Four years yada yada

As each year post-giving up alcohol passes, it feels less… worthy of celebration. Yes, I’m glad to have made it this far. But I don’t think it’s much of an accomplishment, compared to year one or year two. Sobriety is much easier for me now. Day-to-day avoidance of alcohol is my “norm.” I rarely think about booze or my decision to relinquish something once so compelling.

That doesn’t mean life, as a whole, is easy – I’m still grappling with work, health, happiness, and you name it, like everyone else.

I hesitate to post about sober-versaries because they feel a bit self-congratulatory. They could also discourage people who haven’t had an easy time with sober-continuity. I don’t want to imply that my way is the only way. Plenty of people move in and out of alcohol sobriety, never actually want to quit in the first place (and instead just cut back), or otherwise vary on the spectrum of drinking less. Just because I needed to stop completely doesn’t mean I should go on bragging about the fact I’ve kept up with it. Frankly, it’s boring.

Anyway, here we are… at four years. I’m sharing this, after all, because I do think (or at least hope) it might inspire some who are in the consideration phase of cutting back or quitting. Throughout my 20s, I knew I had a problem but wasn’t ready to do anything about it. I was stuck in limbo, worried that sobriety would kill my social life and leave me in a depressive rut with no path to rebuild my self-esteem.

At some point, a few loose acquaintances started to announce their sobriety on social media. Some of them were people I never realized had a problem. But now, they seemed to be doing great, as if they’d discovered new life. When I read their honest, brave, and stigma-flouting words about their past experiences, I recognized unhealthy patterns in myself. I knew that one day, I, too needed to stop. The only question was when.

When I finally decided to cut ties with the beast, I was shocked by how many realizations struck me, particularly during my “pink cloud” – a distinctive and powerful high that occurs in the first few months after quitting. Being a writer, I was compelled to document my new awareness. And I’m still in tune with most of those early insights.

Writing Less

It’s a writer-friendly fact that sobriety remains a part of your everyday consciousness for the first couple of years after quitting, giving purchase to both creativity and catharsis. But at some point, even the writer starts to lose momentum. Sobriety drifts into the recesses of your brain, and the rest of your life – good and bad – moves to the front.

My everyday stresses and anxieties are perhaps a little louder now that I’ve stepped off the pink cloud… but I’ve honed better tools than alcohol for dealing with them. And I have my peaks of happiness and joie de vivre, as well. Things are good. They’re normal. Sober is just a fact of life.

I’ve been sharing my experiences less here and less via poetry, my other lover. I’m very busy. Or so I say. The unflattering truth is that Netflix is just more compelling than the pen after a long day of work. And maybe I’m more relaxed now in my sobriety, so the realizations are coming less, my mind moving on.

Whatever it is, I simply don’t feel as compelled as I once was to devote my free time to writing. That said, it’s been bugging me for quite a while that I haven’t shared anything new. I haven’t “checked in,” as they say in Smart Recovery.

Checking In

A friend who is trying out sobriety for a few months told me, “It’s nice to wake up without worrying that you might have said or done something horribly offensive.” A clear head, a clear conscience, and no hangover. It’s a wonderful feeling for someone who has seen the other side. What’s more, to get off the couch on the weekend and go outside before nightfall – and I don’t mean just for Gatorade. How radical!

It makes me sad to think how many days I lost to miserable hangovers – to my heart thumping and stomach twisting, feeling ashamed and worthless due to murkily memorable behavior, wanting to collapse in on myself like a star stuck in the night, finally calling it quits, burning out.

Around people who’ve never had a problem drinking (of which there are several in my life), I feel like I missed out on a great deal of learning and lived experience from which they benefited, developmentally speaking. Hours of conscious attention to detail, of staring into the brilliant eyes of the world as it is. I’m also sure I killed off a few brain cells and will never live up to my full potential. Yes, I know that’s not exactly how it works. The brain and the body are marvelously malleable. But feelings aren’t rational.

I’ll always hold some sadness in my heart about these perceived losses, let alone the ugly things alcohol kindled and the pretty things it suffocated in me. The way it dined on my insecurities, my need to please… my hunger for attention and validation… the poisoned fruits of my social upbringing as a woman. Then fed off its own carcasses, compelling me to act out on my insecurities, wallow in shame, and then drown that shame repeatedly in its liquid chokehold. Even today, I preserve a self-protective anger about the whole mean-spirited relationship, the hideous feedback loop that was so difficult to escape.

They say it’s possible to let go, to forgive ourselves, but I fear shame is a life sentence. Identity is a possessive beast. She doesn’t let go easily. “Who am I?” and “what have I done?” keep holding hands, in private.

On Stress and Anxiety

Now, at least, I feel like I have a few things to be proud of. Not sobriety itself, so much, but the things I’ve been able to do now that I’m not so frequently wracked with guilt, shame, and acetaldehyde (the hangover chemical). I have learned to breathe, even when I’m stressed and anxious.

That has enabled me to step into new communities, share my writing, and speak up in areas where I once remained quiet. I’ve resuscitated passions that were dormant for years. I’ve awakened a childlike attention to everyday beauty, enchanted as the wind streams through my hair. (Okay, that last one is aspirational. But I have hopped on the occasional bicycle, so the wind part is there.)

Best of all, my anxiety has a maximum volume that’s perfectly reasonable (hint: it doesn’t go to 11). That certainly wasn’t the case before. I still get anxious, but I’m cognizant when it’s excessive and can put things back into perspective without downing a bottle of wine (or two) and losing a day (or two). Which, in the end – shockingly – never seemed to provide resolution.

Perhaps I’m just not as worried about the outcome of my failures. I’ve already been to rock bottom, in my eyes. Maybe this blithe attitude is partly an outcome of aging. Whatever the case may be, I can plug along in everyday life, through distress and worry, without alcohol – which I’d never thought possible.

And Still I Write

Four years is no joke, and I know that. (Knock, knock. Who’s there? Four years. Four years who? Four years of sobriety.) See? Boring. Sobriety checkpoints aren’t that interesting. It’s the same dull material with every passing year.

But with some context, and more detail on the complexity of the experience, sobriety checkpoints can become interesting… or at least informative. Four years has been enough time to have significant, transformative realizations about myself and about my life, past and present. The future remains to be realized.

The good thing about introspection and writing about oneself is that these realizations keep coming. And evolving, as we tend to do. There is always something to write about when I’m in the mood to reflect on sobriety and turn off the TV. These things don’t coincide quite as often now, but when they do, it’s very satisfying. Because of that, and because I think it’s important to share the full, multi-faceted picture of sobriety – not just the landmarks and benefits – I continue to write.

Journaling in public is more fun, more gratifying, and more challenging than journaling in the dark. Knowing someone will read my words makes me select them more carefully. It also makes this whole sobriety thing feel more purposeful. Trust me, there’s plenty of purpose in avoiding alcohol’s rotten breath in my life without this blog – but still, it’s a little extra something.

I Just Want You to Like Me

Also, that writer-born and woman-bred drive to please and be validated… let’s be honest, it’s still there. But I’m no longer letting it derail my life by soaking my brain in booze. I’m channeling it.

So while I hope these words offer occasional help and hope to others – whether they’re reading for encouragement, out of boredom or sober-curiosity, or even to judge my self-disclosure – I mostly just hope (like me) that they’re good enough. Along with the poetry book I’ve been trying to tie up for years and will eventually share with you, if I ever manage to stop editing it. I’m shooting for fall.

In this sense, don’t be like me. But if you are, consider joining me in a pact to care less about how we come across. We can keep doing our best, but do it for ourselves – because it makes us feel our best. Also, whether your next year is sober, boozy, or somewhere in between, let’s focus more on how we’re doing on the inside. Let’s check in. Breathe through the anxiety, pay attention to everyday beauty, and feel the wind in our hair. That’s what I’ll be working on, until next time.

-Dana G

Grief over lost time and potential

The COVID-19 pandemic has caused people to experience grief in varied and layered ways. Most of us feel like we’re missing out – losing our ability to go places, have new and exciting experiences, spend time with those we love, or reach and celebrate life’s milestones. Many have lost opportunities and livelihoods, jobs and homes. Infants and young people at formative ages are missing out on critical social interactions and in-person learning experiences. College students have had to forego scholarships and foundational coming of age interactions. Many people are deeply lonely, isolated from family, and struggling to form or maintain romantic and friendship bonds. And, of course, some have experienced the ultimate loss, the death of loved ones.

This is related to a feeling of grief that many undergo after they quit drinking – usually after the initial high of the pink cloud subsides and we return to a more regular emotional rhythm. It’s a sense of having lost time and opportunities in the important years of our life due to heavy drinking. We may feel that we’ve completely missed out, burned some bridges, or gotten behind on reaching our personal goals and life’s milestones. Maybe we expected to be married by now, with kids or grandkids. Maybe we didn’t pursue a track of study or work that we were once passionate about.

image of a woman shot from the back with a train rushing by in the foreground — Photo by Fabrizio Verrecchia on Unsplash

The amount of time, and the opportunities that feel lost, vary greatly among those who’ve cut back or given up on alcohol. Regardless, this sense of grief can be tremendously painful – and it can feel impossible to make up for those losses.

Many sober people who once drank heavily go on to do amazing and impressive things with their lives, like winning marathons or publishing novels. When we hear those kinds of stories, we may compare ourselves to those individuals and wonder why we can’t make similar strides in our own lives. What about the perfectly average among us? Even though we may improve our lives in considerable ways and be more stable and resilient, we sometimes feel like we’re not living up to our potential.

light coming through a large industrial door — Photo by Hermes Rivera on Unsplash

My own grief during the pandemic

A few months into lockdown, I started experiencing this sense of grief myself. I’ve become increasingly aware of what I lost – or didn’t build – during the years I was drinking heavily. The feeling was worsened by the isolating effects of the pandemic. I also don’t feel that I’m making as much progress with passion projects as I was before all this started. I’d been prolific with writing poetry, excited about learning guitar, and fulfilled as I got to travel for work and vacation. My eyes had been opened to a world of possibilities brought on by my sobriety.

But all of that growth got turned on its head on March 12, 2020, when my office shifted to full telework. Along with the rest of the world, I had to shut my doors to face-to-face interactions, travel, in-person poetry workshops, guitar lessons… all of the things that had been making me feel alive and whole for the first time in years.

soccer ball outside of a black iron gate — Photo by Bruno Kelzer on Unsplash

Sure, a lot of these activities can be continued or replicated in the virtual environment, and I’m taking advantage of that. But just like everyone else, I quickly burned out on video calls and other virtual hangouts. And I’ve lost my internal fire for a lot of my hobbies. I feel more scattered and less focused, with a general sense of malaise.

Though my sobriety at first made me feel more secure and resilient during the pandemic, recently it’s begun to hover a magnifying glass over my life, homing in on what’s meaningful and what’s not. This has forced me to question my identity, my purpose, my career track, my relationships, and even the value of my new passions. It’s made me wonder whether I should (or could) go back to school and pursue a career in something that interests me at a deeper level. But then I worry that it’s too late, that I’d be too far behind – or maybe it wouldn’t feel quite right, or that I still wouldn’t feel fulfilled in that area of my life.

signpost pointing in various directions against a pink and blue sunset — Photo by Javier Allegue Barros on Unsplash

I’ve also become more aware of holes in my knowledge, such as history and geopolitics, which can feel embarrassing and painful. I begin to criticize myself, thinking that perhaps I wouldn’t have those gaps if I hadn’t been so absorbed in meaningless activities that involved drinking. If only I’d been focused on finding the right career path and enriching myself intellectually. I know that I’m still fairly young and curious enough to fill many of these gaps, and that everyone has knowledge gaps – we don’t need to be ashamed of them. But I still stress over this awareness, and knowing that our minds are substantially less elastic after our 20s adds to my frustration.

With all this uncertainty and reflection comes a lot of pressure, a sense of only having one life to live and wondering if I’m doing enough with it. Am I even capable of making some large change, and if so, what would it be? I worry about both my capabilities and my purpose, unsure of what I really want out of life. I wonder if this is drinking’s legacy or just one step in sobriety?

image of a woman from behind with her hands and face pressed against a small window — Photo by Mario Azzi on Unsplash

When it comes to finding answers to these questions, I know I’m not there yet and should go easy on myself. At a high level, I’m aware that these aren’t unusual things to ask yourself in your early 30s, often a transitional time in life. In fact, it’s typical to compare ourselves to our peers throughout our lives, questioning whether we’ve made the right choices. I also recognize that this is a newer feeling that must be due in part to the pandemic. It’s probably temporary. It may also be something I need to experience to have some significant realization of a change that’s needed in my life. Or perhaps incremental changes will add up to transformation over time. I don’t think I can know any of this yet.

In the meantime, when I let my emotions overtake reason (and I recognize that’s normal and okay sometimes), what I experience is uncomfortable and demoralizing. It’s grief. For my own well-being, I must acknowledge that what hurts is to know that I might be in a different place – fully content, more successful, and thriving – if I hadn’t handed over many of my formative years to drinking. Or, it may have had less to do with drinking, and more to do with other decisions I made at pivotal times in my life.

image of a flat, calm ocean with blue sky — Photo by Dimitri Houtteman on Unsplash

In truth, I can’t disentangle how much of this uncertainty is related to having had problems with alcohol in the past, and how much of it’s related to other factors like my age, the pandemic, my personality and other psychological factors, or things outside of my understanding. I can only be patient with these unknowns, and hope that a path forward will become clear eventually. Most likely, that will be after the pandemic finally ends. And that’s a good reason to avoid making rash life changes right now, knowing that this is such an unusual time.

It’s not about “fixing it”

A work acquaintance recently told me she’d just found out her husband of 26 years was having an affair. It was the first thing she said on our call, with tremendous pain in her voice. Though it wasn’t the most professional way to kick off a work call, it was evident she just needed someone to recognize that the situation entirely sucked – that nothing could hurt more than this did right now. The last thing I wanted to do was tell her it would get better. Instead, all I said is that the situation was completely awful, and that I was so sorry she was going through this on top of all the other challenges the pandemic has brought.

turquoise chair against a wall with peeling wallpaper — Photo by Julius Drost on Unsplash

I’m no expert on grief counseling, and in fact struggled with how to respond in the moment. But I know it can be counterproductive to succumb to the knee-jerk response of telling people things will get better. During the pandemic, we’ve grown desensitized (even annoyed) by empty, optimistic clichés like “we’re all in this together” or “hope you’re okay during this trying time.” They either fall flat or run directly against our lived experience. Though our human instinct is to want to alleviate pain and make things easier for one another, that’s not always the next step for someone in an early stage of grief. So the goal of our social interactions can’t always be to fix things for one another.

Our pains – and their impacts upon us – are diverse. Some of us are struggling with a sense grief due to missing out and experiencing loss due to COVID-19. Others, like me, feel they’ve lost opportunities and time in the wake of a long period of heavy drinking. Perhaps you’re struggling with grief due to something else, like my work acquaintance. Regardless, the simple acknowledgement of pain (not to mention, counseling or therapy) can go a long way. I think that may be all we can do, for ourselves and for each other, right now. Recognize loss, acknowledge pain, and let the answers come in their own time.

–Dana G