Stay Put
Vol. 3, Issue 34
A buddy of mine, my age, sober for a bit longer, took a risk and decided to go bar-hopping with a few of his unsober friends while his wife and kids were away. He wanted to pretend he was normal, but he didn’t act normal. He got loud. He got loose. He bought shots for strangers and happily whipped them along the bar to anyone who wanted one. He encouraged everyone within the elbow room to get roaringly fucked up.
A buddy of mine, my age, sober for a bit longer, took a risk and decided to go bar-hopping with a few of his unsober friends while his wife and kids were away. He wanted to pretend he was normal, but he didn’t act normal. He got loud. He got loose. He bought shots for strangers and happily whipped them along the bar to anyone who wanted one. He encouraged everyone within the elbow room to get roaringly fucked up.
We spoke on the phone the next day and he definitely caught a bug. “It was so awesome. Everyone is so alive out there right now!” His excitement was alarming but I didn’t think he was in jeopardy of relapsing. He sounded wistful in the retelling like the little excursion was decades ago and one of the best nights of his life. “You should come next time! We gotta go.” I sheepishly declined but then I reconsidered. Could I go hang out for several hours in a bar and not get myself into some kind of trouble? I think I could. I’d drink a Shirley Temple or an iced tea and play on my phone the whole time but it might be a total blast.
But what if I was at the bar and someone offered me coke? Could I hold up? Yeah, actually, I think I’d be okay. When I first got sober I hung out with a group of people doing it and just watched them. I wanted to believe that I could still party like I used to even if I was clean. I chain-smoked cigarettes and drank gallons of water that night. Also, do you know how annoying people on cocaine are when you’re not on cocaine? It’s like trying to have a conversation with a group of honey badgers. So I think I’d be able to abstain.
Here’s another idiotic thing I did when I was newly sober: I became a serious tea drinker and bought all these different exotic flavors, some I even ordered online from fancy tea shops. But instead of plopping one bag into a mug of hot water, I’d drop in three or four. I hoped the right combination of Blueberry Rooibos and Elderberry Healer would activate some psychedelic side effects. Never worked out that way, though. I just made some pretty shitty tea.
But the prospect of old-guy-in-the-clubbing it with my other middle-aged pal sounded more lame than dangerous to me. I’m at my most vulnerable during the quieter, more solitary moments – when I accidentally swig the mouthwash and have trouble not accidentally swigging it again right away. Or sometimes when I take my statins in the morning I’ll shake the orange bottle just to hear the pills rattle and pretend they’re a better, more fun drug, one that will keep me cool and squishy for a couple of hours while I drink a pot of coffee. Those are the real white-knuckle moments for me.
And the more I thought about a potential bar-hopping night, I realized I couldn’t handle it. Not for the temptation factor, but, honestly, what would I wear? Almost all of my wardrobe is full of baggy sweatshirts and lounge shorts I bought off of Instagram ads. So I’d probably panic and end up buying some sort of ridiculous bar outfit. Is J.Crew still a thing? What about Abercrombie and Fitch? It’s just better for everyone that I stay put. Why make things harder than they need to be?
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It’s the first Tuesday of the month so that means it’s time to run reader responses to the August Inverse Pitching prompt: What’s the hardest thing you’ve had to stay sober through?
We got seven thoughtful contributions so we will send $35 to the Katal Center this month. Thank you so much for helping out.
Read all their slogs and near-tip-overs in the feature pit down below. – AJD
Hold on for Dear Life
by The Small Bow Family Orchestra
No matter what.
The hardest thing that I had to stay sober through was grieving my father. He had long, drawn-out medical problems caused by his diabetes for years which culminated into a kidney transplant which prolonged his long, drawn-out medical problems ending with catastrophic organ failure at the age of 72. The doctors told him he could live another six months but he would have to do dialysis four times a week for the remainder of his time. He asked them what it was like to die from kidney failure and they told him he would be conscious for a little while, slip into a coma, and die in about two weeks. He stopped dialysis on a Friday and by the following Thursday, he was dead. He never quit drinking.
Early on in sobriety, I had tried to skip all the steps and make amends to him because we had a falling out and we estranged, but it wasn’t good timing, I wasn’t sure what exactly I was making amends for, and I was just trying to heal the relationship. Not a good formula for an amends. I ended the conversation with, “Welp, if you ever want to talk, you’re welcome to call me back,” but he never did. And then a couple of years after that, he died. I knew I was waiting out the clock, but I just couldn’t make myself call him when he was dying. I’d wake up every morning at 3:30 and stare out my kitchen window with a glass of water and say I was sorry. After he died, I went through a breakup and that sent me spinning. Normally, I was a one-meeting-per-week person, but I started going three or four times a week and walking between three and seven miles a day. Someone told me to get down on my knees and pray every morning, so I did that too. When I picked up my five-year chip and got to say how I did it, I said, “The desire to drink has completely left me because, in this shitty year, I thought about suicide quite often, but I never once considered drinking”— to which the room burst into laughter. Only in a room of alcoholics would that joke kill. It was an important year for me—one that helped me re-establish a sturdier higher power than the one I had been giving lip service to for the prior four years. I wouldn’t trade it, because now I know I can be devastated and come out the other side. And I have a better relationship with my dad now that he’s dead than I ever had while he was alive. – R.B.
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The hardest thing has been moving to a new city and having to start all over with rebuilding a support network and the accountability that comes with being part of a fellowship. I moved a lot as a kid and it's like being the new kid at school, not knowing where to sit or any of the in-jokes in the lunchroom. Would have been very easy (and it was a very seductive thought sometimes!) to let the discomfort and awkwardness be an excuse to drift away from meetings. But I just kept forcing myself to go, and to lots of different meetings. – G.G.
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Last year, our kids’ school was open when many were not, so there was a big influx of new families. I’m on the school board and an alum of the school so felt responsible for welcoming new people, which is easy to do behind a computer screen when you don’t have to actually meet in real life. This summer, we could finally start socializing face to face. But it’s my first time engaging like this as a parent, sober. Being sober in small groups with old friends isn’t that hard because they know me and I don’t feel duty-bound to make sure everyone feels welcome and happy. However, it’s a social challenge to circulate through a group of middle-aged strangers at the beach while trying to seem positive and a representative of the parent community without a glass of bravery to clutch and sip on between “So how was your pandemic? Are you happy with the school?” conversations. I find myself making awkward transitions for social breaks — saying things like “I have to go to the bathroom” or waking alone along the water, in full view of everyone. I was grateful our kids are old enough for my husband to handle solo so I could leave early due to social exhaustion. – C.Z.
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My husband went off the deep end. He had struggled with sex addiction our entire marriage. He was chronically stoned for the last six years (self-medicating his pain no doubt). Then he turned to meth. Ran off with multiple women. I had to take the kids and leave. Start my life over. So many nights I wanted to drown my sorrows. (And I did a couple of times, which haunts me.) I wanted to medicate, too. I wanted to not feel the searing brand of abandonment, disappointment and letting go of my old life. But I had to heal, I had to help my kids heal. So, aside from a couple of times, I just sat with it. – C.H.
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Being diagnosed with breast cancer 6 months into sobriety. At 33 with no family history of cancer, it was a shock. I had finally surrendered to the fact that I was an addict – gave up all the pills and alcohol and was focused on my sobriety. Life finally felt good. Then I felt a lump in my right breast. After a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery, I can happily say I’m cancer-free. I know if I was still using, I would’ve ignored it forever and pretended it didn’t exist. The things I learned in AA helped me get through the hardest time in my life – take everything one step at a time, rely on my fellows, and stay grateful for all the good things in my life. And I stayed sober through it all. –L.H.
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It would have to be in 2017. My father passed away. then lost a job the day of his funeral setting off a spate of unemployment that ran on and off for 18 months. My 23-year-old son was acting out with pot and booze and uncontrollably angry. As the unemployment extended month after month, the mourning sunk in, and my son wrecked cars and furniture, and relationships. My major depression came back like a mass murderer set free on a technicality. I had been off anti-depressants for almost two years and could function on some level, going to a lot of meetings, doing everything I could, but eventually, I got back on meds. Before I got better, the amount of time I spent contemplating suicide without acting on it was, in retrospect, truly dangerous. Over 30 years sober but needed the medication and meetings and therapy and prayer and meditation and all the help I could get. – L.S.
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The hardest thing I’ve had to stay sober through is pregnancy and breastfeeding (so far the first 6 months of my daughter’s life). I quit smoking weed and cigarettes as soon as I found out I was pregnant – after a 20 year almost daily habit of both. And during the pandemic, I might add. It’s still hard not to smoke when I feel all the feels, but my daughter has given me a reason not to go back - and I love my sober mind and my ability to skillfully regulate my emotions without crutches. I finally feel free. – ANON.
