Growing up, there was little to no exposure to alcohol, drugs, and other substances in my home.
I grew up in a dry household. Substances were frowned upon in our home and I vowed - for many years - to be a good girl and stay away from the Devil's juice.
Friday nights, in observance of the Holy Sabbath, we would engage in a shared glass of Manishevitz (Kosher wine with flavor akin to Robitussin) between the family for 'Kiddush'. Part of the Friday evening sacramental service includes the 'Kiddush', which is the blessing of the Sabbath made over a glass of wine. My father would make the blessing, take a sip, and then we would all share in a sip of this blessed glass. Often times, this sacramental glass was replaced with grape juice. This should illustrate how rarely alcohol was used within my home. Most often, we were sharing a glass of grape juice. My parents never drank privately or socially and this was the closest occurrence to alcohol consumption in our home.
My parents reiterated the damaging effects of drinking alcohol to me on a rather regular basis. The explanation behind the 'Kiddush' wine was religion. As religion was a common theme throughout my childhood, if it could be justified by the teachings of Judaism, it was okay. Had a new wave of heroin addicts blossomed under the title of a new sect of strict Judaism, it would have been justified for me to join. Not that my parents would have ever supported heroin use, but if it was made to be seen under the eyes of God, with his approval, than it would have been manageably acceptable.
In addition to the 'Kiddush' cup on Friday nights, involving the occasional sip of wine, there was also Passover. 'Pesach' as it's more commonly referred by people within the Orthodox community, is a Springtime holiday, often falling in place with the Christian holiday of Easter. The first two nights of 'Pesach' (Passover) include the evening 'Seders' where the Jews sit around the family table and study Judaic teachings that reference the Hebrews exodus from Egypt. In celebration with this evening, there are four glasses of wine (often substituted with grape juice in my home) that are drank within the evening's service. For this occasion, my father would order multiple bottles of wine, which would be used for the 'Seders', leaving all remaining bottles to be consumed the following year. This was the height of alcohol use and abuse that I viewed growing up.
I vowed that I would never so much as approach any substances. That being said, as I got older, I started to view alcohol as a treat in light moderation. I didn't have a strong desire to experiment with alcohol, however it was somewhat socially accepted and we occasionally had it in the house for Kiddush (Holy Sabbath Day's Blessing of the Wine), which was of course shared. As I got older, my father was more forthcoming with sharing wine at the Pesach Seder.
The first real experience I ever had with alcohol was at a family Bar-Mitzvah in NEw Hampshire. I had recently survived my own Bar-Mitzvah and my family made the decision to attend.
We drove up for the weekend and agreed to drive on the Sabbath between the hotel and the synagogue. (This was big at the time - huge; for me at least.) After the traditional service, we moved into the reception.
I had a cousin, close in age to me, at the Bar-Mitzvah weekend as well. We moved into the reception, but my cousin and I were pre-pubescent devils at the time, quickly roaming the reception hall looking for trouble. On each set table, in front of each plate sat a glass of white wine. My cousin noticed this instantly and suggested we drink up. It wasn't something I was initially drawn to, but due to my cousin's suggestion along with my childish urges, this seemed like the perfect idea.
We quickly began circulating the room drinking each and every glass in one big sip, pulling glass after glass off the tables.
I grew sick in a way that I was not used to.
The funny part of this was that I can see now a direct correlation between drinking and neglect that day. My parents were always present, however between their devotion to Judaism, and in this case their devotion to receive acceptance from the family, they were all too involved with their own lives to realize anything was happening.
Shortly after, we drove back to the hotel. I was relatively all-right, but drunk nonetheless. I didn't know what this felt like, but I felt dazed and under the weather. As we began to turn into the motel parking lot, the sick caught up to me. I couldn't control myself and needed to pull over. I informed my parents and they assured me we were almost there.
My father parked the car and I hurled myself out the side door. As I got out of the van, my mother began to exit from the passenger's side. As she hit the ground, I lost all control and vomited all over her. Not next to her, not nearby, but all over her.
It was an obnoxiously funny circumstance considering her strong feelings regarding alcohol and drugs and my experience that day. It was the true definition of irony. The one who forces you to suppress experience receives the rotten spoils of your first experiment. I guess.
The interesting thing about this experience was that my parents were present from start to finish, however they never once spoke to me about the situation. For all of my parents' issues with drunken people, they didn't feel the need to discipline me or even speak about the matter. It was strange and led me to believe that this wasn't quite as bad as drugs, however I still wasn't really drawn to alcohol.
I didn't experience inebriation again until I hit college, but this will always be the first time I experienced the sloppy teet-milk known as alcohol. This was not love at first sight, however the first time I encountered my love of alcohol.
Thoughts or opinions?
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