Why Am I Drinking? Understanding the Illusion of Control

Many women drink to stay in control—not to lose it. Learn why self-medicating with alcohol feels like survival, and how to begin healing from the inside out.

We Don’t Drink to Fall Apart—We Drink to Hold It Together

When I was a sophomore in high school, I had an average build, but I decided I needed to lose a few pounds. I gave myself a strict regimen—no snacks, no second helpings, no carbs at dinner, and 45 minutes of exercise at home each night, in addition to my daily gym class.

What started as a small goal quickly spiraled into obsession. The lower the number on the scale, the tighter I clamped down. Eventually, I slipped down to about 115 pounds on my 5'8" frame. I thought I looked great—strong, disciplined, in charge—as I ran my fingers over the ribs that poked through my T-shirts.

Then one afternoon, my older sister looked at me in the car and said, “You’re losing too much weight. Cut it out.”

I adored her. She was the one I could never quite reach—the untouchable older sister who had always treated me like the unwelcome baby who stole her place in the family. So when I heard my idol's cold, warning monotone, it cut through the fog of my obsession. I suddenly felt embarrassed by my sharp ribs and bony shoulders.

I cut it out—but that drive for control never left me. It just changed costumes.

It showed up in perfectionism. In people-pleasing. In body image, work, marriage, and eventually… in drinking.

I didn’t think I had a problem with alcohol. I thought I had a system—just like my diet plan. I had rules, like no hard liquor at public events. I walked the dog. I cooked dinner, returned emails, kept the house looking “together.” As long as I could check the boxes, I told myself I was okay. I wasn’t drinking that much. I wasn’t drinking in the morning—until I was. I wasn’t drinking straight from the bottle—until that became normal.

I thought I was in control… but the truth was, I was in free fall with no parachute and a smile on my face.

When Control Is the Only Safe Place

Control wasn’t safety—it was my mask.

It was the illusion I held onto to protect myself from pain I couldn’t name. The more chaos I felt inside, the more tightly I tried to manage everything outside.

🔍 Psychology insight (inspired by the CPTSD Foundation & Beck Institute): In trauma recovery, the need for control often develops as a survival strategy in response to past powerlessness. It may look like stability on the surface, but underneath, it’s the nervous system trying to protect itself from further harm.

My childhood was a cold, chaotic battle zone. Control wasn’t a preference—it was survival. If I could just manage my body, my surroundings, my emotions, then maybe I could feel safe.

Alcohol didn’t start as a rebellion. It started as relief. It numbed the parts of me I didn’t know how to face. It gave me a sense of agency in a life that felt unpredictable and dangerous.

And then came the trauma that unraveled it all.

At 40, I was in therapy—trying to heal the past and work on my marriage, hoping to stop the cycle of recreating what I’d survived. I was doing the “right” thing. I was showing up. I was trying.

And then the therapist I trusted crossed a line that shattered everything I thought I understood about safety, trust, and recovery. (This happened in 2005—but I would be drinking over it for fifteen years!)

That betrayal wasn’t just psychological or physical—it was spiritual.

🆘 If you or someone you know has experienced therapy abuse, you can find information and support through Therapy Exploitation Link Line (TELL).

My world imploded, and my drinking exploded.

Trauma and Addiction

That’s the part we don’t talk about enough—how trauma and addiction, chaos and control, are so often woven together. Gabor Maté, a physician and author, posits that trauma is a primary driver of addiction, particularly in those who have experienced childhood trauma. Trauma and addiction aren’t separate threads—they’re tangled in the same knot.

Women don’t usually drink to party.

We drink to manage.

We drink to hold together the carefully constructed lives we’ve built while our insides are screaming.

We self-medicate not because we’re weak, but because we’re overwhelmed.

We’re trying to soothe the unspeakable.

And for a while, it works. Until it doesn’t.

I clung to control for decades. First with food. Then with image. Then with alcohol. And it wasn’t until the illusion shattered that I could begin to heal.

Real power didn’t come from holding it all together. It came the moment I finally let go.

When the Pain Becomes the Plan

About five years ago—before I hit rock bottom on May 24, 2020—I was drinking nearly a half-gallon of vodka a day. But the spiral had started long before that.

After the therapy abuse I experienced in 2005, I gained over a hundred pounds in a single year. I fell into a deep depression and developed agoraphobia—rarely leaving the house except for one hour a week to pick up groceries, library books, and boxes of wine for what had become a newly hermetic “life.”

Doctors prescribed a cocktail of medications: antidepressants and anti-anxiety pills to get through the day, and Seroquel at night—a powerful anti-convulsant meant to knock me out.

I wasn’t sleeping.

I was surviving the night.

The night terrors were so severe, I’d wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, or fall out of bed entirely.

My poor husband, Barry, tried to protect me from it all.

I’ll never forget the time we stayed at a friend’s house with one of those classic New England-style high beds—Barry stayed up all night, physically holding me in place so I wouldn’t fall out and break my neck. That was the level of vigilance we lived with.

Sometimes, I gave up trying to sleep altogether. I’d tiptoe downstairs and curl up on the living room sofa—vodka in one hand, scrolling on my smartphone with the other—pretending this was normal. Telling myself everything was fine while my body and spirit were slowly collapsing.

But I still thought I had it under control.

I didn’t realize I was using alcohol to manage what I didn’t have the skills—or the safety—to face. The shame. The grief. The memories. The betrayal by someone I trusted in therapy. The echo of years I had survived without ever really healing.

And so I drank. Not to party. Not to escape. I drank to stay upright.

🎓 Authoritative insight: “Self-medication isn’t about weakness—it’s about unaddressed pain. Addiction often becomes the roadmap for unresolved trauma. We drink to manage the ache we can't name.”— Dr. Tian Dayton, Clinical Psychologist

Numbing Is Not Healing—It’s Deferring the Truth

I wasn’t just drinking—I was also trying to “fix” myself. I bought the self-help books. Tried therapy. Attended online workshops. Lit candles. Journaled. Prayed. I layered so many things on top of my pain, hoping to smother it into submission.

But I never addressed the real issue: I didn’t feel safe being me. I was terrified of being seen, of being vulnerable, of falling apart without anyone there to catch me. So I created a false sense of control. I curated my outer world so meticulously—because I had no idea how to deal with the chaos inside.

🧠 Psychology insight (based on the Journal of Substance Abuse Treatment and Cambridge University Press): In recovery science, this is known as emotional avoidance—using substances like alcohol to suppress painful emotions we don’t yet have the tools to face. The alcohol isn’t the root problem. It’s a temporary solution to a deeper wound we haven’t named or healed.

The Illusion Shatters—But Not All at Once

Control doesn't vanish overnight. It erodes.

Slowly.

I started forgetting conversations. Hiding bottles. Planning my days around when I could drink safely.

I watched myself become someone I didn't recognize—yet still defended her with everything I had.

The lowest point wasn’t just physical—it was emotional. I remember looking at myself in the mirror (when I could bear it) and thinking: How did I get here?

But that question didn’t stop me. Not yet.

That’s the power of the illusion. You think you’re one decision away from turning it all around, even when you’re drowning in it.

✍️ Reflective truth: “Most people don’t hit rock bottom all at once. They arrive there slowly, one rationalization at a time.”— Karen Rubinstein

Real Power Begins Where Control Ends

My life didn’t change when I learned to control my drinking.

It changed when I admitted that I couldn’t.

When I surrendered.When I cried on the phone with the suicide hotline woman in May of 2020.When, after I got off the phone, I told Barry I was checking myself into detox.

When I finally said, I can’t keep doing this.

That moment wasn’t weakness—it was the beginning of real strength.

What I’ve learned is this: control is not the goal. Healing is.

And healing asks for truth. It asks for surrender. It asks for a new kind of courage—the kind that shows up not with a plan, but with honesty.

If you’re silently holding it all together, trying to white-knuckle your way through the chaos, I want you to hear this:

You are not crazy.

You are not weak.

You are not alone.

You’re just tired of holding a weight that was never meant to be carried alone.

There Is Another Way—And It Starts with Honesty

You don’t have to keep pretending you’re fine.

You don’t have to keep managing the unmanageable.

There is life beyond the illusion of control.There is healing beyond the bottle.There is freedom—not in fixing everything—but in finally telling the truth.

That’s where I found myself.

And that’s where you can begin to find yourself too.

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I’ve read so many self-help books over the years, but it was the 12 Steps and my connection to a Higher Power (God) that finally brought me real peace of mind. I'm still learning and growing—but tonight, I’m especially grateful. To celebrate my five-year sobriety anniversary, my husband Barry surprised me with tickets to see one of my heroes, Dr. Gabor Maté, in NYC. Here’s a short YouTube reel where he shares insights that helped me move forward and get unstuck:

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