The Witching Hour

I started drinking at fourteen. Not sampling. Drinking. Abusing it. Fourteen. Sometimes it ended after one or two. More often, it ended with me on the floor, draped around a toilet, crouched in a yard, or wherever I could vomit in relative privacy.

My parents knew. Occasionally, they even offered me a sip. And no—I never tried to stop. Before you rush to judgment, understand the context. This was the mid-1970s. Long before MADD. Long before DUIs were a public concern. Alcohol wasn’t questioned—it was celebrated. Still is! In this country, we worship the stuff. We drink to mourn, to celebrate, to cope, to numb, to bond, to survive boredom. We drink when someone dies, marries, gets promoted, or gets fired. Some literature even claims it’s good for you.

So what’s the big deal?

Here’s my heresy: alcohol is poison. And poison doesn’t become medicine just because it’s socially sanctioned.

Before I go further, I need to be clear about my stance. I don’t believe alcoholism begins as a disease. Not fully. For many of us, it starts as learned, habituated behavior that eventually hardens into a disease state. Neuroscientist Marc Lewis challenges the brain-disease model entirely, arguing that addiction is a complex mix of cultural, social, psychological, and biological forces. I agree. Keywords that matter here: culture, psychology, learning. And I know what you are saying, they discovered the "gene" that warns of a future alcoholic. True, but look at it like this. You have a "gene" as we say for this or that, but unless you flip the switch, turn it on, chances are you won't be this or that.

When I really examine drinking, I see a vicious cycle—one problem breeding the next, each reinforcing the other. People don’t drink because alcohol tastes good. That’s marketing nonsense. People drink to escape. Humans are escape artists. We spend our lives fleeing discomfort.

At any given moment, unmet needs drive behavior. When I’m driving my boat, my dominant need is safety—so I pay attention. I behave accordingly. Apply that same logic to drinking. What unmet need fuels it?

For me, the answer is painfully simple: I don’t have fun so I drink—because drinking creates fun. Temporarily. I become outgoing, verbal, bold. I take risks. Drinking gives me access to a version of myself I like better, on the front end anyway.

Now comes the trap.

The response to not having fun—drinking—creates a new problem: isolation, regret, lost time, and less actual joy. Which, in turn, worsens the original problem: not having fun. And the cycle tightens. Over and over.

Here’s the most unsettling realization I’ve had as both a clinician and a human being: insight doesn’t cure pathology. Knowing exactly what you’re doing—and why—and continuing anyway? That’s pathology. This is my loop. My rotation.

My drinking is cyclical. Every few days. Day one looks wholesome: healthy meals, long walks, a clean house, laundry done. Coffee around 2 p.m. A movie. Dinner. On drinking days, everything is the same—except when I start cooking dinner, I open the first bottle of wine.

At some point, I’m having such a good time, I may open the second bottle. Sometimes I finish it. Sometimes I don’t. But usually, by bottle two, things get…interesting.

This is when my superpowers emerge.

Between 8:00 and 10:00 p.m.—the witching hour—the boundary between worlds thins. My powers peak. I become more attractive (confidence). More generous (philanthropy). My ability to explain life, politics, relationships, and the meaning of existence is unparalleled (verbal brilliance). I possess astonishing insight. I see everything clearly.

When my energy is depleted and my powers wane, my final ability reveals itself: total, guilt-free consumption of all leftovers. Dinner I skipped because eating would have ruined the buzz. I’m not an animal, after all.

And there it is.

The next morning, the powers are gone. Along with my hydration, dignity, and self-respect. I wake up panicked. Who did I call? Text? Email? I don’t feel regret because I was cruel or reckless. I feel regret because I’m now terrified by the commitments I made while powerful—commitments I have absolutely no intention of keeping while sober.

Here’s the bottom line.

If you’re wired for alcoholism and never take that first drink, you don’t get the disease. If you are wired for it and you do? Be careful. No one thinks it’s a problem for the first twenty or thirty years. Progression depends on frequency, duration, and intensity—but by stage two, you’re already in deep trouble. By stage three, the odds are not in your favor.

And honestly? The label doesn’t matter.

If alcohol—or sugar, caffeine, porn, compulsive masturbation, whatever—interferes with your ability to function, connect, or live fully, deal with it. Call it addiction. Call it a disease. Call it a bad habit with teeth.

Just don’t call it harmless.

Dr. B. Wise, 

The Master Therapist.