I have been reading lots about drinking lately in preparation for what will be my third attempt to lay off the stuff.
I keep encountering the word “binge.” And it makes my brain hurt. Why is this? Because I am just meta-cognitive enough to be negatively impressed by my capacity to contort reality if it suits me. This isn’t something I do in most areas of my life. But it is something I do routinely when it comes to drinking.
Let me get specific here. Canada’s CAMH (Centre for Addiction and Mental Health defines bingeing as 4 or more drinks on one occasion for females. According to this definition I am a binge drinker. It is not unusual at all for me to have two pints of beer in an evening and a healthy glass of wine with dinner. That’s five standard units of alcohol. That happens three or four nights a week, and on the other nights I’ll still have a couple of pints, sans wine.
Do I go to bed shitfaced? Do I black out? Do I puke? No. None of those things. So I *can’t* be a binge drinker right? But the definition. But I can’t be a binge drinker. I’m a grown up. But the definition. I get up and work in the morning like a grown up. BUT THE DEFINITION.
The merry-go-round of rationalization and denial whirls. And I watch it spin. And I open the second pint.