Today is 90 days without a drop of alcohol. No beer, no wine, no liquor. No direction. No clarity. No magic beans. Three months ago I would read blogs by people three or six months into sobriety and not understand why they weren’t walking on sunshine. The first 30 days I was wrapped in a soft blanket of sobriety. The second 30 days I was excited for the possibilities of life without hangovers and drunken isolation. The third 30 days I found that all of the shit that drove me into a bottle is still right here.
I am nervous. I am insecure. I am strong. I am fragile. I am funny. I laugh at myself a little too hard, my inner monologue a little too biting. I like nice things (well, nice experiences) but I wish I didn’t have to be a grown up 36 hours a week to make the money to keep my financial house afloat. I tried to put down roots but now I mostly want to sell this house and tumble in the wind. My job is pure reality. The realest real. I wish I could still dream a different life. I don’t know what it would look like. One part Janis Joplin, one part Jackie Kennedy. I’m 41. I am still learning to live with myself. I am still learning to let myself be.
In the beginning it was enough to be sober. I was on hiatus from making demands of myself. It was nice. The me that can be a critical bitch must have finally woken up, gotten a shower and tagged back in. She is in my ear. “You really blew it.” This negative self talk is a bad habit. I’m trying to make it shut up.
I thought about waiting a day or two until my mood is on the upswing before making my 90 day jubilee. But the whole point here is to be honest so I am recording day 90 as it was. I’m far enough in that I can’t see drinking anymore and I’m far enough in that I can’t see what’s on the other side.