Sobriety, Year 1 — Part 1
Happy 1 year of sobriety to me! Part 1. (Part 2 is now posted)
Laying to rest a version of myself I never…
NEVER thought I would say goodbye to.
Her last day+night of drinking was a Sunday in April. April 23rd, 2018.
Trying to trace it all back.. I don’t know. Genetics? Childhood insecurities? Party culture?
I like to think I had a lot of fun in my small, southern Illinois town. We only had each other. We didn’t know of the world outside our backroads and didn’t really care. We made things happen. Sometimes with booze, sometimes not. But as the years went on, I was always the one who found a way to be drinking the most.
Floating off down a river, puking off a porch swing, falling asleep at the bar…. running away. Sloppy. Sad. Desperate for acceptance. But acceptance from who? All the people who bullied me in grade school were now my friends. All the people who gave me shit in high school were graduated & miserable somewhere else or out of sight. By the end of high school, I was modeling professionally & felt pretty, confident, etc. enough to continue to do so for a while. But still, I drank myself sick more times than I didn’t. I went to Europe on a once in a lifetime trip after my high school graduation. I binge drank there too, on top of a high dosage of Zoloft. I almost stopped living in Southern France. I felt alone and misunderstood. And now caught — witnessed — in my shameful, destructive cycle.
Fast forward 4 more years to this 1st picture. Graduating from U of I. I went to college and found people who hurt, yearned like me. Or at least people who I could talk to about it, who hadn’t known me for the last decade and a half. We went on road trips to Tennessee. Moved in together. We created art, families and secret places, names for one another. We drank in tribute/celebration of letting go of that adolescent pain we all seemed to have. Or so I thought. In reality, we were just taking turns putting on the band aids.
I graduated by the skin of my teeth. I had gained 20 lbs. My grandma died in that time, two relationships ended, friendships strained and changed. My oppressed sexuality. My addiction + pain, flaring. I moved in with Ferrin at the end of August 2016 & by January 2017 we were in Chicago. My loneliness, depression and booze binging grew into unmanageable monsters.
They thrived with the city life, no family or true friends near by. Our new, third roommate did stand up comedy all over town and they invited me often (out of self-promotion or pity). It was some of my only socialization during those Chicago times. Watching the comedy in these bars, alone. Drinking and looking for … something. I dog walked as my day job for months, hungover constantly. I thought it was a perfect job for my condition. My addiction. I was the heaviest, saddest, shittiest version of myself. Anyone other than a dog would’ve been too much… too judgey …. too sober. Miraculously and ironically, I met Janna at a BYOB figure drawing class. She saw my pain and listened when I said I was sick of the misogyny and the constant-stupid-fucking-head-splitting brunches with my “friends” I had essentially moved there for. Ferrin chose a different living situation with weeks before the lease ending. I was inconsolable. I was scared. Janna hardly knew me, but gave me a couple months to figure out my stuff and live with her. I figured I wanted to live alone, after what I had been through in Chicago. But I couldn’t afford it in Chicago. So I packed my stuff up, put Griffin in the car and drove back to Champaign. Tail between my legs, fake (or so I thought) ramble about how I needed the time and space to heal alone. I only knew one person still in Champaign and she was a bartender. I could bartend! And so I did for 7 months. Out of necessity and out of denial of my issue with alcohol. I had the last picture in this scroll as my twitter header picture for years before I quit drinking. I knew what I was doing was killing me. It just took years …. YEARS of beating myself up first. To finally realize I was the only person I was waiting for acceptance from. And I did. I accepted I had a problem. I accepted myself where I was. I tried to quit and failed so many times. I looked myself in the mirror and saw progress in my clearing eyes and then would dash that progress in moments of doubt or “it’s not that bad”. Now, I am proud to say I never doubt the decision to quit drinking. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t well. I was killing myself and it was legal and acceptable and even pushed. Not many people noticed and the ones who did, didn’t know what to do.
It had to be ME to finally show up for ME and say “I accept you. Your pain. Your struggle. Your worries. Your shame. I love you. And you will be more than okay.” I post these in memorial of this woman. Who was spunky, funny, quick, sad, messy, embarrassing, hurting, confused… full of self-hatred. She tried in the only ways she knew. Some of it was genetic and pre-destined. Some of it was lack of education and social acceptability. Most of it was lack of self love. Lack of thought. Lack of care. I don’t regret those years of drinking, the memories with friends. The promise of youth and cities and adventure. I don’t regret the bonding or the laughing. Everything is on time. I needed to learn what I did and grow when I did. I only regret being in so much of my pain, alone. I regret not being honest, sooner.
Stay tuned for next post.
