By embracing the vices I used to avoid, I'm learning to be kinder to myself

Now or Never8:47By embracing the vices I used to avoid, I’m learning to be kinder to myself

It’s been a journey for Keith Hodder to learn why he was being so judgmental towards others and himself.

This First Person article is written by Keith Hodder, who lives in Toronto. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ.

I was 28 when I first got drunk. 

I'm not kidding. Even though I was popular in high school and university, I never had a single drink, a drag of a cigarette or joint — not even a cup of coffee until I was almost 30. And no, I didn't grow up in a religious home, but I was devoted to my cause. I proudly resisted the vices my friends and family enjoyed and I judged them severely for doing so. Privately, of course. 

Actually, I take that back. In my early 20s I once proclaimed, "coffee is for the weak" to a few colleagues over breakfast. No one asked for my opinion, but I meant what I said. I'm sure they found it charming. 

There were a couple reasons why I might've made this choice, some of which I believed at the time — and all of them rooted in maintaining control. I lost my biological father and my maternal grandfather to alcoholism when I was young. I also didn't come out until I graduated from university. I had a vague, confused awareness of being gay that I was keen on avoiding. But in looking back, I realize I never worried about following in my family's footsteps or getting drunk and mistakenly outing myself at a house party. I was able to compartmentalize my queerness. Meanwhile, I was anxious about other things in my life like how skinny I was, how I dressed, nuclear war, terrorism, chemical warfare — typical teenager stuff. 

I've since realized my overwhelming need for control was rooted in my difficult relationship with my step-father — the man who raised me and who I still call Dad. He was an Air Force man, and as result, a strict disciplinarian. To call what we had a relationship does the word a disservice. He was an observer, my assessor. I wasn't just living under his roof; I was living under his gaze. It was relentless and unnerving, and it found flaws and passed judgment in everything I did. Even the smallest mistake resulted in a devastating fallout.

It's no wonder I did everything I could to perfect myself. I was a good student, the lead in school plays and obsessive about my passion for filmmaking and writing. Sober. My parents never had to worry about me coming home drunk or dropping out of school. I rarely went to parties.

But I judged the people who did. If they drank, I assumed they were socially-inept drunkards who needed alcohol to function. Stoners were deemed lazy, basement-dwellers destined to spend the rest of their days in a padded cell. Even though I was curious to explore the things they gave themselves the freedom to try, or more so the simple concept of freedom itself,  I was worried that, by doing so, I would join their ranks. 

This not-at-all catastrophic way of thinking got me through university and my early adulthood. It kept me on a strict routine and pushed me to complete assignments early. It also created a delusion of superiority in me that meant I kept the world and the people I cared about at arm's length. The more distance my black-and-white thinking created, the more I resisted the vices others enjoyed and the harder it was to go back on the decision I made years ago. I was the guy who didn't drink. I didn't need to. I was better than everyone else and I had to stay that way. There couldn't be a single mistake along the way. 

I challenge you to find a more fulfilling and exciting way to live your life. 

It wasn't until I met my fiancé that I saw an alternative. Here was a man who was accomplished and successful, who worked hard but also let himself have fun. He was one of the few people I let through my force field of contrived self-importance. I felt safe with him. And because of this, I made an admission I never thought I would make: I wanted to get drunk with him. I know, I'm such a romantic.

What's funny is, after a decade of mental agony, I can't even remember the first time I actually got drunk. I remember the first time I smoked a joint, but other than being wowed by a convoy of mountain goats while watching an episode of Planet Earth, it wasn't particularly memorable. Some moments have been, though. I once got drunk at a friend's wedding and took to the stage to sing a rendition of Rocket Man. The couple had opted for karaoke instead of a typical band. My eyes were closed as I sang passionately, but then, when I opened them mid-song, I was surprised to see the wedding party and the guests slow-dancing with each other as I continued to sing.  

In opening myself up to these new experiences, I've opened myself up to being vulnerable. I've come to realize the way in which I saw myself and others — all with harsh judgment — was my father's way of seeing the world. It became so familiar to me that it felt like a lens of my own creation and it led me to create a strict set of rules that, while originally meant to protect me from life, had actually kept me prisoner from it. My father's gaze had not only haunted me; it possessed me. 

Sometimes it still does. This is a product of the past instead of the present. My relationship with my father has softened and changed for the better. Both of us have grown. And while the judgmental way of thinking I adopted from him isn't my fault, it's my responsibility to do something about it.

In letting myself explore the vices I used to avoid, I'm getting comfortable with a different and less rigid way of thinking. I'm getting closer and closer to being kinder to myself and more understanding of the people around me.

It's opened me up to a period of exploration in my life — one where I found my favourite whisky sour in Shibuya, coffee in Crete, that I can dance and sing better than I thought I could, and a realization that I have a lifetime of experiences still ahead of me with the people I love. 

My only regret is that I missed out on that golden period in one's life — those teenage years where hangovers weren't nearly as potent and punishing. 

That would've been nice.

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