I am revising my memoir about having a perinatal mood and anxiety disorder and sharing deleted scenes here on the blog. In this scene, I talk about the effects that wine had on my postpartum depression. My psychiatrist told me it was fine to drink an occasional glass of wine, but wine actually exacerbated the symptom of physical fatigue.
Early on in my treatment, I asked my psychiatrist if I could still drink wine. He told me it was better to avoid alcohol but an occasional glass would not make my head explode.
In college, I drank more than my fair share. My friends could humiliate me with many tales regarding Courtney’s inebriated antics. But after college, I only got drunk a few times. The hangovers were too brutal. The last time I have ever been drunk was December 30, 2006. (The culprit: red wine. When I moved out of my apartment in September 2010, there was a still a pink stain on the carpet next to my bed.)
Nathan and I have never been drunk together, but we have shared many bottles of wine. We love the movie Sideways and have gone wine tasting in Santa Barbara County at least a half dozen times. We love the whole experience: driving along windy country roads, past vineyards and horses; sniffing and sipping several different wines; tossing around pretentious descriptors like “smoky” and “forest floor.” Our trips to wine country were always relaxing and romantic.
One of my favorite bloggers often wrote about the trips she took to tropical islands with her husband while her mother watched the baby. Her parents were divorced, and she thought these weekend getaways were vital to the health of her marriage. I read her blog posts as if they were written by God Himself. If Nathan and I did not go on a romantic getaway immediately if not sooner, our marriage would turn to ash and dust.
Never mind the fact that our marriage was showing no signs of wear or tear. In my mind, a romantic getaway was imperative, and the getaway had to happen in wine country, and if we went to wine country, by God, I would have to be able to imbibe at least three glasses of wine during the day.
OR TERRIBLE SHIT WOULD HAPPEN.
In the hopes of rebuilding my alcohol tolerance, I made myself drink a glass of wine at least once every two or three weeks. I did not enjoy these drinks. Before I got pregnant, a glass or two of wine made my body hum pleasantly. Now every sip of wine made me feel edgier and edgier. It felt as if I was forcing myself to drink poison.
Months after my psychiatrist said the occasional glass of wine was fine, I finally noticed something: there was a cause-effect relationship between my fatigue and the wine. If I had a glass of wine with dinner, then the next morning, my depression-fatigue kicked in and I felt as if I was being dragged into hell by Satan himself.
If I wanted to avoid my fatigue episodes, I would have to stop drinking wine and abandon my Santa Barbara romantic getaway dreams.
To wine or not to wine? It took me all of 0.8 seconds to answer that question.
I stopped drinking wine in February 2014.
Nathan and I are still very much happily married.