Everything’s Different, Everything’s the Same: Three Years Sober
by
A.J. Daulerio
Illustration by Edith ZimmermanWhat it’s like now: Three Years Sober
July 15, 2016 is the date I raised my hand again and said first day back after about 9 months of pretending to be 9 months sober. I didn't do anything too reckless or wild in between the time I entered into a treatment center in Singer Island, Fla. on October 17, 2015 and that day, but there was no abstinence either. July 15, 2016 was actually the day I just decided to stop fucking around and lock in to the program. I'd spent too much time preoccupied with all the legal drama in my life, very much convinced it was impossible to be 100% sober and potentially owe millions of dollars to a professional wrestler at the same time.
I'd been living in Florida for most of the spring that year, so my home group was held in a West Palm Beach clubhouse that had meetings all day. I'd show up and stay pinned to the back row, afraid to participate in any meaningful way, but now that I was recommitting, I had to change things up. The best way to let people know I needed help, I thought, was to make myself sound as interesting as possible. At every meeting, I'd wait until towards the end of the shares to make sure mine had closing power, rehearsing my cadence for maximum pathos. When I'd get called, I'd forego any talk of solution and just casually mention I was staying sober despite owing Hulk Hogan millions of dollars. I'd say this without any context, convinced that every single person in the room was aware of this legal case and my predicament. Especially in this dinky, dirty side of southeast Florida. It was probably on the local news all the time. What else did they have going on.
I was mostly ignored. Here and there people would offer me some phone numbers, but I only wanted to interact with the cool people, like the ex-biker who looked like Sam Elliot. Instead, the only ones who showed any interest in my offbeat, arrogant newcomer-ness were the genuinely nice folks who gave me their number in earnest, even though I could tell by their expression they knew I'd never call them. I did this routine for a couple weeks, ramping up the drama as much as possible, trying to peacock and take over every meeting because, to me, I had the most interesting life in the rooms. I wasn't jockeying for sympathy–no, no. I angled to be the exotic sage, the perfect mix of Job-like suffering and hard-earned wisdom. I wanted to be a guru. I wanted these people to not only listen to me, but to follow me. I attended these meetings so I could eventually take them over. My plan was to slum it in south Florida for a few months, become a local legend in the A.A. rooms, maybe buy a scooter and learn to surf or play competitive handball. What a great beginning premise for my eventual (bestselling) memoir.
Unfortunately, my plan ran into trouble, because the more meetings I attended, I increasingly heard stories from people who had much harder circumstances than mine. There were people who lost their jobs or marriages in early sobriety and managed to stick it out without much self-pity. One night, an older man with more than 20 years sobriety was the speaker and he shared that his teenage daughter had been murdered just a couple weeks before he took his six-month chip. I was blown away by that. I couldn't stop telling everyone about the speaker and most people in town knew about his predicament and knew about this man's daughter. ”It was all over the local news," they said. This poor man. He managed to stay sober, but how? I didn't mention a word about Hulk Hogan for a while and I began to realize that maybe it wasn't worth mentioning at all anymore.
I've tried to stick to that, but sometimes if I get lazy during a share I'll bring it up or if I can find a way to tell it where it could actually help someone. Mostly, though, I just reckon with the more present-day melodramas. That’s more useful. Plus, it helps me listen more. Finally, I listen more.
This year I had another child. I also got officially married. I had a Sprite during my wedding toast, for Christ's sake. I also started this project, the one you’re reading. I’m so grateful I get to write again. Also this year, I nearly relapsed after knee surgery and was almost institutionalized because of depression. But those moments come and go and I know that now. Mostly this year, I’ve realized how truly abstinent I am. I see this open space now, one where I can pinpoint the exact moment between discomfort and ease.
I used to drink in between that space. I am responsible for all these feelings, now – all of them, it turns out, are not great. My factory settings are pretty wacky and misaligned. I stopped eating meat this year because I have new sensitivities, sharper guilt about cow deaths. COWS! Cows and goats, actually. Plus, I will personally save the planet now that I've stopped eating meat, right? It’s all so extreme!
I do miss how I used to be able to easily change my emotions, especially on those darker days, or make the adrenal rush of good fortune last a bit longer through several rounds and several shots and lots of whatever and whenever. I can outrun the awful comedown if I just stay up all night. God, I remember that so vividly, the whole thing was such a mess.
On to the next one.
