Why I Don’t Instagram Alcohol Anymore

It begins! from Flickr via Wylio
© 2013 mckinney75402, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

A few days after we bought our house, a friend gave us a housewarming gift of alcohol, the specific nature of which I will not release here on the blog because I think possessing it might be illegal in the great state of Pennsylvania.

Later that week, in the midst of painting and cleaning and preparing to move, my allergies spiked, so before bed I took his gift out, poured myself a glass, and drank it down. I also Instagrammed the gift. It received 27 likes and a handful of comments, mostly from people who wanted to know where I got such a wonderful friend. I didn’t think about the picture again, at least not for a few weeks.

* * * * *

When I grew up, my first encounter with alcohol was at Veterans’ Stadium in Philadelphia, where my father took me to watch the Phillies. I was obsessed with Steve Carlton and Mike Schmidt and Von Hayes, and the stadium always took my breath away when I walked into it, not because it was beautiful, but simply because it felt bigger than anything I had ever been in before. It felt like it might consume me.

I quickly learned that the strange smell was beer and that the people acting like fools, fighting, and shouting bad words had consumed too much of it. Because I am a rule follower at heart, and because I still thought it smelled bad, I don’t think I ever drank a beer in high school. Maybe one. On my 21st birthday, I walked out the back door of our house on my way to join some friends. My father stopped me at the door and said something I’ll never forget.

“Happy Birthday. Be careful.”

Actually, it’s what he didn’t say that sticks out in my mind. He didn’t condemn me for my plans, of which I’m sure he was well aware. He didn’t try to guilt me into the behavior he desired. He didn’t remind me of the God I had grown up with, the God who would probably send someone to hell if they so much as drank a glass of wine.

This has been a lesson to me on parenting, this idea that what I don’t say can be as important as what I do say. I think my parents are both rather exceptional.

Of course, I did go out and get drunk, and one of my friends drove us around, and another one of my friends sang in the back seat the whole way home and then threw up in the lawn of my first friend’s house. When we walked into the kitchen he threw up some more. The mother of the friend whose house we were staying at had left aspirin and large glasses of water on the kitchen table for us, and in the morning she served us breakfast.

Then I went home.

I have only ever had too much to drink one or two other times in my life. Lady Liquor, for whatever reason, has never turned me on.

* * * * *

A few weeks after I Instagrammed the wonderful gift of alcohol my friend had given me after we closed on our house, my friend Seth wrote a blog post. Seth is one of the kindest human beings I know, and although we’ve never met in person, we’ve become pretty good Internet friends. I feel like I know his family, and he has always been very encouraging of my writing.

But the post he wrote a few weeks after my Instagram, it stopped me in my tracks. Here’s a part of what he wrote:

My social media feeds are a veritable booze blitz, a virtual bar without the tacky smooth jazz. All my favorite lovers are there – wine, beer, whiskey, and the occasional gin cocktail from the more discriminating drinker (I follow a few classy Instagrammers). Yes, I called the booze my lovers. What of it? I’ve said it before: I have an unhealthy relationship with the bottle.

In a truthful moment I might tell you that the Instagram photos set the butterflies in the stomach to fluttering. The sides of my tongue tighten and draw inward in a Pavlovian response to the thought of supple tannins. I can smell the rosemary drifting from the gimlet, the caramel rising from the bourbon. The fire of desire rises and my breathing quickens. This is the mild anxiety of desire…

The truth is, the social media universe has never contextualized well, and oft fails to consider that one man’s freedom might be another man’s bondage.

You see, my friend Seth has, for a time in his life, floundered in the waters of addiction. As we all do. His substance of choice was alcohol. He goes on to say, rather graciously, that he doesn’t hold those who post the pictures responsible for the torment the images put him through. He writes that “Grace extends to those who do not understand the way the dominoes fall when they post a photo of a mega-rita.” I didn’t talk to him about this yet, and I know he would never ask me or any of his friends not to post pics of alcohol on his behalf.

But it seems a small price to pay to help out a friend, doesn’t it?

I appreciate it, his grace, because even though I knew his story, I never even considered what a mere photo of booze might do to someone who is trying not to go back. I do not want my freedom to become his re-entry into bondage.

So that’s why I don’t Instagram alcohol anymore. I don’t judge those who do – quite frankly, I enjoy seeing the beer my friends are home-brewing or the things they’re celebrating. I still have a drink from time to time. But every time I’ve gone to post a pic of alcohol recently, a stark question pops up in my mind.

“What if this is the first domino?”

Is it really worth 27 likes?

* * * * *

Check out Seth’s guest post for me, “A Naked Confession: I Have a Problem With Lady Liquor”.

On an average Monday evening, my Instagram feed is composed of the following: three selfies of women in various department stores modeling dresses; five children with spaghetti-smear warpaint; six plates of slimy, grey, meatish substances tagged #foodporn; and, fifty-two adult beverages, most of which are red wine, some of which read “wine-thirty,” or “it’s 5:00 somewhere.” – See more at: http://sethhaines.com/addiction/the-recovery-room-an-awkward-instagram-grace/#sthash.pHie3sJf.dpuf

On an average Monday evening, my Instagram feed is composed of the following: three selfies of women in various department stores modeling dresses; five children with spaghetti-smear warpaint; six plates of slimy, grey, meatish substances tagged #foodporn; and, fifty-two adult beverages, most of which are red wine, some of which read “wine-thirty,” or “it’s 5:00 somewhere.”

My social media feeds are a veritable booze blitz, a virtual bar without the tacky smooth jazz. All my favorite lovers are there–wine, beer, whiskey, and the occasional gin cocktail from the more discriminating drinker (I follow a few classy instagrammers). Yes; I called the booze my lovers. What of it? I’ve said it before: I have an unhealthy relationship with the bottle.

In a truthful moment, I might tell you that the Instagram photos set the butterflies in the stomach to fluttering. The sides of my tongue tighten and draw inward in a pavlovian response to the thought of supple tannins. I can smell the rosemary drifting from the gimlet, the caramel rising from the bourbon. The fire of desire rises and my breathing quickens. This is the mild anxiety of desire.

Perhaps you are, at this particular juncture, accusing me of hyperbolic overstatement; allow me to assure you–it ain’t.

– See more at: http://sethhaines.com/addiction/the-recovery-room-an-awkward-instagram-grace/#sthash.pHie3sJf.dpuf

On an average Monday evening, my Instagram feed is composed of the following: three selfies of women in various department stores modeling dresses; five children with spaghetti-smear warpaint; six plates of slimy, grey, meatish substances tagged #foodporn; and, fifty-two adult beverages, most of which are red wine, some of which read “wine-thirty,” or “it’s 5:00 somewhere.”

My social media feeds are a veritable booze blitz, a virtual bar without the tacky smooth jazz. All my favorite lovers are there–wine, beer, whiskey, and the occasional gin cocktail from the more discriminating drinker (I follow a few classy instagrammers). Yes; I called the booze my lovers. What of it? I’ve said it before: I have an unhealthy relationship with the bottle.

In a truthful moment, I might tell you that the Instagram photos set the butterflies in the stomach to fluttering. The sides of my tongue tighten and draw inward in a pavlovian response to the thought of supple tannins. I can smell the rosemary drifting from the gimlet, the caramel rising from the bourbon. The fire of desire rises and my breathing quickens. This is the mild anxiety of desire.

Perhaps you are, at this particular juncture, accusing me of hyperbolic overstatement; allow me to assure you–it ain’t.

– See more at: http://sethhaines.com/addiction/the-recovery-room-an-awkward-instagram-grace/#sthash.pHie3sJf.dpuf

On an average Monday evening, my Instagram feed is composed of the following: three selfies of women in various department stores modeling dresses; five children with spaghetti-smear warpaint; six plates of slimy, grey, meatish substances tagged #foodporn; and, fifty-two adult beverages, most of which are red wine, some of which read “wine-thirty,” or “it’s 5:00 somewhere.”

My social media feeds are a veritable booze blitz, a virtual bar without the tacky smooth jazz. All my favorite lovers are there–wine, beer, whiskey, and the occasional gin cocktail from the more discriminating drinker (I follow a few classy instagrammers). Yes; I called the booze my lovers. What of it? I’ve said it before: I have an unhealthy relationship with the bottle.

In a truthful moment, I might tell you that the Instagram photos set the butterflies in the stomach to fluttering. The sides of my tongue tighten and draw inward in a pavlovian response to the thought of supple tannins. I can smell the rosemary drifting from the gimlet, the caramel rising from the bourbon. The fire of desire rises and my breathing quickens. This is the mild anxiety of desire.

Perhaps you are, at this particular juncture, accusing me of hyperbolic overstatement; allow me to assure you–it ain’t.

– See more at: http://sethhaines.com/addiction/the-recovery-room-an-awkward-instagram-grace/#sthash.pHie3sJf.dpuf

On an average Monday evening, my Instagram feed is composed of the following: three selfies of women in various department stores modeling dresses; five children with spaghetti-smear warpaint; six plates of slimy, grey, meatish substances tagged #foodporn; and, fifty-two adult beverages, most of which are red wine, some of which read “wine-thirty,” or “it’s 5:00 somewhere.”

My social media feeds are a veritable booze blitz, a virtual bar without the tacky smooth jazz. All my favorite lovers are there–wine, beer, whiskey, and the occasional gin cocktail from the more discriminating drinker (I follow a few classy instagrammers). Yes; I called the booze my lovers. What of it? I’ve said it before: I have an unhealthy relationship with the bottle.

In a truthful moment, I might tell you that the Instagram photos set the butterflies in the stomach to fluttering. The sides of my tongue tighten and draw inward in a pavlovian response to the thought of supple tannins. I can smell the rosemary drifting from the gimlet, the caramel rising from the bourbon. The fire of desire rises and my breathing quickens. This is the mild anxiety of desire.

Perhaps you are, at this particular juncture, accusing me of hyperbolic overstatement; allow me to assure you–it ain’t.

– See more at: http://sethhaines.com/addiction/the-recovery-room-an-awkward-instagram-grace/#sthash.pHie3sJf.dpuf

17 Replies to “Why I Don’t Instagram Alcohol Anymore”

  1. S i g h…

    Did you have to say this so well? Recently, for a completely unrelated issue that can cause a believer to stumble, I noted “Just because I can doesn’t mean I should.” That my liberty and freedom in Christ might allow an indulgence [of a favorite practice], but before a watching public the most loving response is to consider those who might have a real problem with what I’m doing.

    Though Amber is a real life friend, til now, Seth and I haven’t met face to face (though It seems like we did a long, long while ago). Especially when I lived abroad, but even occasionally now, I’ve instagrammed moments which have included alcohol.

    And now I’ve gone and read your last two sentences (and all those that preceded them), and while I don’t feel the smallest tittle of condemnation, I do feel a whale of conviction.

    Well done.

  2. Shawn, I so admire and respect your decision . . . and your heart. Beautiful.

    So I ask this question not with any tinge of judgment but as a genuine query because I have been thinking about this kind of question a lot, particularly in terms of women and our attire. We often use that phrase about causing someone to stumble as the way we keep ourselves accountable for not pushing temptation before someone weakened – which is just the spirit of your post.

    However, I keep coming back with the idea that I cannot be responsible for another’s choices – another point you make here, as does Seth in his lovely language. I speak to this especially in terms of women because we are often asked to be responsible for men’s responses to our bodies. So if a man struggles with lust, does that mean I should respect that and not post pictures of me in shorts. What if I know the man struggles and know him personally? What if I don’t know the man’s struggles or even know him personally? What is the boundary we set on being responsible for other’s struggles?

    Again, I know you, so I know you have made a careful wise choice here. . . I’m just querying the larger implications for myself personally. Where does my responsibility, respectfulness end and someone else’s begin?

    Thanks for helping me think through this, Shawn.

    1. You raise a good question, Andi. I don’t have an answer, necessarily, except to say that I am not a big fan of “should” and “need to.” In other words, what I I find so beneficial about what happened in this instance is that at no point did Seth ever tell me what I should do. But he did a wonderful job of explaining in great detail what happens in his mind when he sees an image of alcohol. As his friend, I don’t want to put him in that position, and not posting pics of alcohol is a very small price to pay towards that end.

      This can, and perhaps does, set me up though. What about my friends who struggle with obesity? Does this mean I’m not going to post pictures of food? Perhaps.

      Also, you were so gracious and honest in sharing your post about wanting to have children. Our good friend Alise recently lost a child. So while neither of you have asked me to stop posting photos of Leo, I think the same question, or at least a similar question, surfaces.

      In the instance of food, if I had a friend who wrote a similar post to Seth’s regarding food, then I would probably stop posting pics of food. That seems a small price to pay. Regarding Leo, posting pictures of him helps distant relatives and friends get to know him and see him grow up, so completely nixing any photos of him would perhaps be a price I’m not willing to pay, and in that case I would have a heart-to-heart conversation with a friend who found it too difficult to see those kinds of images.

      I know you would never ask or want me not to post pics of Leo, and I hope that isn’t too personal of a conversation to have in the comments of a blog – I only bring it up because you were willing to share that beautiful post with my readers last week, and I think it’s a relevant conversation to have.

      All of that to say, I think these things take place in healthy ways when the one struggling and the one posting are in relationship and, instead of telling each other what they should or should not do, simply communicate their own personal journey. I’m much more confident in the response that rises out of that kind of dialogue.

      1. I think you fleshed out the key for me here, Shawn – that this is about relationship. That when we care about individual people – not ideals or rules – we do things because we care. Absolutely.

        My struggle, I think, is how we often extrapolate from relationships to responsibilities to rules. Still thinking, but that helps. . . and as someone who has loved a person with an alcohol addiction, I say thanks.

  3. This makes me think of when you called me out a few weeks ago about a Facebook post. I was in the store and happened to see a guy. I realized that I had never seen him when he wasn’t buying beer. And it’s not like I follow him around or anything. He seems to buy beer every time I’m at the store. Now, I don’t care if someone drinks a beer or anything. I do hate someone being in bondage. I commend you on not posting and I wonder what I’m in bondage to?

  4. Hmmm…good food for thought, and I’ve thought about this quite a bit as the ‘stumbling block’ was one of the foundation stones of my Baptist upbringing.

    There’s a story of one of the Desert Fathers, a man who struggled greatly with lust. He left the city and took off for the desert where he wouldn’t have the constant visual bombardment of the female variety. The story goes his lust raged stronger in the desert, minus the literal visuals, than in ever did in the city. Yeah, sorta depressing story, huh?

    You know, it could be that the very first domino is social media…anyway, good thoughts, and I heard nothing but grace when I first read Seth’s post, and I hear nothing but that in yours too.

    1. John, Thomas Merton says something similar about silence. If we flee from the city to the wilderness in order to find silence, we will simply take the noise along with us.

      In the last few hours, as I’ve been thinking about people’s varied responses to this post, I would agree that social media is the first domino. Much to think about.

  5. I like this post a great deal, Shawn. Thanks for writing it.

    I think the key in this whole conversation is the ability to be mindful of the people around you, and to be mindful in love and grace instead of resorting to some notion of moral or religoius obligation. And that’s the same whether it’s in the decision not to post a photo of alcohol (or food, or cleavage), or to post it in celebration, or the decision of the addict to use any such celebratory posts as an instigation of personal prayer instead of judgment, shaming, or the enforcement of some blanket moral opinion.

    I think a great deal of my life would look different if I tried to be mindful of how my brother’s felt. I ain’t the best at it. And that won’t be a popular sentiment, I’m sure. But I still believe it.

    Anyhow… thanks, Shawn. I appreciate you.

  6. I have been meditating upon this all day, and while I understand that flaunting our liberty can indeed be unloving, do you suppose Jesus stopped to consider the wedding guests before transmitting hundreds of gallons of water into wine? Was the onus on him–the “vintner”–or upon the imbibers? Some of whom may have had a problem with drink, and many of whom had already been drinking (and were likely to drink more)?

    Was Jesus’s act unloving?

    Couldn’t have been, right? He, being Jesus, being without sin and all. I think there’s a lesson there about personal responsibility.

    Let me put it this way: Internet pornography is a pervasive problem, but it’s a secondary one. Because the real problem is the lust in my heart. Does this mean that I ask other Instagrammers to refrain from posting photos which could potentially trigger me? No, I know my limits, and refrain from following. The onus is on me.

    1. This post really has nothing to do with who the onus is on, or what anyone should or should not do.

      What this post does have to do with is why I choose to no longer post pics of alcohol on Instagram…not because he asked me to stop, not because I should or should not stop, and not even because he wants me to stop, but simply because he is my friend and I don’t want to make his journey any more difficult than it has to be.

  7. I love the spirit of this post, even as I loved the spirit of Seth’s. And I hear your heart here. I myself don’t care for alcohol, so pictures of it are pretty much meaningless to me. But I’ve got grandsons of (or close to) majority age and I know this is an issue for them. And I find myself praying for protection for them. A lot. So I’m quite pleased that there will be one fewer person showering the web with liquor photos. But I hear Andi’s concern, too and I appreciate your rethinking why you wrote this. (And please do keep posting Leo-pix. okay?)

  8. Hello Shawn,
    I read your post this morning and finally now able to respond…you know, 5 kids and all…haha…but I really appreciated your perspective. One could argue both sides of the coin…is it your problem or “their” problem with what you choose to do in a situation like this (and other situations). But what I really liked about the post is in the end, you were “your brothers’ keeper” which is what we are called to be. And your choice to prefer your friend and being sensitive to his situation above your desires speaks volumes.

  9. My husband is 5.5 years sober. In many ways, it takes a community. Or at least a strong family structure, as was our case. Thanks for being a friend a listens. And thanks to Seth for being a friend who speaks out as to what he needs.

  10. Articulate and compassionate. I wonder how often we would post pictures of our food at swanky restaurants if we had living and breathing friends who we knew were going hungry. Would we publicize carefully edited photographs that portray our faces and figures in photoshopped glory if we were best friends with a person suffering from bulimia? In these share-all days, have we all just gone too far in self promotion, self aggrandizement, self obsession?

    There was one liquor photo I shared, back when we lived in Chile and had visited a vineyard. I held the dark burgundy wine up, the glass curving the landscape of grapevines and arid hills behind it into a smiling curve. I’ve thought of that photo; I liked that I took it, being a lovely shot and a good memory, but I’m not glad I shared it. Something about sharing such smells of “Hey look! I’m being adult-ish and cool!” Lord, give us the grace of abandoning the pursuit of “cool”, and take up the far greater goal of pursuing holiness and loving kindness.

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