My first stretch of sobriety worked—kind of— in that I abstained from alcohol. But this resulted in a different kind of destruction: years of hiding behind a mask that told everyone, “I’m fine.” I let people in, but not all the way. I let people see me, but only a carefully curated version. I pretended I did not want alcohol, need it, or even think about it. I pretended I did not feel jealous when those around me drank openly, laughed freely, and connected easily. When my pregnant girlfriends and I counted down to our due dates, I smiled and nodded as they stated with relief how many weeks until they could drink again. I berated myself constantly, reminding myself that if only I’d been able to moderate, I would still be able to drink normally and therefore have a better life. I didn’t attend meetings. I never spoke of drinking. I had no day count, no chips, no recovery circles. I stashed my rehab-issued materials way up high in a spare closet. I encouraged everyone around me to drink up. I was continually left out of fun dinners and boozy brunches, wine country weekends and city nights out. When I was included, I often felt alone in a crowded room, awkwardly clinking my fizzy water against their fancy glasses. Rather than feel pride driving myself home after an evening out, I often cried. Being excluded hurt, but seeing it splashed on social media wrecked me. These weren’t just photos of bright smiles, red solo cups, and wine glasses—these were reminders that I wasn’t enough. Not even enough for an awkward conversation. Still, I kept silent. I kept smiling and nodding. I kept going online. I kept berating myself. I kept wearing my mask. The truth was alcohol still ruled my reality, regardless of whether it coursed through my veins or not. It continued to rob me of joy, define my place in the world, and remind me of my watered-down existence.
I wanted to feel levity and acceptance. I wanted back in the circle. I wanted to moderate. And so it happened: I fell off the wagon and climbed onto the tightrope. I began the performance of my life. After a few years of proving to the world what a likable, capable, reliable, room parent, team parent, clearly non-alcoholic, size-2, carpooling, playdate-hosting, scrapbooking, spreadsheeting, soul-cycling human that I was, I told myself that I could drink again. In fact, I deserved to. I had changed, after all. I scoffed at the earlier version of me—the pre- marriage/children/paralysis version that had not yet matured into resilient model 2.0. I was now a woman who could handle colossal things. Certainly, I could handle a little alcohol. I was so convinced that I even got my husband on board—the same man who’d once threatened to leave me over my drinking. The same man who’d once seen me loaded into the back of an ambulance for alcohol poisoning. The same man who’d visited me in rehab and held my hand as I wept in recovery meetings upon my return. At first moderation seemed possible; being rigid and secretive were my specialties. But we all know how this story goes. Addiction doesn’t play by the rules, and it wasn’t long before booze again had the upper hand. For a second time, alcohol would remind me that I am not unique or immune when it comes to addiction. But I was in too deep. I pushed myself harder, killing myself each day to maintain all appearances—the perfect home, marriage, kids, face, and figure. Each evening, I rewarded myself the only way I knew: more alcohol. Every hangover was justified by images and messages I saw online, and every secret was co-signed by my unwitting husband.
HOLA SOBER | MADRID
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