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So you're walking down the street. Maybe you're on the way to work, maybe you're shopping, maybe you're just enjoying the feeling of walking around. Whatever the case, you're walking, the sun is shining on your face, your blood is pumping easily, peacefully; all feels right and comfortable and perhaps even wonderful.

Which makes it all the more startling when you twist your ankle stepping off a curb and stumble into an intersection where you're struck by a car. The car swerves and you're not hit full-on, more of a glancing blow. Of course, it's more than enough to explosively fracture your tibia in your lower leg.

When you're released from the hospital a couple days later, what do you imagine you're given to facilitate mobility? A wheelchair, naturally, to get to the front doors, but then what? What primitive, yet effective device are you handed so you can drag your busted ass around? A crutch.

And what do you do with your crutch? You sock it under your arm and learn how to hobble around on it. You occasionally bump your leg on something and the pain is quite bad, but you learn to use the crutch to navigate around the worst of the pain.

You spend a few months like this while your leg heals. You have to use your crutch because your leg won't support your weight. You get around OK. You're not out playing soccer or hiking the AT but you can mostly keep up. Your friends help you out when they can, but this is something you get used to on your own.

As your leg gets better you don't rely as heavily on the crutch. Perhaps you can go most of the day limping about on your own, but, as the hours draw out, you have to lean on it a bit. Pretty soon, you're only using it a few times a week, and, eventually, when everything is knitted back together, you stop needing it altogether. You're back to your old, pre-crippled self, frolicking and gamboling like a wee kitten.

Now, let's imagine circumstances are just slightly different. Instead of being mashed by a car, let's say you were mashed by love. Everything was ducky, you and your beloved were enjoying your days together with the promise of many more to come. You were deep in it, your heart was totally committed and there wasn't a thing you could do about it. With no warning whatsoever, your beloved leaves you, shatters your hopes, and drives fang-marks through the meat of your heart. You feel broken. You feel incapable of facing the next day; of living through work, bills, bad TV, and glitzy, unreal Hollywood romance wherever you turn.

So what do you do? What's the one thing you can do that no one would look down on you for when your leg is broken, but everyone will when it's your heart that's broken? That's right. Use a crutch.

For many, many years I've heard people refer to alcohol as a "crutch," and I've never understood why it carries such a pejorative connotation. Why is it OK to use a wooden crutch to alleviate pain and facilitate living, but it's pathetic to use an alcoholic crutch to do the same fucking thing?

When your heart's been fractured, day-to-day living is a constant marathon of hurt. There is nothing that isn't affected. It's much harder to walk with a broken heart than a broken leg. At least when you sit down most of the pain is off your leg. Nothing ameliorates the feeling of love-sickness. Nothing, that is, except alcohol.

And it works the same as any other crutch. You use it constantly at the beginning, when the pain is awful. You self-medicate as you see fit and you make it through your days. Not with the same grace and aplomb you would normally, but, hey, you're making it. Your friends help, often just by being there, but, quite often, you're alone. And that's the problem, isn't it? Just a few days ago, you weren't alone. You had that SOMEBODY. Now you don't. Now it's just you and your crutch.

So you drink. You drink and the pain goes further away and you wake up a bit hungover. You drink a bit less the next day, but the pain still fucks off elsewhere. You wake up with your hangover a little more moderate. As time passes, you're drinking less and re-integrating more. You're more engaged with life, with moving on and being happy. There's still pain, of course, and drinking takes the edge off, but you don't need it as much as before. One way or another you get to the place where healing has happened. At this point, you can start drinking for fun again.

So I don't want to hear anymore of this shit about "Oh, he's drinking to forget about her." Fuck yes, he is, and there's nothing wrong with it. Or "She just drinks because he hurt her so much." Damn right, it hurts, and vodka makes it feel better. Or what about "Maybe you shouldn't drink so much. You should deal with this." Drinking IS dealing with it. It dulls pain, it temporarily erases wretched memories, and it inspires brief moments of happiness. All this on the road to wellness.

Drinking while hurt is not burying your head in the sand. It's not avoiding problems and copping out unless you NEVER STOP DRINKING. If you use it like a tool, and put it down when things get better, it's no worse than using a literal crutch.