I now see that I did have a choice. There was no intervention or ultimatum. I could’ve kept up my nightly habit for years longer, crawling to work the next day, hungover and emotionally depleted and ashamed. But I was unhappy and I made the choice to do better for myself. A quick Google search brought me to my rst 12-step meeting. At the door of the church, my hands were trembling—and not just from the alcohol withdrawal. I didn’t have a lot of practice being honest and vulnerable. Nothing seemed more terrifying. But I faced it, and quickly got used to it. I realized I didn’t have anything to be afraid of in those rooms. It was just a bunch of drunks in folding chairs drinking bad coffees and sharing stories that weren’t so different from mine. And it didn’t take me long to realize I could make people laugh in meetings, holding the room hostage for early practice of my stand-up routines. I felt safe in there. But the world outside the rooms became scarier than ever without my security blanket of booze. There was small talk to make, family members to see, parties to go to. I had to learn to sleep without alcohol. I had to think about the prospect of dating sober and sober sex. But I didn’t pick up a drink. And day by day life began to seem a little less terrifying. I was the Maid of Honor at my cousin’s wedding and made a speech and survived it. I went to birthday parties and drank seltzer. I made amends to people I thought I could never look in the face again. I got through it all in small increments, days or minutes or breaths at a time. ”But I didn’t pick up a drink. And day by day life began to seem a little less terrifying.” - May Wilkerson
I was three-and-a-half years sober when I nally got up the courage to do the one thing I’d always wanted to do most: stand-up comedy. By then, I had been through so much sober, I felt like I could do pretty much anything. So I went to an open mic. I got a few laughs. My addict brain took over: more more mooooore. I was thirsty. So I went back the next night. Like years before with drinking, I just never stopped. I’ve nally found an addiction that won’t ruin my life and leave a trail of shoes and cell phones all over the city. Stand-up comedy is hard. I am regularly morti ed. I feel high as a kite one night, and then the next I have a bad set and hate everything, mostly myself. I’m riddled with anxiety in the hours leading up to a show. But even performing in front of hundreds of people—or once in front of an audience of eight that included my dad—isn’t as hard or as scary as getting sober. I mean, I’ve had sober sex. Please, nothing scares me any more. Maybe the word “brave” is better applied to re ghters or social workers. Maybe it’s not a great t for struggling narcissists like myself who feel compelled to do comedy. But for any of us, “brave” isn’t about being lucky enough to fear nothing; it’s about having fears, yet overcoming them. So as an alcoholic who faced getting sober, I’ll take it. May Wilkerson is a writer and stand-up comedian living in Brooklyn. You can follow her on Twitter: @shutupmay. A longer version of this article was originally published by The In uence (www.thein uence.org)
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