I Broke My Sobriety of 598 Days

Originally posted Dec 21 2022

Nothing dramatic happened to make me fall off the wagon. There wasn’t a significant party, holiday, or event. There wasn’t any pressure. It was just a Tuesday night. And I decided to drink.

Mostly, I was curious.

I wondered if sobriety had become too much of an identifier, and I wanted to test it. Almost twenty months ago, I chose to stop drinking. I stayed sober because it felt incredible to sleep well and hit the day fresh. So, why pick a random Tuesday to test it? Well, I just wanted to know how it felt to drink again.

Would I like it? Would it taste good? Was it the all-powerful elixir of joy I remembered?

I bought a bottle of wine I’d enjoyed in the past and a Tawny Port, which used to be my favorite. We had friends over, so there were tons of yummy snacks, and I didn’t drink until I’d eaten something. I also sipped water throughout the evening. The conversation rolled smoothly. We don’t know our guests particularly well, but they’re easy-going and fun. I didn’t need liquid courage. I would have enjoyed them regardless of what was in my glass. I didn’t swing from the chandelier - not that we have a chandelier, but you get the picture. I didn’t slur. I didn’t stumble. I didn’t say anything that would cause me regret or shame.

I also didn’t get any hit from it. I expected to feel goofy and relaxed. More engaging, more entertaining. Something.

Nada.

I’m disappointed I didn’t catch a buzz. After 598 days without a single sip of alcohol, I thought the wine and the port would at least give me the fuzzies.

What a rip-off.

Here’s what I did get.

At 3 am, I woke in alarm, certain that someone had lit the bed on fire. And while I was burning alive, I’d also lost the ability to swallow. I reached for the water by the bed and gulped it in one go.

Oh. My. Head.

Gods have mercy.

Downstairs in the kitchen, top back shelf, we keep emergency Tylenol.

My head was an emergency.

I debated four but swallowed two—another giant mason jar of water.

Unable to sleep, I scrolled the weather. That’s about all my poor brain could handle. And while I blinked at the nation’s chilly predictions, I noticed my stomach.

It was twisted in pain. The kind that has you praying to throw up. Now, I hate being sick, so you know it was awful. I was willing my body to get on with it, but no, it wouldn’t. Instead, it squeezed me breathless from the inside. I ate a banana to give it something to do besides churn in agony.

Having sat downstairs for an hour, my feet were ice. Good. I wasn’t on fire anymore. I slunk back into bed, trying not to step on a dog, and waited to fall asleep again. It finally came, and I passed out for another four hours. So here I am, writing this piece, with an empty ache in my brain. It’s no longer the tin monkey smashing cymbals together, but I can feel a tightness in my brainstem. Yay, dehydration. Yay, poison. My stomach’s been okay with black coffee, but I can’t even fathom eating. In the past, I would have dumped grease in there. But yuck. Not now.

Was it worth it?

Absolutely, yes.

I’ve been reminded of why I quit in the first place. It wasn’t because I’d wrecked my car or torched my marriage; I was simply tired of feeling like death every morning.

I didn’t quit to join a secret society. I didn’t stop to trumpet my superiority over others who still drank.

And while I was concerned that I’d taken on a mantle of sobriety as my new identity, I don’t have to worry about that anymore.

I quit because it makes me feel like shit.