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I don’t remember my dreams

A story about sobriety, fifteen years in

I dreamt about drinking a few days ago. This is a common experience for people in recovery. I hear about these dreams after meetings, over coffee. Occasionally, a friend will tell me about waking up suddenly after tossing back a shot. These dreams sound intense, and scary, and full of longing.

I don’t remember my dreams, though. I have been sober for fifteen years — as of today — and my “journey,” as an old therapist used to call my slow transformation from someone who never talked about his feelings to someone who never shuts up about his fears and regrets and small, wheezing hopes, feels far from complete.

I haven’t had a drink in fifteen years but I’m still making this shit up everyday. I sleep through the night, at least.

I had vivid dreams when I drank. I dreamed of motion, of driving recklessly, even though I didn’t have a license or know how to operate a motor vehicle. I dreamed of flying and falling, of running down dark hallways or climbing endless stairs. I dreamed of runaway trains and nosediving planes. I dreamed of leaping off bridges, buildings, or cliffs, arms outstretched.

I used to drink until I blacked out, and in that blackness, I ran, like I was being chased, I could hear my breath, feel the crunch of gravel…