Being sober in the Trump-era
On November 8th, 2016 at around 8pm it was looking pretty grim. I happened to be speaking at a recovery meeting at a rehab. No one wanted to be there that night. We wanted to be glued to our phones or watching television or getting high. I made it about halfway through my 40 minute share before I broke down and just started sobbing. The kind of crying where it comes out thick and ugly and it’s unstoppable, and you’re choking through inspirational statements like, “I have a relationship with my family today.” I couldn’t regain my composure. When I finished my talk I made sure to say “your welcome” and give a hug to everyone who came up to thank me. People with 24 days sober were comforting me like, “I loved your share! I related a lot…Oh honey, it’s gonna be ok.”

The following week was the first time in many years that I wanted a drink. This isn’t to say that in the 10 years I had been sober I never faced any adversity or hardships. I’ve gone through breakups, had shitty relationships, buried people, dealt with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I was even homeless for a minute back in 2007 when I was a month shy of my one year sober birthday. A lot of life happens in ten years whether you’re sober or not. And though my time spent sober doesn’t make pain easier, the one thing it offers is experience, it’s that muscle memory that reminds me, “Ok, I’ve done this before. I can get through this.” Then I take whatever action I need to take to get well.
By December none of my clothes fit and I was in full on “fuck you, leggings are pants” mode. I had been ordering delivery nearly every night because I was too overcome with depression to cook or go to the gym. I hadn’t ridden my bike since October. Before then I had been riding my bike upwards of 100 miles a week. And I wasn’t going to do the AIDS Ride this year. I wasn’t going to do fucking anything this year. Except go to Las Vegas to sit amongst sad, drunk people at 6am and play quarter roulette. I was gonna refresh Twitter and get angry at what people had to say. I was gonna watch a shit-ton of Kitchen Nightmares re-runs and stay up til 4am. And I was gonna avoid people in the recovery scene because I was gonna avoid everyone. It was easy to do because I work from home. It was easy to disapear and exist only online as a crazy woman on Twitter.

I stopped doing what I needed to be doing to stay well in sobriety. Aside from the decline in my physical health and the shitty depression-formed habits I had become all too settled into, any sense of spirituality I had was gone. I was being propelled soley by rage, and not even the productive rage where at least you get shit done because you’re motivated to avenge everyone who ever wronged you. Oh no. I was the bitter, sedentary rage that yells at CNN while fist-deep in a bag of Doritos. Ok, it wasn’t doritos, it was actually these gluten-free cheddar crackers that are surprisingly pretty good, and not that high in calories, but I was mowing through boxes at a time.

I don’t like to talk about the specifics of my recovery practices or my “journey” or whatever in public because I like to stay under-the-radar…anonymous, if you will. But for the purpose of this piece I’ll mention that I have a sponsor. I’ve had one my entire sobriety. By March it had been a while since I’d been regularly coming around to the places where sober people hang out and help other sober people. There comes many points in a sober person’s journey where eventually the pain caused by whatever unhealthy behavior they’re participating in becomes great enough that they’re either gonna drink again or do something about it. I hadn’t been communicating regularly with my sponsor and I just knew that he was going to read me for filth when I came crawling back. The only bit of recovery I had really been engaging in since November was helping the person I sponsor. That small piece of my existence that was spent thinking about someone other than myself was probably the only thing that kept a crack pipe out of my mouth.
My sponsor didn’t yell at me and he didn’t scold me or tell me I was bad. He was, of course, compassionate and helpful. That’s what sponsors do. I didn’t make a promise to do better, I made a decision. I had to follow through if I was going to not only keep my physical sobriety, but if I was going to treat my emotional sobriety as well.
Today, the quality of my life is better, it’s not spectacularly jizz-in-your pants amazing, but I’m moving in the right direction. There’s still shit I’m dealing with. I smoke way too much, I’m not the athlete I was a year ago, I’m still struggling with insomnia, the Giants are having a terrible season, and I lost my job in June. My mind and my soul, however feel considerably more at ease. I am more present than I was before. There are still days where I feel overwhelmed and tempted to sink into a cocoon of Del Taco and self pity. But I take my medication every day. I help others even when I don’t want to. I show up when I don’t want to. I trust that I have the power to get through the discomfort of spiritual growth. Because I’ve been here before. Not this exact thing, but in general, pain in sobriety. I have the experience. I know intrinsically that it’s going to change. It’s going to get better. And then it’s going to be shitty again for a different reason.
Today I’m ok.
