mark—naïve at best and dangerous at worst—it has the potential to minimize and trivialize all that is raw and real. In certain contexts, it curtsies a bit toward the convenient and cavalier. True sobriety—meaning both physical and emotional—is the ultimate gift those of us in recovery give to ourselves. But tying it up with a pretty ribbon doesn’t do anyone any favors. Getting sober means getting real. No one heals in body, mind, and spirit by showing up as their curated version; those who rise must first learn to drop the mask. They must accept and take responsibility for hard things. They must learn to climb in the trenches without any armor. They must learn to sit face to face with their deepest fears, thanking them for being their hardest, best teachers. Today, I am offered a seat amongst courageous ones with sweat on their brows, scars on their souls, and stars in their eyes. We roll up our sleeves and “do the work.” But we laugh, too. Genuine, organic laughter. A lot of it, trust me. No exclamation point is required. Next up? The question mark. This one holds a prominent role in our cast of characters, yet it too simply doesn’t belong here. Not in this context. Yes, we humans are allowed to get curious, to change, to grow, to challenge the status quo. In fact, we should never stop doing these things. It’s what keeps us moving along in this lifelong journey without a destination. But when it comes to addiction, the question mark is what tripped up so many of us. For years, I was asking plenty of questions all right—they were just the wrong ones. Instead of questioning alcohol—which has the potential to destroy lives, livers, lovers, families, finances, friendships, dreams, memories, reputations, careers, brains, bodies, and babies—I only questioned myself: What the F is wrong with
me? Why can’t I drink like other people? Why can’t I control it, like I can control everything else in my life? Why do I drink so much? Think about it so much? Need it so much? Like many people, I began drinking in my teens. Very quickly it became a priority, then a problem. Naturally, I began to suffer some consequences, but they were never enough. Because in my hijacked mind, alcohol was not the problem—I was. I began to subconsciously abandon myself, never dreaming of abandoning the drink. Alcohol became the opposite of my problem—to me, it became my trusted solution. Time and again, I protected and turned to the very thing that was hurting me. Societal messages merely reinforced my self-directed blame finger: we live in a world that normalizes and celebrates alcohol, yet we shun and shake our heads and label those who need, crave, obsess, or drink too much of it. Through both my years of white-knuckle sobriety and my years of addiction, it’s no wonder I stayed quiet; I was on the losing team either way. There was one underlying question I continued to ask myself, and it was perhaps the most damaging of all: how could anyone possibly live a full, happy life without the boosts and blurs of booze? I didn’t understand people who chose to not drink, and I felt sorry for those deemed no longer able to. The last thing I ever wanted was to be one of them. Alcohol was my reward. A surefire way of easing into myself and my life. It livened me when I was depleted and softened me when the world grew too jagged for my sensitive parts. I tend to “idle high,” as my therapist says, with an unsanctioned inner ticker rolling endlessly between my ears. I am shy and pretend not to be. I care deeply about most things,
HOLA SOBER | MADRID
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