Chardonnay and dancing zombies - that’s how I’ll always remember my 21st birthday. 

The folks closet to me may not be surprised by this, but my idea of “partying” has always been pretty tame. As a bookish introvert, I never care much for loud crowds or expensive vices. Even today my idea of a "party" is a night in with food, background music, and movies. 

So, when I turned 21, the festivities of that night looked a little different compared to the "normal" expectations:

My parents took me and my siblings, with my ex-sister-in-law in tow, to a cool little restaurant downtown. The location was chosen specifically for it's  short walking distance to that evening's "Big Show": the annual "Thriller Parade" that takes place in downtown Lexington.

It was my birthday night exactly, I was a big fan of Michael Jackson, and I had never seen that show before: this was nearly the perfect 21st birthday.

I tasted my first glass of chardonnay and got to see hundreds dancers line dance down main street, and in some of the coolest costumes I've ever seen! 

(there were, like, 3 very elaborate corpse-brides and one gnarly Zombie-Santa Clause... I love my hometown 

Now, when I say that I tasted my very first glass of wine that night, I mean it was my very first glass of wine. My very first drink, ever, as a matter of fact. Unlike the rest of my family, and many of my peers growing up, I never had the desire to sample any alcohol. Not even for kicks.

It smelled bad, plays keep away with your brain, so I didn't really see the appeal in it when I was a teenager. And, frankly, without getting into too many gory details, I didn't exactly have very pleasant memories witnessing my parents and their friends partying late into the summer nights. 

The sh*t I saw (and sometimes had to clean up)...

Even in my early 20's I was adamant that I was never going "to drink," at least not like my parents liked to drink. 

But then, a few years ago, my dad died...

So, if there's one thing you should know about me, it's that I've always been concerned with matters of addiction and recovery. Even before more pieces of my family history were revealed to me, it was something I thought about a lot - if only because I was trying figure how to avoid that slippery-slope myself. 

The idea that a substance (of any kind) could drive someone, anyone, so dangerously close to a perilous end always freaked me out a bit. And, made me feel a little sad.

What can make a person so desperate for relief that they would literally jeopardize their own health - and potentially the safety of others? 

I finally found my answer in November of 2022.

My parents have always drank. For as long as I could remember, they each had at least 1 beer for dinner each night, and indulge in a few more on the weekends. Sometimes they would even indulge in more, but that was typically reserved for the high-holidays: Christmas, Easter, Superbowl Sunday, and especially Thanksgiving.

If I really sit and think about it, I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've seen my mother drink straight water. When it wasn't that or her beer, it was almost always Diet Dr. Pepper. Dad, for his part, freely enjoyed other drinks, like Powerade and even straight milk (the number of times I heard him declare "I like milk, and milk likes me!" I can't even count on both hands).

Alcohol was essentially normalized in my household, and for many, many years it was done so responsibly. The basic rules of alcohol consumption were always followed: car-keys put away; plenty of water kept on hand; full-meals served always; and, of course, pacing, pacing, 

My desire for drink never went further than a glass or two at dinner, with an occasional shot thrown into the mix at parties.

But then, after that sudden loss, it was like something in my brain completely switched.

I suppose to a lot of people that looks like depression. It wouldn't surprise me if they were right; I've just never had the funds to go and get an official diagnosis. But whatever you want to call it, grief, depression, avoidance, the point is this: it messed with my head a lot in those early years. 

And pouring booze into it just seemed to help quiet that pain. If only temporarily.

I am relieved to say that my drinking never seemed to grow too dangerously. I've never received a DUI. I've never been charged with a substance-fueled crime. I've never missed a day of work because of my drinking, and I've never made a mess that I couldn't clean up. 

But, starting around last fall (2024) I was starting to worry that I might still have a problem on my hands. 

By that point in my life drinking was extremely normalized. To the point where my younger brother - who, unlike me, sampled his first taste at age 18- starting consuming the harder stuff we kept on tap. He never tried to hide it from us (at first), and always had our mother's "O.K." since it was her booze.

My behavior had never steered too close to the danger-zone, but there was just this gnawing, gut-feeling that my habits could turn me into a "pickle," if left unchecked.

My mom didn't think I had a problem to begin with. She still doesn't, as she's told me. But it was an instinct that wouldn't go away. 

One I knew I had to address following another loss...

On the first Saturday in February, we received the sad news that a neighbor and former-friend had finally passed away.

I say "former-friend" because she used to be pretty tight with my parents and their friend group; I say "finally" because, it just so happened, she was an alcoholic - one who knew took the first step to recovery.

Even as little girl, I could tell Jill especially seemed to like her beverage. But from what I understand it was never much of an issue in the very beginning. Jill still went to work, took care of her home, kept up with friends, was in a functioning marriage. By all appearances, things were at least functional. 

But then, many years later, things spiraled out of control. Fast.

While I still don't know the specifics, Jill lost her job due to her drinking, and, eventually, her marriage ended when her husband filed for divorce. I'm assuming he tried talking to her, for years, before finally realizing that nothing was going to change; that this was the only way he could protect himself and his happiness.

Jill's behavior never changed. In fact, following their divorce, it only got worse. While he was moving forward with his life and career - now noticeably happier that he wasn't locked in stressful relationship - Jill's drinking only got worse.

And her friend group shrunk more and more as a result.

Again, I don't know the details, but what I do know is that one by one, all of her friends from the neighborhood - my parents included - had their falling-outs. As far as I know, there were only a few people left who would still talk to her a few years later. Then, there was only one left near the very end.

A month after my dad passed away, Jill herself ended up in the hospital. Around Christmas time, she'd been found in her home, unconscious, by a mutual friend, Jane. She was taken to the same hospital as where my father had been; taken into the same ICU (though thankfully not the same room), and had to be temporarily intubated. 

She was in there for, I believe, a few weeks - very weak initially, but very much alive. Slowly, Jill recovered and after a rather humiliating "escape" attempt, one that effectively ended her friendship with Jane, she made a full recovery and was sent home. And 

But as "salty" as mom was - for Jill to throw away her second-chance - she remained the only person who still took Jill's calls. And told her like it was. I always thought that's why Jill kept calling my mom, even after words of contempt were inevitably exchanged. A friend who is brutally honest is better than no friends at all.

 In fact, I think mom actually talked to Jill for the last time, only a week before her passing. She told me that it was a normal exchange; at least as normal as it could be for what it was. 

Her housekeeper found her the next morning, on her bedroom floor, long since gone.

That's the part that I find most disturbing in Jill's story: that there was no one there to be with her at the end. People still deeply cared about her, of course, and I'm certain still do. She was a different person when she wasn't drinking. My dad even once remarked, "you should've seen her when we first met her." 

But her disease had taken over her life in a way that's heartbreaking and horrifying; it chased away every single person who gave a damn about her, and would've helped her had she only take a single step forward. She may have been a different person when she was drinking, but that doesn't change the fact that it was still she who wantonly burned her bridges.

When I say her end is inevitable, I don't say it to be cruel. But it was an inevitable conclusion to a long, 

 battle for someone who didn't seek out help or guidance. I may be 32 years old, but I had to learn long ago that you can't actually save someone who doesn't 

I can't speak for anyone else, but as a Catholic, I can only take comfort in the knowledge that now, at last, she's at peace.

So, if you haven't guessed by now, I'll come right out and say it: 

I don't know yet if I have a problem or not, but I do know that that is not how I want my story to end.

As a "cradle-Catholic," I've gone through all the sacraments necessary for my faith: I've been baptized, I've taken communion, I've gone to confession (in fact, I'm a little overdue for a follow-up on that one), and I know the must-knows scriptures and prayers for all of the high-holidays. 

But as a grown woman, who had her faith more than shaken up a bit, it's been especially hard to come back to God - for anything. 

Even now, I still don't fully know where my faith falls. Even though I talk to God now, I didn't for a very long time after my father passed. How do you talk to someone you're so angry with? How do you put your trust in someone who let such a wonderful person die while a lush threw away their second chance at life? 

I still don't have those answers, and I doubt I ever will. 

But, I've decided I'm ready to try and figure it out again. 

Jill's passing wasn't the only catalyst that prompted this decision. Trust me, there have been many things going on in the past few months that have made it clear something needed to change in my life. However, out of all those many, little events, it was probably the most significant. One that brought a call to action in my mind.

I don't want to end up like Dad, with such a damaged liver that there was no change of recovery. 

I don't want to live my life half-buzzed and languishing because I'm struggling.

That's why, this Lent, I've decided to participate by abstaining from alcohol - all alcohol. Call it another gut-feeling I know I need to heed, because I need to know two very important things about myself:

Am I a social drinker, or am I alcoholic? Where does this fit into my life, now that "normal" is completely gone?

And, just as importantly, does the church still have a place in my new normal? Where do I stand with God, with someone I'll always be so angry with?

It may not seem like much to many people, but for me, there's a lot riding on this Lent season.

I'll be asking these questions, and many more, as I try to figure myself out again. In a lot of ways this is the last step in my grief-journey; I just know it is. 

What happens this Easter won't change the past. It won't undo the sadness, or rewrite the tragedy; it'll never completely take away the grief of losing someone so precious. But if I can find a way to just make a little room for it, I know it'll be easier to carry.

That's what I'm hoping to discover by Easter 2025. I don't know yet if the answer lies in the faith I was born to, or in something completely different and far outside the Catholic. But I do know that it's time to find out.

It's time to end this 2-year-long test of faith.

Aaron Burden

Test Of Faith

Chardonnay, Zombies, and the beginning of an arduous Lent...

Chardonnay and dancing zombies - that’s how I’ll always remember my 21st birthday. 

The folks closet to me may not be surprised by this, but my idea of “partying” has always been pretty tame. As a bookish introvert, I never care much for loud crowds or expensive vices. Even today my idea of a "party" is a night in with food, background music, and movies. 



Test Of Faith

Chardonnay, Zombies, and the beginning of an arduous Lent...

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Test Of Faith

Chardonnay, Zombies, and the beginning of an arduous Lent...

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of .css-13w9qce-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-accent);}Taylor Rigsby

About the Creator

Taylor Rigsby

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The Jigsaw Puzzle

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of Taylor Rigsby