Monday, June 26 marked two years of sobriety. 

Let me be both fair and forthcoming: Some parts of drinking, I miss. 

  • That series of moments involving a drink landing in front of me, lifting it as anticipation flutters through my brain, the first taste on my tongue, the immediate response from my body as the alcohol does in a split second what exercise would take a full hour to achieve.
  • Huddling around tables in dark places and the way the lack of lighting and surplus of alcohol lend immediately to intimacy and conspiring against the world. 
  • The surety of kicking off a party by making drinks for everyone or announcing, “First round’s on me!” 
  • Being one of the gang, holding forth at the cool kids’ table, wit fueled by whiskey or maybe wine and absolutely on fire.

If those experiences comprised the totality of my imbibing life, then I would still be happily bouncing around various bars and ordering deliveries from Bevmo on the regular. But over the decades of drinking, as happens for some of us, a lot of downsides grew attached to the pleasant buzz. 

  • For example, “the pleasant buzz” became more likely to be “blackout drunk.”
  • That wonderful instantaneous stress release became a compulsion. 
  • That easy intimacy over drinks became a lot of oversharing with the wrong people.
  • That excellent hostessing turned into pushing drinks on people so that I wouldn’t be the only one having more.
  • The self-appointed “cool kids” turned out to be rather dickish (shocking), behaving in ways that sent me into looping, whiskey-propelled rants that weren’t smart at all. Have you ever hung out with a drunk? We repeat ourselves, growing more infuriated with each retelling. I remember myself in my friend’s kitchen, ranting. In another friend’s backyard, ranting. In the parking lot outside the bar, ranting. And so, so sad.

And, as I’ve noted before, certain people I love dearly are suffering from their own alcohol-induced damage, wrecking their health and their ability to care for themselves, and terrifying me. While I have my own reasons to pursue sobriety, the desperate wish for them to stop drinking was a motivator beyond any others.

On that note, back to Monday, June 26. As I neared the two-year mark, I’d looked forward to the date, imagining the satisfaction I’d feel in the moment of the day. And Monday did begin with promise. I meditated and wrote morning pages for the first time in weeks, did some yoga. But then, a phone call. A situation that invoked sorrow, stress and, much as I wish otherwise, some resentment, all of which would color the hours to come, rekindle a familiar grief that lingers still. The ache in my heart is weight in my bones and I find myself lying down often.

And why some people get up and some people stay under the covers is probably attributable to whatever chemical differences in our brains or how we were raised or what other obligations exist outside ourselves. I’m not a scientist and do not know. I only know that something in me insists I persevere. So I did get up and I worked and through the week, I went to Pilates class and dance class and surfed, going through the motions even when some of my thoughts were elsewhere – when are they not? As for the call, the universe saw fit to avert the worst outcome, for now. At some point, I treated myself to a slice of buttermilk pie with raspberries Bobby had picked from the garden.

In the thick of all this, a jab into an old wound, one that has never quite healed because we live in a small town and when you live in a small town, the people who have wounded you are rarely more than a grocery aisle or social event or conversation away. A name was dropped into a story that had nothing to do with what that name means to me and even though what he did, he did a long time ago, my stomach turned and my skin crawled and I was reminded that people who are quick to condemn sexual assault in the news do not always bring the same judgment when the perpetrator sits at their cool kids table.  

I wish, for all who’ve been harmed, that we could remove the trauma from our own bodies and dump it into the brains of the men who collectively keep our world unsafe. You carry this, I would like to say. You carry this, while we, no longer injuring ourselves through drink and a million other ways, live, unfettered. 

I’m less fettered these days, at least, released from the false freedom drinking serves up into a version of life less confused, less regretful, less dumb. A difference exists between the sort of person who has one or two drinks at dinner and the sort of person who has three or four or six drinks at dinner – it would be lovely to be the former, is a hard thing to be the latter. I stick to less dangerous indulgences these days. Donuts. Pie. Surfboards. 

I’ve been lucky. The times I’ve come to with vomit in my hair have been out of sight of those who might second-guess my competence if they’d known. And even in the throes of blacked-outness at various events, people have – judging from the follow-up texts and emails – liked me. “So great to meet you last night!” someone might write following a fundraising gala. “Can’t wait to follow up!” What suspense, waiting to find out what the follow up would be.

I didn’t like myself as much, though, aware of the growing chasm between who I wanted to be and who I increasingly was. How, for all I was succeeding at my job, the version of Jen my family experienced was less than they deserved. Also, waking up without recollection, with no way to even piece together the night before? What kind of person jettisons her autonomy like that?

When I go out now, I still dance and laugh and get real with people. I listen instead of eyeing the bar thinking about getting my next drink. When I feel depleted, I leave rather than use drink after drink to drive my exhausted self through the motions. When I’m overwhelmed by a work day, I go outside or to the gym or meet a friend. I know my friendships are real now, because they have survived in the outside world. Because they, unlike booze, offer true and lasting solace when the world breaks my heart. 

100 days without drinking

6 months without drinking

one year without drinking