Okay, I’m going to level with you here:
Sobriety kind of stinks.
Ironically, the “abstaining from alcohol” part of sobriety isn’t what makes it stink, although you’d think that was the tricky part. In reality, the benefits of sobriety are so great that abstaining is one of the easiest parts, at least comparatively. But that whole part about how I have to abstain from drinking alcohol? That part can go kick rocks.
Don’t get me wrong: I like that I’m not consuming pointless liquid calories that will kill me faster than copious amounts of cake ever could. I like that, as far as overcoming addiction goes, I picked the one that could kill me the fastest. I like that I’m free of the demons that held me for years under their oppressive thumbs each and every time I drank (or wanted to.) I like that I am the only one at the party who is clear-headed and in control.
But that also means that I’m the only one at the party who is clear-headed and in control. I’m the only one who never really lets loose and ends up riding the bull with some guy’s cowboy hat on my foggy noggin.’ I’m the only one who remembers every moment, even the painful ones, and has had to learn to deal with them in healthy ways rather than to drink them away — even if it’s just for one night.
I’m the only one who stares alcohol in the face daily, be it from movies, television, or just living in the real world, without allowing myself a single moment of weakness. I’m the only one who sits across from a new acquaintance who suggests we go out for drinks; I’m the only one who has to alienate herself by once again explaining, with as little detail as possible to avoid the intense awkward silence that will follow if I divulge more, that thanks but sorry, no, I don’t drink.
Life just hits differently for sober people. It separates us from “everyone else,” because in general, everyone else either drinks regularly, because it’s entirely acceptable in our society to do so, or they can drink regularly if they choose to. Everyone else isn’t plagued with worry about how much alcohol they’ll have to see them through a weeknight, or if they smell like the wine they drowned themselves in the night before when they roll into the office in the morning.
Everyone else goes to the party, while sober lifers like me stay home and drink tea. And I like tea; it’s fine. But I also like to occasionally feel like I belong.
Sober people don’t belong anywhere but a certain kind of meeting — and we know it.
Let’s go for a drink sometime!
No can do, friend.
Sure, I can set foot in a bar without exploding. I can even sit down without sticking my head under the beer tap. I can be a damned adult.
But I hate it. We all hate it.
Going to a bar surrounded by people who either don’t have the same issues with addiction that I do or who live in sweet, sweet denial of said addiction is an experience that I’d really rather not have. Like, ever again, if possible.
Can’t we take a nice walk? Enjoy the sweet smell of the blooming lilacs as they warm their pretty petals in the springtime sun together? Take a pleasant drive through the mountains that we happen to live so conveniently close to, windows down, accompanied by awesome tunes we can sing along to?
No? It’s gonna have to be overpriced appetizers and sparkling water while I watch everyone around me get loose and silly, I guess. Whoopie.
For those of you who don’t struggle with addiction like this, there’s something you should understand: being in an environment where the entire purpose is to drink is exactly zero fun for sober people. It’s like being in a room full of ice cream sandwiches when you’re severely lactose intolerant and then being forced to watch everyone around you eat, like, twenty sugary, creamy delights.
Meanwhile, you get served soggy lettuce and water — and you’ll pay for that in more ways than one.
I need a drink.
We all need a stiff drink from time to time.
Tough day at the office? That’s what happy hour is for! Kids got you running ragged? Get yourself some “mommy juice.”
Not so for us sober folks.
What’s funny (in a non-haha kind of way) is that we still have that urge. We’re not flawless. We’re not superhuman. When life kicks our behinds, we really need that drink, too — just like you. Only we can’t do it.
We just can’t.
There’s something to be said for being handed a nice, overfull glass of red wine and just knowing that your problems will seem less awful in roughly 17 minutes. Not having that weird little security blanket means that you have to actually deal with your life.
That isn’t to say that those who do partake in the occasional alcoholic remedy for what ails them don’t deal with their lives —I’m sure they do, since they clearly have something figured out that I don’t. They just have the benefit of some extra soothing comfort to help them get that healing process started, while we try to make some kind of magic happen with our sparkling waters and ginger teas.
I don’t regret my decision to go teetotal, but ginger tea is no shiraz. It’s okay to admit that sometimes, that’s really hard.
Your friends may flee
I never thought I would lose my friends when I quit drinking.
As someone who kept the same friends she had as a dorky middle school band geek, this one hit hard. It came out of left field because, after literally decades of knowing each other implicitly, I learned the hard way that we really didn’t know each other at all.
Some of these lovely people got married, divorced, and then remarried. Some had kids, careers, and businesses. Some moved to faraway countries and returned; some didn’t come back. But through it all, we remained buddies, picking up where we left off every time we were all together.
Until now.
I recall the last time I saw everyone; it was almost a year ago. I was genuinely happy to see those faces—the ones I’d memorized every detail of over the years. We all have more laugh lines, of course. Crows feet. There is an element of “distance” in our eyes—the effect of a life lived with both the good and the bad to toughen our hides and make us grow up whether we were ready to or not. But in essence, everyone was the same.
We weren’t, though. It took me a while to work out what it was that had changed, and I realized that as a result of my sobriety, my life had changed so much that I fell out of sync with the very people I’d thought I would always be in sync with.
It was a bizarre, uneasy feeling, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was true. When you make the move to full-time, forever sobriety, the friends you’ve spent years drinking with — from dated basements in the days of your youth to upscale bars in your 30s — will carry on drinking as adults. Guess what happens when you stop?
You make them uncomfortable. Suddenly, they don’t know what to say to you; they’re afraid to offend. They’re afraid that by drinking in front of you, they’ll single-handedly send you spiraling back into your addiction (a very real possibility for some.)
I appreciate the concern, and I get it — they care, and they also don’t want to make my sobriety any tougher than it already is. The reason this whole thing stinks, though, is that they’ve accidentally made me an outsider by trying to protect me from myself.
I hate when that happens.
The constant fear is palpable
And outsiders don’t get that.
Sober people are afraid of an awful lot. We’ll put on a brave face and power through — that’s how we got to this glorious place of freedom and health, after all — but it’s a daily struggle. I’m serious: It’s a daily struggle to stay sober.
We’re afraid we’ll mess it up. We’re afraid we’ll fall off the wagon so badly that we’ll roll under it. We fear the changes that are inevitable, such as the very likely loss of friends you never thought you’d lose.
The fears that I live with are palpable. I can still taste that last glass of wine, despite it taking place over four years ago. I can still remember how my body felt — puffy and creaky and awful. I can still feel that lingering self-hatred. I’m afraid of what could happen (and likely would happen) if I started drinking again, especially considering the torture I put myself through to get to where I am now.
And I’m terrified I’ll mess it up.
People who haven’t experienced the vice-like hold of addiction have no idea how one tiny act can cause a person’s entire life to come crashing down in a heap, and damn, I’m a bit envious of that ignorance.
You’re as different as your new life is
The truth of it all is this: when you get sober and you really, really mean it, you change.
I was talking to my husband about this, and he made a great observation. While I lamented my old friends’ new indifference toward me, he said, “You’re really different now, though; the things you like and do are different. Maybe it’s you who has changed,” and he walked off with his coffee as though he hadn’t said something so bang on that it made my head hurt.
When you embrace a sober life, you change. You will be different, and you will always be different than those who don’t have the same dirty little secret. Sober people are an odd blend of being just a little bit messed up perpetually while also being so together and brave that we secretly feel there is nothing we can’t take on.
Because we did it. We dumped the booze down the drain and scorned it forever. We faced our demons, and we face them daily, and we can’t rely on liquid courage to help us win. We can’t rely on our bad habits to punctuate the best and worst moments of our lives, and we refuse to.
That kind of makes us unicorns, you know. With all of the crap I’ve put myself through and all of the trials I’ve had to overcome, I’d still choose this life. I’d still choose that first drink, and I’d still learn to overcome it, because here’s the thing: I’m extremely proud of myself. I’m proud of choosing life over a kind of living death. I know I’m one of the lucky ones, and now I have a better shot at living long enough to see my kids become adults and at becoming a grandmother one day. I have a shot at real life.
Four years ago, I made a promise to myself that I would never turn back. I’ll take the constant fear, the loss of friends, and the uncomfortable conversations any day over the poor excuse for a life I lived before I made that promise.
Sober life just hits differently, and that’s okay. This is the way we’re meant to live.
This is the way we get to live; don’t spoil it.
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This post was previously published on AINYF…Alcohol is NOT Your Friend.
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The post Life Hits Different When You’re Sober appeared first on The Good Men Project.
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