But let’s get real—we live in an alcohol- obsessed world where the drinkers stick together and fingers are often pointed at the addicted person not the addictive substance. There are many reasons those of us in recovery remain quiet. There are many reasons we remain stuck. The first time I quit drinking was back in 2007. I was in my late twenties—not an easy time in life for anyone to get sober, but particularly in my social circle. Alcohol reigned supreme over every occasion, from bachelorette parties and weddings to after- work drinks and nights on the town. Binges, blackouts, and booze-soaked bonding were the norm. Very few people around me were questioning their relationship with alcohol, let alone breaking up with booze. If a woman chose to abstain one evening, we presumed she was sick, hungover, or pregnant.
Chris and I were both about to turn 30, and when I returned from rehab, he too stopped drinking without my asking. Within months, life began to transform as I climbed out from the unmanageable wreckage of addiction and rebuilt upon an honest, sturdy foundation. Within a few years, Chris and I got married, became parents, and weathered some crazy-hard things—like his spinal cord injury that left him with permanent paralysis from the waist down. For a time, being a new wife, a new mother, and my husband’s new paralysis kept me arrow straight. I was devoted, disciplined, and never deviated from putting others first. I wasn’t just wanted—I was needed. I was praised constantly for my strength and ability do life well. For the first time in my life, I felt like I truly mattered. I credited Chris. I credited our marriage. I credited motherhood. I credited our community who readily embraced us following Chris’ accident. Never did I credit the fact that I was sober. Never did I acknowledge that my strength stemmed from having already survived hard things. I covered my scars, which I considered ugly, and hid my truth. Because if I let people see how much my life had turned around in sobriety, then they might see just how addicted I’d once been. And there was more. Deep down I still loved alcohol, and despite the endless joys of marriage and motherhood, I was heartbroken. I stopped putting alcohol to my lips and down my throat, but it had never left my mind. I remained brainwashed by booze and the messaging all around me, blaming myself for not being able to “drink responsibly” the way others could. I might have been sober, but each day I still wore a drinker’s invisible scarlet letter of shame and remorse.
Alcohol was indeed the only drug a person had to explain not using—except for me.
At some point, I had crossed that elusive line into “problem drinker” territory. I was no longer a moderate drinker; I’d become the measuring stick for others to compare, contrast, and rationalize their own alcohol use. Well, I don’t drink like Jenny, so I can’t be that bad. and excruciating—and in my case—absolutely necessary. Back then, I might have told you I was getting sober for myself, but that would have been a lie. I didn’t love myself enough to quit for me; I wouldn’t have known my own self-worth if it bit me on the ass. Getting sober was isolating No, my motivation came in the form of an ultimatum issued by my now-husband: me or the booze, he’d said.
HOLA SOBER | MADRID
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