I Am 14 Years Sober
A few thoughts/feelings
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*This was something I wrote for friends and family on May 17th, my actual sobriety birthday, that I’m sharing here, unedited*
I am 14 years sober today. Right now. The plan is to stay sober tomorrow, but we’ll see what happens then. I am loved and supported, and I can do it, but, as they say, one day at a time. I cannot wrap my head around 14 years, and I find that comforting because, 14 years ago, I did not think I could last a week without a drink. I truly despaired. How can a person feel everything? And survive? But a few days turned into seven and then seven more, and with the help of Gatorade and countless hot dogs nuked in the microwave and the Tori Amos' Little Earthquakes -- and friends and fellow ex-drunks and meetings in windowless rooms -- I learned how to hope. It’s pretty simple: you breathe. You walk. You tell him you love him. You call her and tell her she’s on your mind. You own your fuckups and share your victories, no matter how small or fragile. You listen. You sing. You pray. The universe wants to hear from you. You share memes and 'heart' every photo because why not? You say "yes" to things that scare you, like picnics, vegan empanadas, and contra dancing. You don’t "face your fears." You tackle them, tickle them. You wear your fears like a giant sombrero. You wear that giant sombrero proudly. It’s so colorful. Unweildly. People may point but those people don’t have a giant sombrero, which is sad. So wear it. Go shopping. Squeeze fruit. You are you, and I think you should know that’s pretty special. No joke. I am not a woo-woo person. You are you, god bless. You are you, there’s more work to do. Hope is a verb and a noun, an action and a thing... a place... a person. Hope is lightening, both the flash and the bolt. You should stand in the summer rain, and walk in the first snow. You should do unto others, etc. And you do it, one breath, one leap, one hug at a time. Repeat. You are human, you are terrified, you were born to fight. In this life you are either Sisyphus or you are the rock (don’t be the rock.) You are brave, goddammit, and you should act brave even when you don’t feel brave. Especially then. Narrow those eyes. Clench those fists. Readjust that sombrero. You are here, on the earth, right now. You should love sloppily and spread kindness like marshmallow fluff over Wonder Bread. You should exhaust yourself with laughter and sleep deeply and soundly. Buy fancy sheets if you can afford it. To hope is to live; to feel everything, to deal with what is in front of you, to take one step forward, slowly, to keep moving towards the light, up the hill, into the clouds. To hope is to survive loss and love because life is nothing but loving and losing. To hope is to spin, like a turntable, or a pinwheel, or the moon. To come back to yourself. To hope is to be grateful for all of it, the triumphs and sorrows, the quiet moments and the fireworks; to hope is to open your heart and imagine the possible: I am worth loving, i keep my promises, I make excellent caprese sandwiches. To hope is to ask for forgiveness and late-night phone calls with old friends who remember when you told them your secret dreams. I am sober today, and if everything works out, I will be sober tomorrow, and I don’t want to get ahead of myself ‐- my feet are sockless, and my toes grab carpet as i write this -- but maybe next year, maybe, on this date, I’ll still be sober. Hopefully. Let’s check in on each other until then.