The one year rule, Part 2

As revealed in Part 1 of this post, I fully ignored the romantic statute of the one year rule. I jumped into the dating ring a few months after I quit drinking, punching down and dirty. Fortunately, I muddled my way through dismissal and defeat by burying my head in exasperated poems, managing to distract myself enough to avoid drinking on my first lap sober around the sun.

Year two passed with somewhat calmer waters and one big unrequited crush that was vigorously tamed into a meaningful, platonic friendship (and poems, of course). That left me with empty arms but a lesson in restraint, sense, and sensibility that I sorely needed. I steadied myself with writing, reading, learning, and continuing to grow.

But after two years of sobriety and being stuck at home for the first eight months of the pandemic, I got bored and lonely. So I brushed off my dating apps and went on a couple of outdoor dates to see what the fresh air had to offer.

This time, unlike my first-year fortune, I met the person who would become my long-term partner on just my second date. Maybe I had a clearer picture of who I was looking for. Maybe I was unbelievably lucky. Maybe I was desperate. Having been single for quite a long time, I was chomping at the bit for things to work out.

But I also had a lot more self-assurance, calm, and clarity in my sobriety this time. That must have come across in my demeanor. Because – and only because – of those hard-earned qualities, eagerness worked out in my favor this time.

The big move

After a few dates, I learned that this guy worked in the Chilean foreign service and would be moving back to Chile in about a year. At first, I had no interest in coming along. I’d spent the past two-plus years settling quite nicely into my D.C. apartment, my job and routines. I had tight bonds with friends, family, and writing groups in the area. For some reason, the notion of leaving my apartment was the toughest hurdle at the time. I guess we’d gotten too close during the pandemic.

The idea of uprooting “home” was unnerving, to say the least. But I really liked this guy. And like I’ve mentioned, I was desperate. So the at-that-point-seemingly-distant possibility of moving didn’t seem like grounds to end things. I had time to think about it.

With time, I didn’t have to think about it at all – love made the decision for me. Six months after our first date, we were starting to plan. But I spent the greater part of 2021 worrying about the logistics of moving, along with how much I would miss my family, my friends, and my apartment… and whether I’d be able to keep my job.

All was headed in a certain direction – as love often is – with no escape that sparked my interest. Like a black hole, but with an invisible future that I could only trust would be bright.

And?

I won’t say things have been easy. I knew this would be one of the biggest challenges I’ll face in my life. I have been acclimating to the climate, to our living space, to a culture and its customs. Navigating new roads and a new language. Getting to know my partner’s family – their personalities, their stories, their quirks, and their needs. All with a language barrier that I’m fumbling to knock down, and while 5,000 miles from my own family and my usual comforts. I’m trying to make inroads. Balancing social obligations with introversion, the exertion of learning and self-development with mental health and rest.

But a lot of things have made this move easier – my partner’s support, his family’s warm welcome, and, I must admit, the privilege I wield being embraced as a white, blonde gringa – an American.

Trial has been tempered by excitement. Santiago is full of interesting neighborhoods, excellent food, and fun activities. Nested tight between the Andes and the Pacific, it’s rife with adventure. It’s a poet’s paradise – just listen to Pablo Neruda, and pay a visit to his favorite home on the coast, in Isla Negra. And that’s just at the latitude of Santiago, where nearly half of Chile’s population crowds itself. Last week, my partner and I finally paid a visit to see the more remote natural beauty for which Chile is renowned – a road trip eight hours south to the Araucania region of lakes and volcanoes.

Transitioning hasn’t been as tough as I expected. I like it here.

But I could not have settled in like this during my first year of sobriety. Probably not the second or third, either. I needed that time to heal, get to know myself, and learn that I had the strength and resilience to push through discomfort, tiredness, and the stress of uncertainty. To communicate, and confirm, that I don’t drink – that’s right, not at all – in a country of wine and pisco lovers where that’s pretty unheard of. To fall in love and develop a healthy relationship with someone who knows and accepts me… and finally, to learn to communicate effectively with that person even when I’m overwhelmed by tough emotions or circumstances.

Getting down to business

Not exactly planning it, but surely making things easier, I’ve taken the Big Three of the Rule one baby step at a time. First was my new relationship, which started a few months into year two of sobriety; then, the big move, which we didn’t make until I was approaching year four. Now, just passing 4.5 years, I’m in this uncomfortable space without work, watching my savings take a hit. Feeling like I’m hemorrhaging Chilean pesos even as I rub nickels together.

Being free from a job for a while may sound liberating. At times, it is. But along with anxiety about not bringing in any cash, I’ve spent the last month and a half setting up a business to conduct contract work, struggling to figure out what I need in terms of taxes and licenses… researching – or more accurately, stressing – on the internet. Discovering that U.S. tax law is impossible to comprehend. Waiting for responses from the powers that be. Getting pretty far along in my LLC setup only to learn that operating under one may not even be necessary or wise for my intended work. Hoping to find clarity by speaking with people who know more than me. More often than not, feeling completely out of my depth.

I’ve also worried about the availability of work and having to continually promote myself to secure it, while impostor syndrome deflates my confidence in my knowledge and skills. I’ve been anxious about whether I’m going in the right direction or will need to change course. In my worst moments, I’ve questioned whether continuing life abroad is a viable option.

It’s not that I’m dealing with these insecurities 24/7, but they sometimes keep me up at night. On an average day, I can put them into perspective, stop and breathe. Remember that these are growing pains, that I am competent and capable. That in a few months I will look back at this time and wonder why I worried so much. Recently, I’ve made it to the interview phase for a couple of contract opportunities, so my hopes are up.

Regardless, I’m here now – in the space between jobs, which is highly unpleasant.

But I can sit with it. And I have these past few years of sobriety to thank for cultivating in me that degree of endurance.

I’m trying to shift my mindset, to find patience and joy during this time of change. In a recent blog post, Ingrid Fetell Lee describes several metaphors to help with this. One is to envision yourself between trapezes, which happens to fit well with my professional reality. Lee cites Gail Blanke, who wrote the book Between Trapezes and explains the metaphor in this way:

“The reason I use the trapeze metaphor is because we all are ‘between’ in some area of our life, and because the wonderful thing about trapezes is that you can’t hold onto two of them at the same time. You’ve got to let go of the old one – the old view, the old way, the old idea, the old title – before you can reach out and grasp that new one. And in between, you‘re not holding onto anything.”

What else keeps me up at night?

One other big project is stealing my sleep. I’ll end the post on this note, as it’s a more positive one. Going back to the poems that brought me through year one of sobriety (and, truly, all the years since), I’ve been working on a poetry collection about my life before, during, and after quitting. It explores the shame and regret that emerged from drunken mistakes, the deliverance and unexpected challenges of sobriety, and the discovery of new identities and euphorias without alcohol. It’s a lot of the content I write about for this blog, but a lot more personal, lyrical, and raw.

More than any other project or activity, this book has grounded me in a consistency of identity as I hurtle through major life changes. It’s been a rock, something in which I feel proud and secure. As I carry out the final touches, I’ve been able to have even more fun with it – tying each chapter to a post on this blog, and – inspired by a friend who did something similar for her book – developing a Spotify playlist to accompany one’s reading.

I aim to release The Dark Dance in the next month or so. And when I do, I’ll be sure to let my blog readers know.

Pouring my time and energy into this project has kept me away from darker forces. Perhaps, at times, I’ve been a little obsessive with editing and sequencing… re-editing and re-sequencing. I know that comes from a similar place of obsession and compulsion that drove my drinking behavior. But the result is making me feel better and better – not temporarily better and then enormously worse. Using these personality tendencies for something permanent and positive, both cerebral and tactile, brings me a level of joy and fulfillment that alcohol never did.

I’ve discovered a deep passion and power in words – both in poetry and in blog – that has reciprocally empowered me in recent years. And I’m tougher than ever. Bring on the romance, the big move, and the job change. The lions, the tigers, and the bears. I have my pen.

–Dana G

The one year rule, Part 1

I’ve been itching to write this post for over a year! At long last, and with a huge sigh of relief, here it is.

We’ll start with the obvious question: What’s “the one year rule“? Fair question. It’s a guidepost that advises against doing three things within the first year of addiction recovery:

1. Starting a new romantic relationship
2. Moving a long distance 
3. Changing your job

Though I explored the Rule’s romantic guidance in an earlier post, I want to cover all aspects here – in depth and after two more years of life change and reflection.

And now, the less obvious question: Why did I wait a year to write this?

Because I’ve been too busy “breaking” every part of this rule, in a manner of speaking. Two years ago, I started dating someone (yes, we’re one of those pandemic couples). And about a year ago, I moved to another continent… to Santiago, Chile. What’s more, I just left my job and am considering how I’ll get the next one while living abroad.

Here we are – between jobs, across hemispheres, and a bit anxious in the “space between” – but very in love.

At four and a half years into recovery, I’m not really breaking the rule. I’m supposedly in the clear now when it comes to stability and resilience. But I know that recovery and mental health require lifelong attention, and that doing all these things at once is a risk. No matter how many sober years are under my belt.

Rules are meant to be broken

I recall learning about the one year rule during a Smart Recovery meeting a few months after I quit drinking. At that stage, the advice seemed clear and reasonable. I had wobbly legs in the world of sobriety. Thankfully, I was focused inward – working through feelings of shame and regret; finding new activities to fill my time; forgiving, reconstructing, and finally, loving myself. What’s more, I was cushioned by the heady and fruitful pink cloud. Writing, exploring my city, learning guitar. I was busy. I was eager. I was full.

I had no intention of looking for new work or moving anywhere. I was fortunate – my positions on the map and on the job front were stable. So I could, with what little confidence I had, check off two boxes under the rule. But there was a glitch.

Romance. That’s where I had a hard time. After just a few months of sobriety (nowhere close to a year), my attention was caught red-handed by potential love interests. I shot my shot. I was rejected. And oh, I wallowed in that rejection. My heart was as raw, as ill-fated as an open flesh wound in a school of sharks. I’d been rebuffed plenty of times, but never had it been so painful… well, at least not since middle school. And who would willingly return to that misery?

Luckily, I had poetry.

I poured my heartache and hunger into poems. The compulsive act of writing allowed me to channel my overactive emotions and the zealous wanderings of my mind into something productive and worthwhile. In contrast, alcohol, the sloppy salve of my past, almost always caused a nasty infection.

Doing the dirty work with ourselves

The one year rule exists because we are vulnerable in our first year of sobriety. Assuming we gave up alcohol because we recognized a problem with self-control, and not some other reason like general health or saving money, we’ve just acknowledged an essential fault in our character. We’re still in the process of admitting this weakness to ourselves and finding ways to communicate it (or not) in our social circles. We’re the weird one, the outsider. It’s distressing. It’s awkward.

Thanks to stigma surrounding challenges with alcohol and mental health, many people – often including ourselves – see sobriety as an admission of failure. We were weak. We couldn’t tough it out, couldn’t keep our head above water while the rest of the pack kept swimming in our alcohol-steeped society. Everyone gets too drunk sometimes… why did we have to be so dramatic and quit? We must have really had a problem. And now that we’re sober, we’re no longer fun.

Even if we tear through the binds of stigma and accept that this is a drastic but necessary step to turn things around, we know – and so do they – that we’re still new at this. As we adjust to a very different lifestyle, we must navigate what this means for our friendships and relationships.

Our energies are spent repairing the damage that we, under the heavy hand of alcohol, did to our minds and bodies. We are hyper-alert to omnipresent marketing messages from the alcohol industry, defending ourselves against cravings and urges while the circuitry of our minds ignites with new and long-unused connections. There’s a lot going on.

What’s more, we’re developing new coping mechanisms for stress, anxiety, anger, and more. We aren’t yet fluent in using those tools. The memory of how alcohol felt washing away tough emotions is still fresh. Haste and impulse are more likely to prevail.

Going the distance

Why are relationships, employment, and relocation called out under the one year rule? These are three of the most disruptive changes people have in their lives and can have a profound impact on our sense of stability, identity, and self-worth. Sure, the end results can be tremendously positive – but it typically takes a while to get to that destination.

In forming romantic relationships, we are connecting with someone new, which means exposing our imperfections and sometimes talking about “the hard stuff,” like our past. Particularly in the first few weeks of feeling things out, where the odds are against us, we expose ourselves to the likelihood of rejection or perhaps facing guilt over our own disinterest and desire to end things.

When we move, we’re tasked with searching for local pastimes, finding new comforts, and clambering for friends. This can be tremendously lonely at first. As we finally gain footing on the new map, we may miss our former home and our distant friends and relations – feeling conflicted even as we adapt to our new haunt.

In changing jobs, we must find footing in a fresh and confusing environment filled with unfamiliar coworkers, which shines light on our weaknesses, knowledge gaps, and apprehension. It can take months to learn the ropes and form connections with our colleagues. In the meantime, pressure and stress can rise in proportion to the expectations of our supervisors.

All three of these situations can be stressful, and the adjustments can take much longer than we expect. Year One typically represents the most challenging period in recovery. We can make this restless, dynamic time a lot more serene and fruitful if we pause and take time to do our internal work first. Powerful external factors can complicate, impede, or completely overturn that work.

Read Part 2 >

–Dana G

Creating drama to conquer trauma

The inspiration for this blog post came in the wee hours of the night, while I was scrolling through Instagram instead of going to bed at a reasonable time – as so often happens with my overstimulated “night owl” mind. In doing so, I was fed an enticing confluence of posts… well, two, to be exact. The first was from a psychoanalyst who described what we can do to resist a strange phenomenon called “repetition compulsion.” (Don’t worry, I’ll define that in a bit). The second was a reel from @therapyjeff about the feeling of loss that can accompany settling into a romantic relationship after the honeymoon phase dies down.

The result was me tying everything back to patterns of heavy drinking, like I often do, and furiously typing ideas into the Notes app on my phone before they escaped me.

So, how do these things come together?

Setting the Stage with Booze

I’ll get to @therapyjeff later on. First, I’ll need to describe “repetition compulsion.” The APA Dictionary of Psychology defines this as a concept from psychoanalysis involving “an unconscious need to reenact early traumas in the attempt to overcome or master them. Such traumas are repeated in a new situation symbolic of the repressed prototype.” It sounds a little wonky and convoluted, but this is how it works…

Traumas often lead to deep-seated and long-lasting fears, like the fear of abandonment, failure, or loss of autonomy. That fear (counterintuitively) can drive us to seek out situations of chaos and danger because they create a turbulent environment that resembles the one where our traumatic experience took place. Our fears, hurt, and anger have kept us stuck in trauma’s aftermath. By rekindling this dynamic, we prepare ourselves with a stage on which to reenact our response to the aggressor, another chance to do something where we once felt powerless, in the hopes of triumphing over whatever it is that threatens us.

You can find out more about repetition compulsion here.

A very straightforward route to creating this kind of chaos comes via alcohol. It’s a path most of us are unconscious of even setting foot on, as heavy drinking creeps up on us, entrenched in our culture’s coming of age. If we have unresolved trauma, particularly from childhood or adolescent development, it’s easy to fall into a cycle where we compulsively repeat both heavy drinking and the self-destructive behaviors that accompany it because doing so creates a tense environment that suggests the opportunity for change.

When we fail in effecting that change, we try and try again. But the pain and fear originating from past trauma persist, sometimes elevated due to the new consequences of our well-intentioned but ill-directed behavior.

One of the hosts of my new favorite podcast, Petty Crimes, described how alcohol can make it blatantly obvious when someone is going through something difficult, causing them to get belligerently drunk and to project their hurt onto those in their immediate vicinity. It’s clear that they lack attention where they really need it. They’re almost screaming for notice – forcing others to contribute that missing attention by taking care of and cleaning up for them.

In the case of myself and many women I know, relationship or breakup-related pain can give us cause to drink and act out – but pain and anger related to traumas rooted in family relationships, death and loss, discrimination and marginalization, and other factors can also lay the messy groundwork.

Scratching the Dark and Stormy Itch

Looking back, I can see that in my heavy drinking years, I was trying to overcome the shattering sense of abandonment I’d experienced due to a breakup that impacted me in a way that I can only define as deeply traumatic. In its wake, I drunkenly sought out romantic entanglements that without fail led to rejection, hoping against hope that someone would pull through and give me the sense of security and validation I so deeply lacked. Instead, I only led myself to experience that rejection pain over and over again… and to do or say other things I regretted as a result of alcohol myopia.

At times, I felt the fresh (albeit, soft) breath of empowerment at the back of my neck when I moved on from someone without a feeling of unrequited desire. That was all the soothing I needed at the time – just enough to nudge me onward in the same compulsive cycle. More often, I was out there conducting the “petty crime” of getting obnoxiously drunk because there was a gaping void inside, and I wasn’t well-versed in healthy ways of expressing that or fixing it.

In the long term, compulsive repetition didn’t work for me – and it rarely works for anyone else. Cycles only feed themselves. Recreating traumatic situations by acting out in unhealthy ways increases the salience of the pain we’re trying to overcome. It reinforces an ugly pattern. We’re scratching an itch, and the more we do it, the more infected it gets.

Heavy drinking tends to fuel the pattern. It’s very difficult to break out of repetition compulsion without quitting or cutting way back. Despite my most desperate efforts, I didn’t come close to resolving or triumphing over any of my earlier traumas until I gave up alcohol. Only sobriety could provide me with distance from that pain, giving me enough clarity of mind to break free from the vicious cycle.

This pattern of creating turbulence has been difficult for me to escape. Even now – though I do it in much smaller ways, and in my head, through rumination. I also occasionally self-soothe by catastrophizing and imagining myself mistreated by loved ones or strangers. There is a sort of righteousness in feeling wronged. But I’m aware of this tendency, where it came from, what it serves and what it doesn’t. I understand the cathartic nature of the exercise. I can acknowledge these thoughts, contextualize them, and move on. Still, the effects of trauma don’t leave easy.

Self-reflection isn’t always enough to get over this pattern. Doing so may require a support group, therapy, or other means. I’m a believer that therapy is a good option for just about everyone at some point in their lives. I participated in both a Smart Recovery support group and individual therapy for a year or so after quitting. And I don’t think I would have had as smooth, as enriching, or as enlightening a transition to sober life if I had gone about it on my own.

Stretching Our Way Out of the Doldrums

Back to @therapyjeff… it’s here where I start to see a lot of parallels between what he describes as a lull of boredom and disillusionment after we’ve been in relationships for a while, and what happens in sobriety after we come down from the initial excitement of the “pink cloud.” In both cases, things tend to settle into a more regular rhythm. Like those who’ve experienced war, leaving the toxic environment of drinking or the early stages of a developing relationship – often as chaotic as they are exciting – can lead us to feel jaded and disappointed. Many people start to feel an unexpected sense of loss or grief.

With sobriety, we also give up our simple source of generating the tension we relied upon to work towards triumphing over our fears. We must deal with those fears and the traumas that created them directly. This is harder… and scarier. But it’s also more effective.

Stability is the aim of overcoming trauma. But when it arrives, it may not feel like the nirvana we expected. At least not permanently. When the sameness sets in, we sometimes miss the stimulation and euphoria of drinking or the honeymoon phase with our partner – the acute desire, the drama, the ups and downs, the unknowns, the story ever unfolding. We resent our new steady path, forgetting the hurt, desperation, and anxiety that often accompanied the earlier chaos.

Periodic boredom is a given. But we can create a spark in healthier ways and have fun with that process. Getting outside of our comfort zone can help us to add novelty and grow in ways we never imagined, gaining a real, lasting sense of empowerment and self-efficacy, as opposed to the facsimile of stability we sought through reenacting our fears and traumas on the drunken stage.

In my case, this has meant writing, learning a new language, joining interest groups to push myself out of introversion and broaden my connectivity to others, and other exciting adventures that I’ll leave for my next post. What constitutes novelty and getting outside of one’s comfort zone will vary. Stretching the self is an independent endeavor, contingent upon what motivates and challenges each one of us.

Of course, just as with our limbs, flexibility takes time. We must be careful not to overstretch in the early stages of sobriety. For some changes, like starting new relationships, transitioning jobs, or moving long distances, the results are unpredictable. While our self-image is still healing and vulnerable, failure can hit us hard. So proceed with a healthy amount of caution, especially at first. With consideration of risk and your own resilience. With sober baby steps.

But do proceed, as getting out of your comfort zone can open new worlds of possibility. And this innate resource of ours will be critical when the lull of sober normalcy hits.

Challenging Ourselves Toward Empowerment

When confronted with fear or reminded of trauma, turning to negative coping behaviors or crutches like alcohol may seem easier at first. But it will, almost without fail, route us toward heavier drinking and the vast extended family of self-harming behaviors that accompany it.

Fear is an inherent and inescapable human emotion. When we recognize that and cut off destructive inputs that only make it worse, we can define our own, healthier coping mechanisms. We can seek security and safety in more constructive ways. With heavy drinking and its toxic friends out of the picture, we’re able to create chaos elsewhere – by challenging ourselves with pursuits in other realms like the creative, intellectual, athletic, and charitable.

Sobriety allows us to create new identities for ourselves and to nurture previous ones that were drowned out by booze. What’s more, we develop a personalized and reliable accelerator to help us through times of boredom and disillusionment.

The repetition compulsion isn’t unique to heavy drinkers, but it’s certainly common among them. Everyone experiences some degree of fear. Regardless of whether we drink, it’s critical to find and nurture our own healthy spark to combat it. For those with trauma to overcome, challenging ourselves provides us with a way out of the chaos loop, a path forward. And that is where we create a real, lasting sense of empowerment.

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

Re-entering a world that drinks

The world is changing, yet again – and as always. In the U.S., people are getting vaccinated, infection rates are dropping, and most of us are now able to visit the friends and family we haven’t seen in 3D in what feels like ages. It’s a strange sensation, this whole in-person socializing thing, and sometimes a bit awkward.

For many, the past month or so has seen a surge of social activity, and an adjustment (some might see it as more of a threat) to the new routines they developed and came to rely on for comfort and a sense of normalcy during the pandemic. For both drinkers and non-drinkers, the shift can feel like a loss of control, causing anxiety over the rate of change around us.

black and white image of woman with hands over her eyes, with man standing in foreground — Photo by The Humantra on Unsplash

Sobriety and introversion

Giving up alcohol changes the nature of social companionship, causing most of us to spend less time in settings centered around alcohol and more time in groups where drinking isn’t the focus, such as those based around common activities or creative interests. Quitting can also lead to spending more time alone, in more introverted pastimes.

For me, that adjustment happened well before the pandemic. Though I’d joined a few writing groups that met regularly, I was spending a lot more time alone writing and editing, practicing guitar, and doing other activities to re-engage my mind as it worked on recovering synaptic connections that had been somewhat sluggish in the years prior.

This made the transition to prolonged isolation at the beginning of the pandemic rather easy for me compared to how I imagine it felt for people who’d been more accustomed to frequent social time in the months leading up to it. I was in my sober comfort zone, spending hours upon days upon weeks in my apartment – reading, writing, working, and watching TV. I had one needed “escape” from the indoors, which consisted of long bike rides through the city, but even that was something I did alone.

woman laying on a couch reading a book — Photo by Matias North on Unsplash

It must have been nine or ten months after the world shut down that I really started itching to get “out there.” It took another five months for most of the world around me to get vaccinated. In that time, I began dating someone and spending loads of time with them. Needless to say, my routines changed dramatically. Together, we built new ones – though they were still, out of necessity, rather insulated (which was fine with us!).

Social gatherings in the opening world

For me, the last few weeks have felt more like a slingshot than a gradual, comfortable transition back to social activity. We went from near-total isolation (and with it, total control over our daily and nightly routines) to seemingly constant pressure to catch up with everyone we haven’t seen in a year and a half. We’re making frequent plans and spending fewer evenings in the ways in which we’d become so comfortable. Mostly, the change is refreshing and welcome. But it’s also quite fast, and quite consuming.

Humans are creatures of comfort. Whether someone is sober or drinks, routines have a calming effect and reassure us when we experience anxiety, emotional triggers, or painful memories. Each time those routines are shaken up, it takes us time to adjust. That happened for the entire world during the pandemic, and it happened for me again with my new relationship. Now, the norm is shifting rapidly yet again, from one of isolation and virtual communication to one with increasingly frequent in-person hangouts.

reunion of people holding hands on a beach at sunset — Photo by Tyler Nix on Unsplash

It may seem odd, but I’ve struggled to elicit, feel, and express excitement recently when invited to social outings. My first emotion is often irritation at the consistent chipping away of my free time – mixed with guilt for having that reaction to the prospect of seeing people I care about. It can take me hours to rally enthusiasm about doing something and then accept an invitation. The vast majority of the time, I’m quite happy to be there once I go, though I’m even happier when the gathering doesn’t last more than a few hours. Something about giving up my independence and me-time has been quite difficult.

What’s more, a lot of these reunions and social gatherings involve quite a bit of drinking, taking place in the heat of summer. During the pandemic, I was spoiled with not having to feel like the “odd woman out.” I’d had a nice, long break from navigating the emotional and social complexities of sobriety in party environments. And I’d forgotten what a challenge those can be – especially, as in my situation, when you’re meeting a lot of new people (friends of a significant other) and hoping to make a good impression.

There’s also the challenge of being surrounded at restaurants, bars, or parties by enticing alcoholic drinks that activate our sensory pathways. After over a year of evading that pressure within the confines of our homes, the reminder that we have to resist these delicious, exciting things can create a fresh hell.

group of people at an outdoor social event with a bar — Photo by Antenna on Unsplash

I find myself questioning more often why I’m doing this. Is it a personal choice or a necessity? Am I the same person I was three years ago when I quit drinking? Or might I have the willpower now to have a drink or two, but adhere to a limit? How long would it take me to push that limit? In truth, I know that both my psyche and my relationship with alcohol are more complicated than that. So I make the decision over and over to reflect on what I’ve gained and maintain my sobriety rather than test my limits and backtrack on personal progress.

Fear and projection surrounding control

Despite these sources of anxiety, I usually feel like I’m in the driver’s seat with my emotions and reactions in drinking environments. But in the past month, a few situations have taught me about something that causes me significant distress and can force me out of that driver’s seat. When I see someone I care about drinking past their threshold, I can turn into a ball of angst – knowing first-hand where that can lead, worried they’re heading there. I project onto them my fears about losing control of oneself, and one’s life.

I know that we’re all responsible for our own behavior and its outcomes. And I’m consciously aware that it’s quite normal and okay for people to drink a little more heavily at times. But when I see it happening, I can’t help but imagine the worst and feel the need to step in and protect. If I can’t communicate effectively in the moment – whether it’s due to the person’s drinking, the presence of others, or my own lack of clarity about what the “problem” is – I can become exasperated and feel disconnected.

woman holding her head in frustration — Photo by Uday Mittal on Unsplash

I hope to come to a better understanding of myself and my place in the “drinking world,” which is, for better or worse, the only one that exists. I’ve learned that I need to be calmer and more cognizant of what causes these negative reactions to other people’s alcohol intake. Is there a real threat, or are my fears triggered by my own past mistakes and traumas, like how scary it felt to lose control and have no memory of what happened the next day? I’m starting to realize the latter is often the case. Perhaps this is a residual symptom of some form of PTSD.

Getting back out there

I’ve learned that I don’t have to say “yes” to every invitation that comes my way – particularlyif it’s a gathering that’s likely to involve more than a little drinking. Like anyone, I don’t want to miss out on the fun, but there’s nothing wrong with occasionally staying home.

Nevertheless, so far I’ve lived my sober life with the belief that it’s better to put myself in somewhat uncomfortable situations because they help me learn and grow. Comfort zones can be very restrictive, and my approach is more like “exposure therapy” – with the goal of empowering me to handle anything that comes my way. That might not work for everyone, but it has worked for me so far.

person standing on balcony with see-through glass floor — Photo by Tim Trad on Unsplash

We can’t (and probably shouldn’t) live life attempting to completely shed anxiety. It’s rooted in past experience, and it’s adaptive. We need it in order to detect real danger and prepare to cope with our environment. So I have to continually deal with it, assessing where it’s coming from and how I can better manage it.

Like everyone else, I’m just starting to figure out how to be back in the social universe after a world-changing pandemic – in my case, as someone who doesn’t drink and is in a new relationship. Though we sober folks had a bit of a reprieve during the pandemic from steering our awkward course through drinking environments, the reality is that we’re back to it now.

The world keeps spinning, and it certainly keeps drinking. If we want to remain a part of it, and stay sober within it, we must pay attention to what’s spinning in our heads. And then we need to adjust, becoming our best selves to the friends, family, and loved ones who give us purpose.

–Dana G

group of people sitting at a table outside at night under strung lights — Photo by Valiant Made on Unsplash

Dating without drinking, Part 1

The one-year rule

I held off on writing this post for quite some time because I didn’t feel I’d accumulated the experience to do so. Perhaps I still haven’t, but seeing as I’ve recently gotten back into the dating scene (carefully, and outdoors), I felt inspired to go ahead and write it. Dating during the COVID-19 pandemic is an important topic with its own set of challenges and concerns, which I’ll only briefly address in context. This post is focused on the alcohol piece of dating sober. Or, I should say, the no alcohol piece.

This is written in two parts because most recovery communities recommend two phases of return to the dating world after someone quits drinking. The first part covers why it’s generally advised not to date in your first year of sobriety, and the second part addresses what dating can look like once we’re ready for it.

empty bench in a sunset fog — Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Shore yourself up first

In first year of sobriety, our minds are racing to reform connections, find their footing, and establish meaning and hope in a lifestyle that is much changed. As we adapt, we’re vulnerable. Sometimes we react more emotionally to small triggers than we might otherwise. We can experience significant ups and downs in our mood and self-image, which not only feels terrible but can lead to relapse.

During this time, it’s generally advised that people avoid major life changes such as entering romantic relationships, changing jobs, and moving long distances. You may have heard of similar recommendations for the period following a divorce or the loss of a spouse. In both cases, it’s often called the one-year rule.

Woman sitting on a set of concrete stairs — Photo by Anthony Tran on Unsplash

Dating can place us in situations that are new, exciting, uncomfortable, and anxiety-provoking. In the past, we may have relied on alcohol to modulate these extremes and maintain a feeling of confidence. But when dating sober, we don’t have that crutch – and we’re around someone who may be unfamiliar with our challenges and uncertain how to navigate them.

What’s more, both alcohol and relationships play on our sense of self-worth. Rejection can hurt that much more when we’re newly sober, even if it’s from someone we’re just getting to know who has no standing to judge us. We’re likely to attribute a failed relationship to some fault of our own, though the cause may be something we’re not tuned into on the other person’s end.

My own experience is a prime example. Overconfident in my new resilience, I ignored the one-year rule and pursued a few short-lived romances in my first year of sobriety that didn’t work out. I built up fantasies in my head even when there were signs my interest level wasn’t matched. The reality hurt and put a few dents in my healing self-confidence. But it also reignited my emotional range and creative energy. I channeled my frustrations into writing poetry, which was both cathartic and invigorating, reigniting a former passion that continues to grow.

book opened up and laying on spine — Photo by Jonas Jacobsson on Unsplash

What is it about dating?

So, why do we still go after new relationships during this first year? Why did I? There’s something about love – we love love. It’s novel, it’s exciting, it’s affirming, and it demands our attention. Love inhibits our frontal lobe, which controls judgement and logic. Oddly, the emotional fluctuations of a budding romance look a lot like drug use. When it’s good, it’s really, really good. As with alcohol, we impulsively seek the highs of a relationship but forget about the lows.

When you’re interested in someone and waiting for a text, that ding on your phone can feel like a “hit.” But waiting for it is torture. When (and if) it comes, the text gives you short-term relief after agonizing over what you sent or why you haven’t gotten a response. The cycle can become addictive – complete with anticipation, obsession, and let-downs.

hands holding a smartphone — Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

Because we’re susceptible to these emotional extremes, when we seek out love in our first year without alcohol, we willingly enter situations where a comment or rejection could destabilize our entire sense of self-worth. Many of us – myself, included – do it anyway.

Heeding the rule, but late

I waited until my second year of sobriety to settle into singleness and repair my primary relationship, with myself. I spent the year nurturing my more introverted interests – writing poetry, reading about niche things that fascinate me, doing little home improvement projects, practicing guitar (which I’m still pretty terrible at), and biking all over the city where I live. I also joined creative communities of local writers and made new friendships, tapping into a delightful network of people and learning about opportunities for aspiring poets (check me out at danagittings.com).

Ironically, part of what made it “easy” to be single was maintaining a platonic friendship with someone I was still romantically interested in. Although that didn’t work out, and certainly wasn’t easy, it forced me to focus on the person I was as a friend and an intellectual equal – without the complications of physical and emotional intimacy.

two people sitting outside under a tree in the sunset — Photo by Harli Marten on Unsplash

For lack of better phrasing, the experience could be summed up as “figuring out who I could be alongside a man who could have been a romantic partner but wasn’t.” And it was something I hadn’t realized I badly needed. This friendship, and a few other platonic friendships with men that were based around mutual interests, shared pursuits, support, and respect, served as profound learning experiences for which I’m very grateful.

Though I want to acknowledge how devastating the global pandemic has been, it has helped me maintain my single life. It simply hasn’t been a great idea to go on dates with various strangers, as much as I feel like it would be nice to have a fellow homebody by my side. Instead, like so many others, I’ve been spending inordinate amounts of time by myself – with the blessing and the curse of working remotely, absorbing all the media my little brain can take in, and enriching myself with creative pursuits and learning experiences (when I can muster the motivation to do so).

Read part 2 >

–Dana G

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Dating without drinking, Part 2

Finally, the dating

I’m about two and a half years into my sobriety, and it wasn’t until few months ago that I saddled back into my Hinge dating app. I was a little reluctant, and uncertain whether I was actually interested in meeting people, given the pandemic and how busy I felt with other things. But like many right now, I sometimes feel lonely. I was also simply curious what this experience of trying to date sober would be like.

So I gave it a go, changing the wine glass icon on my profile to show, “doesn’t drink” and making it visible to potential partners. Though this icon a great feature for those of us who’ve given up alcohol (and certainly other apps have similar features – there are even dating apps specifically for non-drinkers), I’ve noticed that no one really pays attention to it.

Almost everyone I chat with ends up making a comment about grabbing drinks. There’s the simple, “Wanna grab drinks?” and the “Great weather for a winery tour!” and recently, after the 2020 presidential election, “So, drinks to celebrate?”

“Sure, but I’ll have a seltzer.”

smartphone under bleary colorful lights — Photo by Rodion Kutsaev on Unsplash

This becomes my opportunity to mention that I don’t drink. I don’t want to waste my time or have to deal with an awkward reaction in person. If my not-drinking is going to make a moderate-to-heavy drinker uncomfortable, I’d rather know that up front and move on.

I’m still new to this and have a lot to learn. But the first few months of chatting and going on physically distanced outdoor dates have been fascinating. Most people ask me at some point during the first date why I don’t drink. I’m usually honest about it, without getting into too many details – and I try to add some humor. I’m a pretty open book, and they can take it or leave it.

That approach doesn’t work for everyone. Many people are more private and need to get to know others before revealing personal challenges and truths. The person on the other side of the equation probably has things they aren’t ready to open up about, either. We all have “stuff” going on.

Two people sitting down viewing a mountain and lake in the distance — Photo by Kalen Emsley on Unsplash

The said and the unsaid

Assuming things are going well, at some point in the progression of seeing someone, the subject of why we quit drinking is going to come up. It may seem intimidating, but we can build courage by making ourselves vulnerable and talking about it. Though awkward at first, just like anything else (except for guitar, apparently), practice makes it easier and improves our skills. That’s assuming we’ve allowed ourselves the time to shore up inner strength and resilience first.

Like a lot of social interactions without alcohol, dating requires more mental energy. I feel like part of my job is to make the other person feel untroubled by my not-drinking – to make it less of “a thing.” I have to demonstrate that I’m generally happy and fulfilled, confident in my decision to not drink, and comfortable if they want to have a drink or two. All of that is true, but it’s a lot of new information to work into a conversation without seeming forced.

two people sitting on a bench, photo taken from above — Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

We have to weigh how much we want someone to know about us. For me, it’s easier to lay it all out. If things don’t move forward, I’ll probably never see the person again anyway. If they do, there will be no secrets. I won’t have to work as hard to remember what I decided to share and what I didn’t.

Keeping the conversation going without the lubricant of alcohol also looks a bit different. Thankfully, after having worked on myself this year, I feel like I have plenty to talk about in terms of my interests. And I’ve become better at drawing others out by asking questions and listening to answers. But it’s still a novel experience compared to sitting at a bar and letting alcohol do the talking. For me, conversations without alcohol have actually felt more natural, even with total strangers.

camera aperture with rainbow lighting — Photo by Agence Olloweb on Unsplash

What happens on non-drinking dates?

Personally, I’m comfortable if my date wants to have a drink or two, and I usually mention that in appropriate contexts – but I wouldn’t be comfortable if they drank a lot regularly. For obvious reasons, I’m happier going on dates with people who don’t judge me for avoiding alcohol, and who drink minimally or moderately themselves. That just makes things easier. It’s also more comfortable for everyone if they aren’t holding back a desire to drink. I wouldn’t judge someone who wants to drink more than a little – I did it myself for years. I just prefer not to date that person now.

Lately, all of my dates have been outdoors – going on walks or sitting at a park. I don’t think I’d be comfortable (regardless of COVID) having a first date at a bar. That’s another reason I like to establish that I don’t drink before meeting people. If they’re content with that fact and still want to meet, they’re unlikely (I hope) to suggest a bar. I often bring my own non-alcoholic beverage, like I do at parties, to establish that I’m in control of my own needs and comforts.

Two individuals reading a book while laughing on a picnic blanket — Photo by Karina Thomson on Unsplash

In normal times, restaurants would still be in the cards. I’ve gone on a few dates seated outside at restaurants, but with COVID spiking (and the cold), I decided to cut back on those.

There are copious lists of “sober date ideas” you can search online – like this, this and this. Hopefully we’re not too many months off from being able to get out there and try some of these! When it’s safe to do so, I find that activities around shared interests can make for more fulfilling dates and room to grow together. So whatever they may be, communicating those interests is particularly important on the first couple of dates.

Though my first year of sobriety happened before the pandemic – the year I should’ve held off on dating – I spent some of it enjoying dates that included everything from hiking to sharing music, going to art museums and poetry workshops, and playing ping pong, board games, and other competitive activities. The list of intersections that are possible with a near-stranger is endless – which is what makes it so enriching to find a shared interest and pursue it together.

Two people walking along a lit yellow wall reflecting in a pool of water — Photo by Barthelemy de Mazenod on Unsplash

The easy and the not-so-easy

Regardless of what you “do” on dates (during or after the pandemic), dating after the first year of sobriety has certain benefits. I’ve found I get to know people more quickly because alcohol isn’t fogging up our conversations or my memory, or causing me to make impulsive decisions due to a desire for emotional intimacy. I have better judgment into whether there’s a connection. If there isn’t, I’m more resilient in the aftermath. I enjoy spending time with myself, so I’m not crestfallen when I’m presented with more time to do so.

Dating sober can also be more challenging. I always have to discuss, to some degree, why I don’t drink, and must work to appear content and confident. I often question whether the person I’m with is truly fine with my sobriety or resents any pressure they may feel to drink less around me.

two sets of hands holding coffee drinks — Photo by Jonathan J. Castellon on Unsplash

Also, a certain awkwardness is inevitable at first because of widespread stigma about those who don’t drink. That forces me to revisit a feeling that I should be ashamed of the past, which is a state of mind I’ve worked hard to overcome. It reminds me that if I don’t look secure enough, others may assume I’ll never be fulfilled and that there’s a real chance I’ll start drinking again. Even though I feel that’s unlikely, the awareness of stigma is a constant pressure. Thankfully, I’ve become much more resilient in handling these challenges.

I don’t know exactly what I want out of a relationship, but it’s only natural for humans to seek intimacy – and dating sober has been a great learning experience. As the world slowly gets back to normal, I hope to continue to grow as a person while meeting new people – cautiously and well-distanced, as antithetical to “intimacy” as that may sound. The world is a strange place, and so are the times. Hopefully dating won’t be. But if it is, I hope it will at least be interesting.

–Dana G

hand holding a glass sphere reflecting cherry blossoms — Photo by Yeshi Kangrang on Unsplash

Feeling powerless

One day after the next, we continue to push through life in a time that makes many feel powerless – especially if you’re in the U.S., a nation so divided that even public health is political. We’re witnessing unconscionable negligence from the powers that be in both reopening society and ignoring systemic problems in areas such as policing and criminal justice. It’s easy to feel that our voices are unheard, ignored, or trapped in echo chambers. And even small victories seem few and far between.

On top of this, the strain of long-term isolation and anxiety about the future affects each of us personally. People are stressed, lonely, and if they live with others, may be dealing with household and relationship conflict. Parents are worried about balancing their children’s needs with work responsibilities, many of them preparing for a dangerous school environment and inconsistent educational methods. We’re struggling with the challenges of remote work or unsafe in-person work environments, with unemployment, and with financial stress. Some of us are worried about or grieving those who’ve fallen ill or suffered the ultimate fate at the hands of COVID-19.

woman peering up through a window — Photo by frank mckenna on Unsplash

Other factors could be causing stress and anxiety as well. Maybe you’re stuck in an urban environment with no way to experience nature or breathe fresh air. Maybe you miss life as you once knew it, and the ability to visit friends without masks, or deep anxiety about spreading a deadly virus. Maybe you’re recognizing personal habits that are bigger or uglier than they once seemed.

What can you do when you feel powerless?

First, know that you aren’t suffering alone. You’ve probably expressed the cliché yourself: “we’re all in this together.”

That phrase has a dual meaning when it comes to social progress. There are things we absolutely can’t fix on our own – global political battles, societal rifts, the economy, and the minds of stubborn adversaries. But we can take steps and celebrate small wins, gaining a measure of control. That could include becoming better informed, donating, having hard conversations with friends and relatives, or making calls to members of Congress. Taking initiative, even screwing up and learning from it, allows us to develop an internal locus of control. That can instill a sense of empowerment as we make a measure of difference.

mural of diverse women with American flag colors — Photo by Matt Briney on Unsplash

Maybe what’s creating a feeling of powerlessness is household dynamics, interpersonal conflicts, or behaviors that have gotten out of control – such as drinking, overeating, scrolling through social media, or gaming. Many of our habits have come under the spotlight during isolation. Everyone needs a little me-time and escapism. But if you only have one or two coping mechanisms that function as escape, they probably aren’t sustainable and won’t make things easier. If you know there’s something you could be doing differently, it can only help to try.

If you don’t know where to start or just aren’t ready, try simply contemplating a change. Journal about how it would look. Read about or talk to other people who’ve successfully done it. You can learn about others’ experiences by searching podcasts, TED talks, or YouTube. If you have the resources, I recommend trying virtual counseling. Learning and starting with small steps can help you feel energized, supported, and encouraged to make a plan.

journal with a pen on top — Photo by Thomas Martinsen on Unsplash

Alcohol consumption during a global pandemic

I’m not here to say that all drinking is bad. The human relationship with alcohol is far more complicated than that. I’m a big proponent of recognizing good and bad qualities in all things, and the continuum between the two. Alcohol is no exception, though I regard it as a primarily negative influence in my own life.

Despite harmful consequences for many, alcohol has been a catalyst of communion throughout history. In the present moment, virtual social drinking is helping people to stay connected and entertained, find a sense of discovery even in our confinement, and deal with disappointment about the world’s most stubborn problems. We might also be using alcohol to cope with stress and loss – not just lives lost, but as Dr. Argie Allen Wilson puts it, “the loss of the lives that we once knew. Loss of the engagement that we came to enjoy so much.”

close-up of an eye with a tear in it — Photo by Aliyah Jamous on Unsplash

Unfortunately, however, the pandemic is causing some people to drink more than ever, justifying doing so with the need for relaxation and distraction during prolonged isolation. They could be under pressure from friends or those they live with to drink, or perhaps feel the need to isolate from those they live with through alcohol. Some are drinking more because they’re alone, succumbing to a daily routine and separated from those who typically witness or judge their behavior. There’s also a greater risk now for sober people to lapse back into alcohol use.

Whatever the causes may be, many people are recognizing that they don’t have as much control over alcohol as they once thought. They may see effects and behaviors they didn’t notice before, and even have deep regrets. Many are convinced each morning that they’ll change but feel powerless once evening rolls around.

It’s summertime in the northern hemisphere. With the heat and our longing for the excitement that summer typically brings, more people are drinking in large groups despite the pandemic. In addition to lowering inhibitions, alcohol causes us to become myopic, or short-sighted – we give in to the pressures and enjoyment of the moment, less aware of events that seem distant. So in addition to the usual risks of alcohol, we become less focused on the impacts of congregating in large groups and slip up on things like mask usage and 6-foot spacing.

pink flamingo floatie in water — Photo by Vicko Mozara on Unsplash

Moderating or eliminating alcohol consumption

Plenty of people are able to mindfully moderate their alcohol consumption. And even those who can’t moderate may try doing so before making a sweeping decision to give up alcohol altogether. If you feel out of control and want to limit your drinking, now might be a good time to put it under the microscope and take some notes.

Pay attention to what triggers your consumption, and how alcohol affects your mood and reactions. If you could use some outside perspective, ask a trusted friend or relative what they see. When a trigger arises, mix in other responses so that alcohol isn’t the only thing helping you to adjust or escape. Try a different treat or activity like a favorite food or a form of exercise you enjoy, boosting your dopamine level in more sustainable ways and giving yourself a broader self-management toolkit.

multi-color camera lens — Photo by Agence Olloweb on Unsplash

You can also place alcohol out of sight so it’s not so top-of-mind when you need release. When you are drinking, pace yourself. Alternate between alcohol and water. Consume plenty of food. Space out your drinks and count them – determine and heed your limit. Furthermore, educate yourself about the signs of Alcohol Use Disorder so you’re cognizant of any patterns that might arise in your drinking or that of loved ones.

Some of us are good at putting boundaries in place. I was not. Despite wanting to control my alcohol intake, I’d continue to let myself finish the wine bottle, waking up feeling sick, empty, and helpless, and going through the daily motions until I could settle into the comfort of the next night’s bottle of wine. I may not have had a single “rock bottom” moment but did several things over the years that wounded my sense of pride and self-worth.

It took me several years to realize I was incapable of moderation and couldn’t drink “normally.” I first tried using a calendar to reward myself with stickers on nights when I didn’t drink or only had a couple glasses of wine. Some weeks were more successful than others, but by and large, there weren’t that many stickers.

pile of wine corks — Photo by David Brooke Martin on Unsplash

Gaining power from theories of behavior change

Becoming familiar with some of the many theories on behavior change helped me to better understand and respond to my behavioral motivations. It might help you, too. This article provides a great overview of some of these theories; below, I’ll share what is really a cursory overview of how I applied them to becoming sober. Though the article focuses on challenges with food consumption and exercise, there’s a good deal of overlap between overeating and excessive drinking. And there are several more theories that I don’t have space to address here.

For me, self-determination theory, which revolves around “intrinsic motivation,” was key to successfully giving up alcohol. “Intrinsic motivation does not rely on external pressure, like rewards/approval or punishment/disapproval from peers or health professionals. It exists within the individual… [who] must believe the behaviour is enjoyable or compatible with their ‘sense of self’, values and life goals.” By examining my thoughts and feelings, and adopting new hobbies, my sobriety became something desirable – not just something I had to do.

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In addition, the principles of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy were built into my experiences in counseling and a recovery group. They helped me to challenge dysfunctional thoughts, assumptions, and coping mechanisms while I developed accountability through peer support.

Especially now, almost out of necessity, technological resources are worthy of exploration – whether that’s an app, an SMS (short message service) that sends motivational messages, or telemental health, such as video counseling. These interventions can be affordable, convenient, and less stigmatizing because they’re private – all factors that were integral in my decision to use video counseling in my first few months of sobriety.

Reading about theories of behavior change and related tools helped me to gain greater control over the factors that impact my behavior – from the personal (beliefs, knowledge, attitudes, skills, genetics) to the social (interaction with friends, family, community) and environmental (home, workplace, economy, and more). It gave me the knowledge I needed to turn the right valves and find the confidence to make changes in my life. I hope it helps other people, too.

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Wrapping Up

Whatever might be causing you to feel powerless, I hope you’ll find the resources and motivation to begin making a change. Even small adjustments can be empowering. Yes, many things fall outside of our control. But we have more influence than we think, both in our own lives and in the world around us.

Actions – even small actions – can have compounding effects, and we can use that to our advantage. We aren’t living in a vacuum, even if physical distancing makes it feel that way at times. While you’re working towards personal or social change, don’t forget that sharing supportive words can have a massive impact on others’ sense of empowerment, prompting them to push for change in their own lives and circles.

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So, take your me-time, indulge in self-care, and dive into the escapism you need. Read that fantasy novel. Take that midday nap. If you’re someone who can drink alcohol moderately, have that glass of wine. But think of those things as hitting “refresh” rather than being the only way out. And manage each one on your terms.

It’s fine and only natural to feel overwhelmed and powerless right now. But by adopting a defeatist attitude and failing to recognize what is within our power, our lives and the world around us move from the threat of limited setbacks to certain ruin. Let’s not let that happen. An ounce of hope is all we have, and with the right tools and a measure of effort we can make that hope a reality.

–Dana G

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Reflections on a two-year soberversary

Our society is at a veritable spaghetti bowl of crossroads. Among a multitude of systemic problems, we’re now at an intersection of two unprecedented situations: (1) uncertainty, distress, and often-futile debate about how to deal with a worldwide pandemic, and (2) acknowledging a history of widespread racial injustice to push for long-overdue social change. For many of us, the stress this brings is compounded by other, more personal challenges, making us feel like we’re living at the brink. Life is not simple “at this difficult time,” as they say.

In the unimportant middle of it all, and with a tinge of guilt, I’m celebrating a small victory. On Tuesday, I reached the two-year mark in my sobriety. Many are familiar with the myths surrounding sober people – that we’re socially cut off, feel healthier but can’t easily have fun, etc. For me, the picture is much more complex. In this post, I want to reflect on what has changed in the last couple of years. Not just the good stuff, but also the things that have become more difficult.

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Getting Started

For most of the first year, I underwent a series of emotional shifts. I had to figure out how to navigate the pink cloud, which gave me an almost-manic sense of energy and excitement. I gritted my teeth as that stage passed, as my spirits dampened and I became somewhat disillusioned with my decision to give up alcohol. Then, I settled into the more periodic ups and downs of a normal emotional life without the help of alcohol.

During that year, I benefited from the support network of therapy and a recovery group. They provided me with outlets to talk through emotions and sources of stress, and to develop healthier coping behaviors. And they kept me accountable to making change because I was checking in week-to-week.

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The second year was a lot easier. I developed more confidence and spoke with greater conviction. I didn’t think about my sobriety nearly as often, or about how new treats and activities were “replacements” for alcohol. I merely sought them out with enthusiasm and enjoyed them.

Now, I freely share my experience and don’t care as much what other people think. As I challenge myself through different scenarios like weddings and (pre-COVID-19) travel, I’m desensitized to lingering anxiety about being sober and feel more comfortable. I still find checking in with a recovery group helpful because the sober experience is rather uncommon. It helps to talk about certain things with the rather limited pool of people who are going through this – for example, navigating pervasive pressure to drink and being the lone “sober person” at parties and work events.

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Identity

When I gave up alcohol, my behavior was often at odds with a shaky and rather suppressed sense of what I valued. Sobriety allowed me to reconnect – with surprising speed – to a more childlike sense of joy and to earlier, more creative elements of my identity.

At the same time, I’ve lost what had become my drinking identity. I’m not as funny or carefree (at least, not in the same way). It’s hard for me to feel as much affinity for art, music, and films that celebrate alcohol, and I don’t feel as deeply connected to environments and people associated with drinking. Some aspects of my sense of “self” have died off – and with that, there’s a mourning process. At times, I reminisce and feel tremendously sad. But then I remember how sick and depressed I felt in the depths of a terrible hangover or a shameful drinking mistake.

In many ways, I feel immensely more secure than before. My physical and mental health are more stable, and I don’t suffer from the existential panic of losing myself to cognitive blocks after heavy drinking. I’m able to work creatively and maintain focus on projects. I feel attuned and in control of when I need to relax and have fun, and when I should instead work or focus outward on being helpful to others. Dedication to creative pursuits and supporting others where I can are new parts of an identity that I almost need to cherish in order to grieve the elements I have lost, and to move on.

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Fun and Feeling Good

The ways in which I find fun and reward myself look a lot different than they did two years ago. Instead of going for the feel-good, somewhat numbing comfort of a bottle of wine with Netflix – or the excitement of partying – I settle for less volatile treats and activities (often, Vital Absorbing Creative Interests) that have the added benefit of moving me towards fulfillment. Well, to be honest, the Netflix has stayed – and I do plenty of things that aren’t productive or health oriented. But they don’t put me on a long-term downward path, as far as I can tell.

In case you’re wondering, yes, I also miss how drinking and partying felt. I won’t pretend sobriety is all smiles and positivity. There are times you feel like you’re watching paint dry. After all, you relinquished a source of powerful euphoria for stability and, you hope, the steady journey to a more lasting contentment.

But in that work of relinquishment, I’ve reclaimed my time – my evenings, my weekends. I’m trying out new things, reading, learning a new musical instrument, getting around my city, immersing myself in writing projects, and participating in various interest-based communities.

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Social Interactions

Fortunately, I’m still close to my friends who drink – which is made easier by the fact that they don’t party as hard as we did at a younger age. But I no longer gravitate to doing things that revolve around drinking, like going to bars. With friends who appreciate and respect me, I don’t feel judged for skipping out, and we find ways of staying connected without alcohol. Sometimes I ignore my instinct, go anyway, and find myself counting the minutes until I can leave. Other times, I surprise myself and have a lot of fun. It’s all hard to predict.

I prefer smaller or one-on-one hangouts, and events with an activity to stay occupied – anything from board games to axe throwing. Conversation and activities are more fulfilling to me than the overstimulation of bars and parties. I’ve also gained a network of friends of various ages and backgrounds through writing groups. Through these friendships, I feel like I’ve grown socially, learning more about perspectives outside of my own and bonding over shared interests.

I value my alone time more than ever – and nowadays, it’s not because I’m too hungover to be around other people. As residual feelings of dislike and distrust for myself dwindle, I’ve become more secure in my own skin and grown accustomed to spending time by myself.

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Frustrations and Challenges

My sources of frustration haven’t disappeared, but have certainly changed. Before I quit drinking, I sometimes became stubborn and deceptive when denied alcohol. My drinking occasionally put a strain on interpersonal relationships, leading me to become defensive and resentful even when I was in the wrong. Moodiness came in waves with how my body and my buzz felt, and was worst when I was hungover.

Though none of that is the case anymore, I have fresh new frustrations and anxieties. Sometimes I feel unbearably stuck in social situations. I feel irritated when I don’t have enough alone time to do fulfilling things like read or write. I worry (perhaps more than I should) about a few people in my life, and get frustrated (again, more than I should) when their behavior isn’t in line with my hopes for them.

At times, I feel lonely, and that there aren’t many people who really “get” me. I worry that I’m not as connected to friends and family who still drink. But I’ve come to realize that’s mostly in my head. When we hang out, it doesn’t feel that different from before I quit. I think this stems from a fear of losing ties to people who are important to me as my identity changes. Thankfully, it doesn’t play out in reality.

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Sometimes, I’m insecure and uncertain whether I’m working toward a sense of purpose with work and creative pursuits. I’ll take on too much because I’m still figuring out who I am. Abandoning projects can be difficult for me.

Occasionally, I feel gut-wrenching waves of self-doubt and disgust. I believe it’s a residual feeling from years of doing things I regretted and not dealing with the aftermath. It can resurface after exposing personal topics through blogging and poetry, probably because of internalized shame due to the existence of widespread stigma towards alcohol and mental health issues. But I think writing and sharing is an important part of my healing. I imagine it will take time and repeated exposure for me to overcome this feeling.

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The Future

The way I approach the world (and my writing), there’s always room for improvement. I still feel uncomfortable and uncertain about a lot of things. There are sources of selfishness and wellness-related issues I’d like to overcome. I want to get better about managing stress and anxiety; be a better listener; perhaps – one day – become a morning person, relying less on caffeine.

In the first two years without alcohol, I’ve had some opportunities to offer advice and mentorship – not just about sobriety. Though I may not be the most qualified person to do so, I’m grateful for opportunities to share my insights and to grow from the experience. I don’t know what “my calling” is, but until then, I’ll continue writing and lending support to anyone who comes to me curious about sobriety or struggling with their own alcohol intake. With an educational background in English, psychology, and health communications, I almost can’t help myself from taking an interest in these issues and writing about them.

In the next couple of years, I want to think less and less about my sobriety and focus more on who I want to be and what legacy I want to leave. I am a bit of a dabbler in social causes, but I could be learning faster and doing more. I hope you’ll see me finding greater clarity and more determination in fighting for just causes. Even amid the seeming chaos of the world today, there’s too much in life to look forward to – and to fight for. I don’t want to miss out.

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Breaking down stigma

Oddly, the easiest thing to write about right now is a topic that brings me perennial frustration. And no, I’m not talking about COVID-19, politics, or where half my socks go when I do the laundry. I’m talking about the way society treats alcohol misuse and pigeonholes sobriety, and how that prevents people from cutting back or seeking treatment.

I want to explore the stigma surrounding alcohol abuse and alcohol dependence, which are grouped together into Alcohol Use Disorder (AUD) in the 5^th edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM–5). Dictionary.com defines stigma as “a mark of disgrace or infamy; a stain or reproach, as on one’s reputation.” Well, that’s intense!

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Widespread stigma creates a feedback loop of shame and discomfort for those suffering from AUD. Because people often assume that one would only choose to quit drinking due to a severe problem, this generates stigma towards those living a sober life. Sobriety, or even seeking help, becomes something a person feels guilty about, complicating what can otherwise be a very positive experience.

I would argue that the stigma around alcohol-related problems is associated with stigma in the U.S. and many other countries surrounding mental illness more broadly. Anything we diagnose or label suddenly becomes bad and serious, a thing to fear. But applying a label to the thing that most challenges us can help us find the appropriate methods to overcome it.

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Why we drink and why we quit

Consuming alcohol – for pleasure, relief, celebration, condolence, social bonding, and pretty much any other reason under the sun – is the norm in this society. So, where does the stigma come from? And why must so many people hover uncomfortably at the tipping point between socially sanctioned heavy consumption and AUD before realizing they might be better off quitting?

I believe each of us has developmentally unique reasons for the way we drink. That’s why not everyone has a problem with alcohol, and why recovery can look a lot different among individuals who do. But we’re in a society powered by the alcohol industry that pressures many young people to drink long before their minds and bodies are fully developed. Many of us go through high school (and maybe college) with a heavy mix of drinking, blacking out, and making mistakes that can lead to accumulated regret and shame.

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Some people grow out of heavy drinking, whether it’s right after high school or college, as they age into their thirties, or later on – or after something they consider their “rock bottom.” Maybe it’s when they start a family or reach a new decade or milestone. It may be for health, mental health, interpersonal relationships, or perhaps a unique combination of personal reasons. They may seek support or assistance with maintaining sobriety through tools like counseling or recovery groups. Behavioral patterns can develop quickly, are often rooted in other ingrained problems, and can be hard to break.

Despite all its turbulence, drinking alcohol (heavily) is still the norm and quitting is frowned upon. Alcohol is embedded into everything we do and celebrate. We laugh off the development of serious drinking problems, skirting the issue with swagger and finding solidarity in alcohol memes and merchandise. Stigma is a dangerous thing – it prevents people from admitting to and addressing inner traumas or turmoil.

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The history of social norms surrounding alcohol

Alcohol is part of a social contract that evolved from nomadic cultures. It was extended to strangers to demonstrate hospitality, establishing the beginning of the social relationship. And not much has changed since. Because alcohol represents and fosters human connection, to say I’m not drinking is to say “I’m not in communion with you.”

What’s more, we have a beloved antihero archetype in our culture of the heavy drinker. America loves a scoundrel. The cycle of sin and redemption excites us. Stories often deal in binaries, in good guy vs. bad guy. So we translate those labels to anyone who has admitted to having a problem, deeming any deviation from the recovery path to indicate failure while we continue to sip our own drinks.

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The earning of “chips” or tokens in AA based on accumulated time sober plays into this, as well. When we count the days someone has stayed sober and treat returning to alcohol as a “relapse”, saying things like “why did you fall off the wagon?” or “what made you give that all away?”, we aren’t helping. First, we’re assuming the person had a major issue with alcohol, when they may have quit for less serious reasons, or reasons they want to keep private. Second, we’re making the person feel terribly ashamed and acting like anything they’ve gained from their time sober has now been lost.

It’s more accurate and productive to think of reverting to alcohol consumption after a period of sobriety as a “lapse” – not a “relapse.” Contrary to popular belief, a person doesn’t suddenly lose the wisdom they’ve gained and can often pick up where they left off. Many people lapse several times before maintaining sobriety. In doing so, they may even learn something about themselves and their relationship with alcohol, their emotional regulation and triggers.

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In addition to affecting how we treat sober people, the archetype of the alcoholic antihero allows us to allay any discomfort we have towards our own alcohol consumption by projecting it onto a character who is presented as unconventional, rugged, and dark. We’re not that dark, we tell ourselves. Perhaps we revel a little in the character’s debauchery. We know how good it feels to lean into the hedonic life, but we know when to stop and come up for air.

Our limited rhetoric for alcohol use and sobriety forces us into an “all or nothing” mentality when it comes to consumption. Because of this, quitting seems to require an irreversible commitment and confronting a huge shame-beast that most aren’t ready to tackle. Approaching sobriety with a more mellow attitude can be tremendously easier, more subtle and joyous. Also, many people can cut back and moderate their alcohol consumption. Abstinence is not the only option.

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How to combat stigma

Stigma can make weddings, work travel, dating, parties, and holidays highly unnerving for those who’ve quit drinking. From interacting with people who are walking on eggshells to thanking those who offer backhanded compliments, it becomes the sober person’s job to seem so normal that everyone forgets they aren’t drinking and is comfortable with the elephant of their sobriety.

Even the well-intended “I’m proud of you” is sometimes housed in stigma. Depending on how (and from whom) it’s delivered, it can have underlying implications that the sober person overcame what was a truly disgusting habit that must have brought them deep shame. That may or may not be true. Either way, it isn’t something of which they need to be continually reminded.

A better way to interact with a sober person is to treat them as not all that different from oneself. For instance, it isn’t “too bad” they can only drink a soda. Maybe they like soda and it’s helping them feel at ease! You can tell a sober person that their mocktail looks tasty. It’s okay to be enthusiastic and still sip on one’s own drink of choice.

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Don’t talk to them about how hard it must feel to be surrounded by people who are drinking or make a show of protecting them from pressures or the urge to drink. That forces us into an unnecessary, awkward position of defending our comfort level, which isn’t everyone’s business and may fluctuate. Asking if they’re okay is a thoughtful gesture, but if your friend tells you they’re fine, don’t push it. Thinking that everyone is worried about you can be distressing and annoying.

A sober person can still dance, laugh, joke, and hold conversations. They may seem to introvert themselves a little at times, especially as other people become more drunk and talkative. Let them do their thing – it’s easy to get overstimulated and overwhelmed in crowded drinking environments, and sometimes sober people just need some time (or caffeine) to adjust before diving back in.

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If you have friends who are sober, try not to exclude them. You can still invite them to events with alcohol, and they can decide whether they’re comfortable attending. You could also occasionally propose a hangout that doesn’t involve alcohol. Something creative or educational, maybe. There are a lot of ways to support sober friends without making them feel different or like you’re tiptoeing around a monster who’s about to flip. Your friend may be much more in control of their life than you think.

Stigma subverts public health and prevents people from seeking treatment options. It leads to prejudice and discrimination, threatens jobs and relationships, and pushes people into secrecy. It compounds feelings of shame and self-loathing through which people who drink heavily or have quit are already suffering.

It’s a dark entity that has no place in recovery, but it’s ubiquitous. The only thing those of us who care can do is to slowly change attitudes through the way we act, the example we set, and the words we use to empower the people around us. So, if you care, do what you can to break down stigma in your social circles.

–Dana G