I’m not an Alcoholic.

But here’s my sobriety story (In honor of Dry January)

He agreed to meet me at the hotel bar. I was traveling for work - he was my boss.

The day had been extremely busy for both of us and didn’t lend itself to proper conversation, but something needed to be discussed before a morning meeting. I found him in the sea of weary travelers, calling it a night after just one more, and took the seat next to him at the bar.

“I’m going to grab a second drink while we talk,” he said as he motioned for the bartender to come our way. “What can I get you?”

Simple question with an easy answer unless, of course, you have made the life choice to not drink.

One refusal and people assume you have a drinking problem, that your life is in shambles because you couldn’t handle your alcohol.

Alcohol is a social connector; it levels the playing field in a group setting. If you’re not going along with the group, it can make people feel uneasy.

Most people have a problem with outliers.

I make mocktails now.

I’ve never considered myself to be an alcoholic; I was too clever for that. Like many, alcoholism runs in my family. It was part of my household culture growing up and a big part of life. It’s five o’clock somewhere, of course, and alcohol was used to designate every good time and celebration.

It was also used to hide from the pain of life and ourselves.

During my first marriage, there came a pivotal point where I decided to stop drinking to support my ex. The idea bewildered me a bit. There had never been a time in my adult (teenage?) life when alcohol wasn’t present. I was a little scared about how it all might play out. I committed to not drinking for 90 days, not knowing this one decision would change the trajectory of the rest of my life.

It became clear during that time that no, I wasn’t an alcoholic. What I was was an equal opportunity medicator.

Flitting from one vice to the next in an attempt to numb out but never be fully consumed. I drank too much for a while until it felt a little too familiar - then I would switch to eating, then to shopping, and so on. Anything to scratch the itch and take the edge off. Basically, just saying I don’t want to deal with the situation right now.

I was an addict without a vice.

And sometimes I ask restaurants to make me a mocktail.

I numbed out so I didn’t have to deal with what was right in front of me.

If I could be numb to the situations I had created and allowed into my life, I didn’t have to feel, and if I didn’t have to feel, then I didn’t have to deal.

During the 90 days, I began gaining clarity about my feelings, what I needed, and what I wanted out of life. Then, it began spilling over. I noticed other (smaller, more insidious) ways I was medicating uncomfortable feelings.

I noticed I was reaching outside myself for comfort or coping. Going to the chip bag or making a run to Target. It became clear just how much I was numbing out.

What I found was what I began calling my emotional sobriety.

It turned out I used alcohol to numb out quite a bit, and when that stopped, I became embodied and started feeling everything. I allowed my feelings to present instead of ignoring them and shutting them down (they’ll come out somewhere, FYI).

This also meant I needed to learn very quickly how to handle these feelings, which, thankfully, I was learning in therapy.

Eventually, my mood began stabilizing (something I hadn’t realized was even a problem btw). There were fewer ups and downs throughout the days and weeks. I learned I could count on myself to regulate emotions and situations, no matter what.

Ninety days turned into 6 months, then a year, two years, and is now close to 15 years.

That’s hard to believe.

If you’re feeling the nudge to participate in dry January, I encourage you to do so. You never know what you might uncover.

LYLAS-

S

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If you’re comfortable with it, please feel free to share your experiences with emotional (or real) sobriety in the comments below. We’re here to support each other.