By Courtney Devich 
“Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you though,” I usually reply. Sometimes I’ll throw in a, “No, I don’t drink but thanks.”
I usually then get that feeling–the feeling that I know exactly what is going through the other person’s mind. Oh, she thinks she’s too good to drink. She thinks she’s holier than thou.
I have no idea if that’s exactly the thought that goes through someone’s mind when I decline a drink, but I’m sure it’s gone through the mind of someone who knows me. I love Jesus. I’m Jesus’ girl. But the reason I don’t drink isn’t because of Him. It’s not because I think I’m better than others or because I’m too pious to let any alcohol touch my lips.
It’s because of my mental health. Alcohol and I have a past together. You name the worst moments of my life and there was usually a bottle of tequila or beer can associated with it. There are also a lot of things I’ve done that I’m not proud of and alcohol was usually an accessory in it.
When I’ve taken a good long look at my life (thus far anyway, I’m only in my 30s), I see that alcohol was something I clung to when I was most depressed.
When I struggled with depression as a teen, I was also hitting up the parties and drinking just enough to do something stupid. You could say all teens do that, that they all have those wild years, but what I was really struggling with was depression, and alcohol helped numb it. I felt all alone and didn’t feel worthy of love. But I wasn’t going to find love in the form of those bottles and cans.
When I cut myself at the age of 19, I had a bottle of tequila next to me. Right there, on the kitchen floor. I wasn’t suicidal, but I was in such a dark pit of depression that I wanted to physically feel pain. I needed to physically feel pain. The doctors deemed it a “cry for help,” and I’d say that was accurate. But I wasn’t going to find help in the form of that tequila bottle.
As I grew up, my depression got better. I met my husband, and I felt love. He made me feel worthy of love. And then . . . When we made a cross-country move shortly after giving birth to my first baby, postpartum depression crept in. I left all my friends and family. The home my husband and I had made for the first five years of our lives together–gone.
And so, there was a bottle of wine with my name on it every night after I’d come home from work. It’s only one glass, I’d tell myself. (Maybe, sometimes, two.) But it got to be every single night. Work was stressful. Changing jobs was hard. Caring for a baby while working 50 hours a week was rough. I was depressed again. But I wasn’t going to find joy in the form of that wine bottle, either.
All the feelings I’ve ever struggled with connected to my depression—the lack of feeling loved, worthy, joyful—they all became real when I reaffirmed my faith in Jesus. It’s been over four years since I’ve had a drink. And no, I’ve never called myself an alcoholic. I didn’t ever need it or crave it. There were no withdrawals when I stopped, but I no longer have a taste for it.
Alcohol has left a bitter taste in my mouth. A bitterness in the form of depression. A bitterness that I can’t untaste because it’s there—the past is the past—but it’s definitely not a part of my future.
I still struggle with depression from time to time. Following Jesus doesn’t mean everything becomes perfect and life won’t ever get hard (John 16:33). But when I’ve gone through postpartum depression with my other two babies, it’s Jesus who has pulled me out of that pit. It’s Jesus who I’ve put my hope in. It’s Jesus who declares me worthy of love. Worthy of joy. My help comes from the Lord (Psalm 121:2). I cling to Him . . . not a bottle of vodka.
by Alethea Mshar 
by Lauren Benson 
