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I think about this often, that when I decided to get sober it was a choice that I made. I didn’t have to get sober; I chose to get sober. Not everyone has that choice. I mean I was lucky that when I quit, I still did have a choice, because truthfully, I was sliding downhill quickly.
The fact that my kids were at their dad’s house for so many weekends, meant that I could luxuriate in drinking just as much as I wanted to without having to be anywhere, without having to do anything for anyone. I could easily sink into oblivion and let myself get so numb. That was the feeling I was always going for. To numb myself against all of the pieces of myself that I didn’t like, the parts that I didn’t even know how to love.
There has been more than one bartender in my life who complimented me on my ability to keep up with the men I was drinking with that night. At least I think it was a compliment, I sure took it as one. I mean being able to keep up to the boys, drink for drink, for some fucked up reason seemed like some sort of validation about who I was.
I had blackouts. Chunks of the night before just fucking gone.
Waking up in strange beds, with strange men, and I couldn’t quite remember how I got there.
Walking home through Greenwich Village, then SoHo, then Tribeca, all the way down to the Battery at 3:00 in the morning. Trashed, wasted. Thinking that no one ever approached me because I looked too tough, but really, I think I must have had some sort of guardian angel watching over me.
And so many more stories that we all carry tucked away, that sometimes come out when you’re with a group of former drinkers, the markers of how crazy we once were, proving how bad we let things get.
But still it always could have been worse, at least for me. There were no DUI, thankfully. There was no court-mandated rehab or AA meetings. Alcohol never became a gateway to any other kind of drug, thankfully. I used to joke that I didn’t do drugs because I liked to stay in control, and when I was drinking, I at least knew how many drinks I could handle, but I didn’t really.
Some people never get to make the choice to get sober, to quit drinking, to change their life. Either someone else makes the decision for them or they absolutely have to because their children have been taken away, they lost their job, they ruined their marriage. In some way, if you’re a pretty regular drinker, you might be on the path towards not having a choice to quit drinking.
I think about this when I’m talking to women at parties and they ask me why I’m not drinking, and I tell them about my sobriety, and their response is that they could never give up their red wine, or their Tito’s and soda, or whatever kind of alcohol they think they need. I want to tell them I completely understand. That I used to be just like them. I didn’t think I would be able to live without my nightly bottle of wine. How would I make it through the day?
In my case, I just got tired of it. Of the drinking. Of the hangovers. Of the way I felt so shitty. Of the way I hated myself because I couldn’t quit drinking. I couldn’t quit drinking because I had never really tried. Like so many others, I tried to bargain my way into some sort of moderation, by putting all sorts of rules around my drinking, and I broke every single one of those rules.
Then out of the blue a health coach I was working with suggested that if I really wanted to feel better about myself, maybe I should think about not drinking for 30 days. She had quit drinking for a year, and it made such a difference and now she hardly ever drank.
The idea of not drinking for 30 days had so much appeal. It was a relief. Somebody gave me permission to just stop.
And I did. It was hard at first. I remember the first day at 5:00 pm, when the sun slanted just right through my front window, signaling that I was time for me to pour my first glass of wine, but I couldn’t. I had to at least be able to make it through 24 hours without drinking.
I made myself a cup of tea instead and sat in the same chair I used to drink in, and I didn’t drink. Then I reached out to two friends I had, who had both been sober for decades, and they took me under their wing.
They knew what it was like. Those first days, those first weeks, those first months, that whole fucking year. You never really forget how hard it is.
But it does get easier. This I promise. If you’re willing to sit through the hard stuff. If you’re willing to ride into the storm of the feelings, and emotions, and shame that you’ve been burying for so long.
The first step starts with you making a choice, while you still have one.
If you’re ready to begin exploring your relationship with alcohol please reach out and book a STRONGER SOBER session. I’ve got you.
