, a friend—whom I will hereafter refer to as my recovery mentor or my guardian angel—suggested I stop drinking alcohol. At the time, this was pretty much out of the question.
I was in my early 20s, had just started building new adult friendships, and was living in a big American city where alcohol was involved in nearly every activity. Plus, I enjoyed drinking. It brought me out of my shell, made me feel more outgoing, confident, funny, sexy, and all the other things alcohol tricks us into believing.
Fast-forward 15 years: I decided to take a break from alcohol in January 2020. (Yes, right before the COVID-19 pandemic hit.) This break hasn’t stopped yet. Alcohol is no longer a part of my life, and removing it has made me look at my recovery completely differently. In hindsight (of course), I understand why my mentor was suggesting I cut it out, but it would take me more than a decade to finally do it.
In 2007, when I realized I had a problem with eating, excessive exercise, and body dysmorphia, I wasn’t drinking very much alcohol, if any. I had just moved to a new city, didn’t know a soul, and the hours of my days revolved around calorie-counting, meal planning, exercising, and weigh-in sessions in my bathroom. I neither had the time nor the desire to engage in any kind of social ritual. My eating disorder monopolized my concentration, effort, and attention.
But once I started to socialize with some of my new coworkers, I picked up drinking again at group dinners, baseball games, or at the occasional food festival downtown. We balanced alcohol with healthy activities, like signing up for every 5K-for-a-cause imaginable and long walks along the river.
I never saw drinking as a detriment to my eating disorder recovery. I never really considered the two to be connected at all. If anything, alcohol made me feel uninhibited, like I could eat whatever I wanted with no consequences. After a few drinks, I would eat food that my eating disorder would normally never allow, and the food-hangover guilt I would feel the next day was replaced by a gentle slap on the wrist: “Well, I was just drunk.”
We need food to survive. We need food for basic bodily functions. Alcohol, I could quit and continue to live life. But food? We can’t quit food.
Without noticing, I found myself comparing eating disorders—specifically what felt like an addiction to food—with alcoholism. I could never know how difficult it would be to be addicted to alcohol and have to give it up. But I knew all too well what it felt like to be addicted to a substance that my body absolutely needed in order to survive.
Not until my mid-30s did I start to really feel the effects of alcohol, not only in the moment but also for days after. (Many days after.) Not to mention, I’ve been on antidepressants since before my eating disorder even showed up, meds on which you’re not supposed to consume alcohol. But I did it anyway. Everyone did it, I told myself.
I immediately committed to Dry January, the perfect excuse to “take a break” from drinking, I casually told my friends when we were out to dinner. Yes, I would stop drinking for 31 days to see how I felt. And I was shocked by the results.
I started sleeping more soundly, waking up more rested, my skin glowed, my energy levels reset, my mood felt more stable, and all the while, I took it upon myself to start learning more about alcohol: what it was, what it does to our minds and bodies, and why we consume it even though we know how unhealthy it is (i.e., cognitive dissonance).
Once again, I was met with the rationalization that “everyone does it.” Alcohol has become so ingrained and so accepted in cultures across the globe. It’s the only drug we have to explain not taking. When I stopped drinking, I was lucky enough to be met with congratulatory and supportive words from my friends and family. Some even probed further, asking why I ultimately made the decision to give it up. But not all new non-drinkers are treated this way.
I used to be one of those people who questioned or didn’t trust people who weren’t drinking. But this only shone a light on my own insecurity that, despite living an extremely healthy life, I was still consuming a substance that was knocking my mental and physical health for a loop.
I don’t call myself “sober” per se. I never felt addicted to alcohol. I never felt withdrawals. But I also learned that you don’t have to hit “rock bottom” to want to make a change.
I simply realized in January 2020 that alcohol was no longer serving me the way it used to. The initial high after those first few sips wasn’t as high, but the post-drinking lows were digging deeper than ever.