The Joy of Edge
What is the proverbial Edge, and what happens when we approach it, instead of sidelining it with substances and behaviours?
I quit drinking for good on April 14, 2021, following several years of questioning and struggle. It is hands-down one of the best things that I have ever done for myself.
While my addiction never hit a rock bottom crisis or required a detox stay, it profoundly impacted my life in ways that I am still seeking to understand and heal from. Rather than smoothly emerging like a graceful butterfly from the other side of it, I am still finding the awkward-if-happy shape of being a sober person (at least from alcohol–I’m still working through my issues with sugar, coffee, my phone and more!).
What’s surprising is that while I no longer crave alcohol or consider the possibility of imbibing it, I’m still kind of obsessed with it, in the sense of continuously unpacking its effects on my life and our society at large. Addiction, in particular gray area and everyday dependencies have come to fascinate me.
When I first contemplated quitting drinking, my focus was naturally on freeing myself from the behaviour. What I didn’t know then was that this part was going to be relatively straightforward compared to everything else that came along with it.
The Pandora’s box of rawness and emotions that ditching booze opened continues to amaze me. But the thing is: life is still life, even with the daily gratitude for having overcome an enormous challenge. The reasons that I drank are clearer than ever, which brings me right up to (lol!) my new (non-drinking) buddy, the Edge.
Like many people, I drank to take the proverbial Edge off: meaning to numb, blur, take a break from or otherwise distract myself from things that I didn’t want to feel or think about. To mark the close of a day, signaling the end of (some of) my toils. Sure, there was also the pleasure of drinking as part of a fine meal or fancy event, but that was not what was driving my dependency.
The new world of sobriety continues to change me kaleidoscopically, even as I become more comfortable and committed to it. Having terminated my habitual practice of taking the Edge off, I am now contending with its full intensity.
What is the Edge, and what’s it like to approach it instead of sidelining it? It turns out that it’s not as scary as I had feared. Far from it. In many ways, I’m seeing now that the best is yet to come.
Once upon a few years ago, you could find me on any given day of the week preoccupied with a couple of contradictory thoughts.
Thought number one was annoyance/concern that perhaps drinking a couple of (not 5 oz.) glasses of wine every night wasn’t doing me any favours. This thought started first thing in the morning, when I would wake up poorly rested, with just enough of a hangover to have me reaching for the Ibuprofen. How about we take a few days off drinking, or at least tonight?
By the end of the workday, the Edge was gnawing and had zero patience for thought one’s sensible message to cut back.
My Edge consisted of fatigue and feeling put upon, stressed as a small business owner, a peri-menopausal parent of a school-age child, and a child of ageing parents. Just kinda having had it, having done my bit and wanting some form of a treat or escape. Some Me time. It was a perfect recipe for seeking relief in the form of my liquid pal, white wine. Thought number two.
At no point did I stop to ask myself what it might be that I actually needed. Thought number two had me headed straight to the fridge, with no debate.
In fairness, much of the Edge’s sharpness was self-inflicted, thanks to poor sleep and carrying a perpetual low-grade hangover. I attributed the responsibility for my sleep issues to menopausal symptoms, however in hindsight I’m perfectly clear that alcohol also bore a hefty share.
Thought number two wanted wine (I have since dubbed this thought the Winer), and was shameless in justifying it. Its narrative wheedled along these lines: how stressed I was, how hard I was working, what a nice dinner I was making. What a big deal it was not for me to be drinking as much and as often as I was. After all, it wasn’t like I was day-drinking or whatever my arbitrarily-conceived parameters of what constituted “alcoholic” behaviour were. Thought number two reassured me that I was fine.
Looking back, I B.S.ed the hell out of myself, fancying myself a sophisticated wine enthusiast, doing my bit for the local economy to boot. I would linger over my wine shopping, choosing to see my preference for “interesting” blends (organic or biodynamic, all the better to demonstrate my support for sustainability!) as a mark of sophistication. Certainly not something problematic.
I tried to dress it up in my own mind a zillion ways, however at the end of the day, the simple truth was undeniable: I was no longer in control. Wine had become the solution for basically anything (like duct tape! as the oh-so-funny wine joke memes reassure us), no matter how far-fetched or unhelpful.
In a recent podcast interview, I was asked about my relationship with the Edge. Like other edges, it’s multifaceted. Do I love being sober? With every ounce of my being. I also acknowledge that the daily stresses that I pointed to remain very much present in my life. To reiterate — I get why I drank.
Some people argue that it’s perfectly reasonable, even good for mental health, to take the Edge off every now and again with “moderate” use of substances and behaviours.
Fair enough and to each their own. I’m not here to pretend to know how much or which behaviours are or are not risky or reasonable. It’s a wild world out there, and it’s not hard to see why so many of us seek comfort or distraction in the form of drinking or whatever does it for us.
I wonder, though: just because we feel the discomfort of the Edge, does it necessarily benefit us to eliminate it, especially with addictive, carcinogenic substances? Is this a truly effective solution, or just a deferral tactic with serious potential downsides? Might going to the Edge actually be healing, liberating or otherwise awesome?
What is the Edge actually telling us, when we choose to tune in, rather than numb out? Might there be more healthful and effective ways to deal with the stresses of daily life? To get what we need, not just what we want, to invoke the classic Rolling Stones song?
I would argue that we also need to consider taking the Edge on, in the sense of interrogating what’s trying to get our attention underneath the call for our distraction of choice.
As an example, in my first year of sobriety, I found myself re-evaluating a very close, long-term relationship, ultimately choosing to take an indefinite time out from it. It’s something that still shocks me. How did I remain silent about so many things that felt uncomfortable, for so long?
I now appreciate that part of what got taken off with my daily wine wasn’t just the jagged, uncomfortable part of the Edge, it was my voice and my truth. It was multiple missed opportunities to clarify, give feedback and have productive conversations before it got to an overwhelming place.
With or without alcohol, having the courage to deal with everything in life as it arises is a tall order. My silence was not driven solely by alcohol: it was a choice. It certainly didn’t help, though, that I was giving over my power on a daily basis to something that impaired, rather than supported me.
Does this make me more or less free? Does it feel aligned? Supportive? Safe? Nourishing? These are questions that I would have been wise to put to not just my wine habit, but many other aspects of my life. I do this far more often now.
When we let go of an unhealthy relationship with a substance or behaviour, we may feel in some ways like we are leaving our old selves behind, which can be one of the scariest prospects of all.
Close circles of pals with whom I had previously enjoyed drinking — how could I risk losing that? What if they didn’t think that I was fun anymore? What if I wasn’t fun anymore? As much as I wanted everything else in my life to stay the same as it was before I quit, that’s not how it went.
Was (and is) it sad or awkward? I’m not gonna lie: sometimes, yes. And hands-down worth it. The simple fact is that I was not ok before. I’m ok now.
Some people get the sober version of me, and some don’t, or don’t yet — I’m not worried about it. There have been moments of profound grief related to this, however. A surprising number of people in my life basically ignore my sobriety, which I can find painful as it’s so important to me and can leave me feeling less than fully seen. Just because it’s a big deal to me, though, doesn’t mean that it needs to be that way for others.
On the flip side, this whole transformation has deepened my relationships with many of my closest friends and family members, and has taken those with sober pals to a whole new level.
Plus, it just had to happen. While to outward appearances, my drinking may have been unremarkable, it was sliding down into a place I really didn’t want to go, and was clearly keeping me from being 100% true to myself.
Had I kept it up, I would still have the old me, only a version that was increasingly dependent on a substance that had the potential to wreck everything in my life that mattered. I feel like I got off easy, all things considered.
Did the relationship changes happen just because I quit drinking? Probably not, but taking away alcohol had the effect of lifting a veil or accelerating some things that I now see were already true: I just hadn’t wanted to admit or deal with them. Things that gave me pause but that I would let pass–that kind of thing.
As I noted in a previous essay, I feel at once like a completely different person and yet more truly myself. Perhaps it’s the simple relief of no longer lying to myself every day.
There is a bandage-ripping quality to confronting the Edge that can be scary, however is ultimately about facing up to things, which can be wonderfully liberating. Alcohol-free life is still life in all of its messy imperfection. I’m just in better shape to deal with it now, which feels empowering rather than frightening. Now I can deal with it and move on, rather than being numbed out and stuck. I’ll take it.
There is also a wonderful flip side to cozying up to the Edge that I feel so strongly about that I’m going to share something that I would never have discussed publicly otherwise.
Here you go: I noticed many years ago that I am able to reach orgasm far more easily sober than when I had been drinking. Not an inconsequential insight, I believe you’ll agree. Telling. So ironic to think that alcohol is often marketed as being tied to romantic success!
I now know that this was just the most headline-grabbing benefit among a multitude of other less salacious ones. I not only feel things that were formerly pleasurable more deeply, but I have also discovered a propensity for delighting in things that I would have previously dismissed as mundane.
In other words, my sober highs are higher than what I thought alcohol was doing for me. Sure, I might have felt temporarily sexier or more relaxed with some wine in me, however to my above revelation, the longer-term proof just wasn’t there. Alcohol’s dopamine hit is inauthentic, fleeting and carries massive downsides.
The physical part of how this works is that I was consistently consuming risky quantities of a depressant drug. Alcohol (ethanol) is an anesthetic that as we know also comes with yucky after effects, so it makes all the sense in the world that I would feel better and more present when I stopped consuming it.
Sober, I am more focused, clearer, and more attuned to my needs, desires and capacity for joy. To the point of the quote above, I am content.
This sums up my new Edge: what was sharp, is now simply present and clear. What grated is now an invitation to speak up, seek support or set a boundary. The surface buzz has given way to something far more interesting and memorable.
Ironically, one of my greatest fears when I was still drinking was that if I quit, I would lose my ability to feel the way I do now without alcohol.
Taking the Edge off is also code for simply having fun, an increasingly rare commodity in this complicated, terrifying world. Given present realities, it’s not hard to see why so many of us seek it in a drink. Here are some things that I have done recently that have given me exactly that experience.
- Re-read my favourite children’s books from when my daughter was little
- Went swimming in a lake and the ocean, with lots of aimless floating
- Picked blackberries and baked pie with them
- Did yoga (this is a mainstay)
- Allowed myself to become very, very excited about the prospect of Kamala Harris becoming the next U.S. President
- Connected with some new colleagues in person
- Hunted down new local ice cream places and checked out their wares with my daughter
- Went hiking
- Reconnected with an old family friend
- Sang (shouted, actually) along with 80s power rock ballads at top volume
- Looked at the sticker at the top of this post for the thousandth time (is it not adorable?)
I feel like I have discovered a secret, magical world. It’s not even these particular activities per se: it’s how I feel when I’m engaging in them. Life no longer feels like putting up with the boring stuff, in anticipation of getting high later. I’m high now.
I am now able to tap into an almost childish, irrepressible sense of delight. I giggle. I lose it laughing at inopportune, inexplicable times. I remember feeling like this as an adolescent and getting in heaps of trouble at school as a result.
If it’s true that addicts are developmentally “stuck” at the age they were when they started using, then I am fifteen. I am fifteen and laughing my ass off at whatever compels me. I can’t stop. It does not make sense. Whatever. I am releasing zillions of endorphins. It’s ridiculous and I don’t care. I am in my skin and I am laughing with my whole body. It’s a better buzz than any bottle of wine can begin to touch.
Here’s another theory that I’m working on. I believe that our bodies, in as much as they have minds of their own (I mean, they do, right?), want us to do good things for them. More to the point: they reward us when we do those good things, or stop doing bad ones. I believe that this is what the “pink cloud” of sobriety is, or what Andrew Huberman calls contentment.
Yes I am sleeping better and am no longer hungover (and maybe having a few more orgasms to boot?), but I honestly had the sense that the euphoria of my first 6 months or so of sobriety was my body literally thanking me for quitting drinking.
Spoiler alert: the Edge never really goes away. We all know that drinking or whatever substance or behaviour only ever puts a fleeting numbness between ourselves and our lives.
And then it comes back, leaving you with a choice: repeat the cycle, or actually deal with it. When we’re caught up in the fear of the Edge, it can feel as though evasion is the only choice. But there is another solution, my friends, there is. You just need to trust it, and to trust yourself. The way around is through. It’s not easy, but it’s so worth it.
The Edge is just reality. This can be a stark, painful fact when we’re not in a good place with ourselves or our lives. It can also obscure the things that we need to come to terms with in order to feel true, lasting peace with ourselves. In the longer term, dealing with it wins.
Does life in sobriety still suck sometimes? Yup. Do I still wrestle with my demons and seek refuge from reality’s harsher aspects? Totally. I just do it without the dubious help of a substance that was doing me more harm than good.
Does it also have countless moments of breathtaking, transcendent grace and beauty, without artificially-induced dopamine hits and hangovers? You bet. More than I could have imagined.
I’ll take my Edge on, thanks. Straight up, no chaser.
Bonus for those of you still reading: here’s Lady Gaga, a woman who has plenty to say about the ins and outs of substances, with a rocking live version of The Edge of Glory. Enjoy!
