Which I guess is as good a way as any to introduce myself. It can be very awkward to start a new blog anyway, why not make it weird too? My name is Beth, and I’m an alcoholic.

It says in the Big Book of AA, in a section known to regulars simply as “The Promises,” that “We will intuitively know how to handle situations which
used to baffle us.” And while it’s very true for all of us that just getting up each morning and battling our demons without the aid of drugs or alcohol used to baffle us. But this applies to the very specific too.

When the world is too much, which is often right now, I repeat the Serenity Prayer under my breath, over and over again, until I’m on solid ground again. It’s corny, I know, and probably the only thing a non-addict actually knows about us: that we say it at meetings. But, it’s one of my go-tos. It reminds me that there are things I can control, things I can’t control, and proactive things I could be doing besides worrying.

This is the year I think I’ll finally let go of the, “but I’ve been at it for 9 years.” You see, between the years 2014 and 2019, I was making attempt after attempt to get and stay sober. I even managed to string together two and a half years, April 2015 to September 2017.

I went back and forth for years after, once I began getting sober again, about whether or not that time “counted” toward my sober time. In AA, you start the counter over if you have a drink, and that’s that. But I felt cheated by that rule. I had, after all, not taken a drink for two whole years plus some extra months, and there had been a time when that had felt impossible. Completely unfathomable. But, I had somehow accomplished the impossible. I couldn’t toss it to the side.

After my last relapse, I returned to the same AA meeting I had attended before, though it had been nearly a year since I had shown my face there. A few folks recognized me, and though my shame could be cut with a knife, they hugged me and all they said was that they were glad to see me. (AA is not everyone’s cup of tea er, coffee, but I heavily recommend it when you are just starting out. The love and support you’ll get there are unmatched in my experience. I digress.)

I kept asking the question: does it count? My time before? And unhelpfully, I got a myriad of answers. And so, until now, I have said that I have been sober for X amount of months, or years, but I’ve “been at it for X years.” Most fellow addicts are pleased as punch just to hear you say how long you’ve been sober, they don’t need the back story. Theirs is quite like yours anyhow. As the saying goes in the rooms, “we all have today.”

Five years feels like a significant milestone. I only learned about the “two year itch” when I, in fact, succumbed to it. And this time I sailed through it, which feels like a dream. When they say “don’t leave before the miracle happens,” I used to think that was a metaphor for lasting sobriety, but in actuality, life feels like a literal miracle some days. At a meeting, someone with less than 30 days will share, and I remember way back, when their same words were coming out of my mouth, and I wonder how it was possible that I got to this wonderful place. Free of the constant desire, craving, your brain nagging at you to just give it something. To wake up one morning and realize you haven’t even thought about alcohol, not even for a moment, in months.

It is the most freeing feeling that exists, to conquer addiction. Even though we are never truly “cured,” the idea of that becomes much less frightening and depressing as time goes on.

The first time that I reached one year sober, I went to an AA meeting and got my chip, and then afterward in the car I sobbed for ten minutes. What kept running through my mind was, “now what?” I had seen the one year mark as such a huge milestone, that I’d mistaken it for the finish line. The realization that I had to keep doing that, every day, every week, every year, for the rest of my life, felt like a heavy weight on my chest. That first year had been horrible. I was what the industry calls, “white-knuckling” it. Holding on for dear life, one moment at a time. Relapse so in the forefront of my mind, I took Antabuse.

And now, five whole years. Eight years since that heavy moment in my car. And I am not intimidated by the next year, or five years, or ten years. I’ve learned that acceptance is the key to happiness. Not that we must always accept our circumstances, no matter what. But that we should look at our world as it is, as it stands, and be happy with it. Improve where we can, just deal with it if we can’t (see again: Serenity Prayer).

I wonder from time to time if something will come along, some unforeseen sideswipe from the universe, that will break me again. I have managed to gain a few pieces of pretty good armor, but I’m still pretty vulnerable. But perhaps as long as I have that little fear in me, I can weather any storm.