Sober Baby Deer Diary

Musings of a first year in sobriety during a global pandemic

[soberbabydeer]

The Teacher Appears

We discussed the topic of silver linings during my recovery support Zoom call last night. Collectively we decided that the connection to our little, local group was the brightest silver lining across all of our sobriety journeys. Then it hit me, how did I even find this group in the first place? I honestly have no clue. 

My decision to accept sobriety came in February 2020. That first week was pure hell. I hit the proverbial rock bottom in such a way that all I could do was lie in my dirty bed, paralyzed with despair. I could barely able to get up to eat or refill my cup of water. I remember getting whiffs of a smell that didn't even smell like me - it scared me. I felt like someone else completely. 

My supportive husband, who is my source of strength, was out of town for work that entire week. I was alone...in so many ways. Alone with my thoughts, alone with my sick body, alone with my addiction that had finally made itself known in a big way that THIS IS A REAL PROBLEM.

I was no stranger to a "moral hangover". You know what I’m talking about - that heavy, emotional dose of "oh nooo what have I doooone" the morning after a bender. I had felt that many moments over the past ten years when after, I swore things would be different after a bad drinking episode. 

But yet...nothing stuck.

And yet...the message kept coming back to me.

And yet....during that first week, I somehow found the book Quit Like a Woman. I have zero memory of ordering it online, despite being sober. I don't know if I Googled "recovery books" or if I saw something on Instagram or if I heard about the book from a friend. It just ✨magically✨ arrived at my door two days later. That book alone lifted my shame.

And yet...I sent a Google search for therapists into the ether during my moment of desperation and found the perfect match during that nightmarish first week. She got me out of bed and moving.

And yet...I  aimlessly explored the internet for support groups after a frightening first visit to AA. I somehow found the #WeAreTheLuckiest group. I wasn't familiar with the author's book or her famous recovery podcast. Nothing. I just stumbled in. Again, no memory of how this happened. The local chapter of that group has given me some of the closest friendships during this time that I ever could've imagined. That community has kept me here.

The book. The therapist. The group. These three things found me during that pivotal first week. 

I don't know why these three things found me when they did instead of the countless times before when I fell down. But they did. I imagine it was the cosmic shift that happened when I honestly accepted that I had a problem that I could no longer manage on my own. 

As soon as I surrendered to the truth, the teachers appeared. 

Looking back on it, I see how the universe played some tricks because these teachers appeared with little effort on my end. I don't remember how the teachers appeared, they just did. And that's the pure wonder of it all. 

I'm in no position to offer advice since I'm so new in my recovery. Instead, I'll offer a prayer to you - some soft, loving words that I extend through my computer screen right now to you, in whatever state of searching you may be in. 

May your teachers appear when you are ready.

May they be exactly what you need, when you need them.

May your heart be open to receive their guidance, in whatever magical form that guidance appears. 

May you be nurtured by mysterious forces.

May your teachers appear.

[soberbabydeer]

Why I’ll never tell you to not watch tv.

If you’re a recovering, former aloof addict, it’s interesting to look back on the signs that led to your breaking point. For me, it was my Netflix queue.

I became enthralled with rewatching Mad Men about a year before I started sobriety. I had seen it before but all of a sudden, it felt like an obsessive impulse to watch it again. At the same time, my drinking behavior was growing worse and worse.

On one hand, I wasn’t drinking every day so that felt like a benchmark to be proud of. On the other hand, I was blacking out more than I thought someone in their 30s should be. I repeatedly broke promises to myself to only have one glass of wine at dinner or drink slower in order to keep pace with my friends. I was lying about how hungover I really was, because that would be an admission that I imbibed too much the night before. One Friday night at home, for no reason in particular, I drank hard and then had to sneak away to throw up when a dog trainer was at our apartment the next day. It’s only an 800 square foot apartment so I’m sure he heard me retch as he waited to teach me how to make my dog sit.

That wasn’t the worst of it and the bad instances scared me to my core. But it was the ordinary days that perplexed me most of all – the days when there was nothing to celebrate or no stress to drink away; just neutral days that I decided to implode. And I couldn’t figure out why.

At the same time, I was parked in front of my tv for hours at a time, watching hours upon hours of Mad Men episodes with furor. I brought my laptop into the ACTUAL BATHROOM to watch episodes while soaking in the tub. I was addicted. Looking back on it now, it was a dead giveaway that I was going through something that I couldn’t quite see yet.

It was Don Draper that mesmerized me. I felt a connection to this character deep within my bones. He drove his colleagues and family wild with confusion. After all, he had everything - good looks, power, the wife and kids. Yet why did he blow his life up, time and time again?! They were furious at him for it, and I understood on a soul level where he was at.  

I recognized the familiar look in Draper's eyes. He had equal confusion. These people demanded answers, yet he had none. He was lost but also didn’t really know it. In the rare episodes where he had an epiphany that something was wrong, he would crash and burn moments later. The more he sought to improve, the deeper he fell. And that utter aloneness.

When you "have it all", you get treated differently with your problems. And when I say treated differently, I mean you basically get an attitude of "shut the f up why are you even upset in the first place you have no right." If your life is already in shambles, sure, you get the pass to mess up. That touch of grace is extended to you. But when you are an untouchable Don Draper, the sympathy train stops here. I kept quiet about my impending sense of dread because who was I to feel bad? After all, like a businessman in the 1950s, I felt like I had it all.

I wonder how the actor Jon Hamm was able to channel this exact shared look that so many silent sufferers of addiction know. Or how the director was able to coach him into it. What words did he say?

"Look put together but lost?"

"Look like you're swallowing down feelings that you can't find the words for?"

"Look off into the distance, sad because no one understands you but what's the point because YOU don't even understand you."

Another show I was obsessed with at the same time was Fleabag. Here is a character who messes up so spectacularly, almost to a point of being unforgivable. But I still cheered for her. I believed that she is still worthy of love, despite it all. I saw this fictional character as so lifelike – like witnessing a real person’s flaws and loving them anyway.

I remember it was Fleabag’s final episode of season one that rocked me. She believes she is only the sum of her mistakes - horrible mistakes at that. Consumed by her shame, she gets the momentum to end it all only for the inertia to be broken by a kind stranger who steps in.

It wasn't this Hollywood ending of serendipity that moved me. It was that during her spiral, I wanted to shake her. I wanted to shake her so hard and say IT'S OKAY! THERE'S SO MUCH MORE TO YOU! I KNOW THIS HURTS AND YOU MESSED UP REALLY BAD AND YOU'LL CARRY THIS WITH YOU BUT YOU'RE NOT JUST THIS.

You're not just this.

I said it to her. I said it to me as I sat on my couch in the dead of winter and wept as the realization sank in that I was out of control.

Speaking of serendipity, the final episodes of Mad Men and Fleabag timed up with my first week of sobriety. I was reeling from my lowest of lows, and the redemption of these characters in the end saved me. Because surely, if someone could write about these unspoken feelings so accurately, I wasn't alone. 

I was also introduced a new feeling of acceptance. These characters were far from perfect, yet I accepted them. To feel that as an outsider made me think I could maybe feel it for myself. After all, I had seen by now nothing good happened when these characters to acted from places of shame.

So from the couch, through the screen, I felt seen. I got up to try.

[soberbabydeer]

Bloody Gums, Full Heart, Can’t Lose

My husband is the type of person that when told by his dentist that he needs to floss his teeth, comes back home and flosses his teeth forevermore. 

99% of the population says "Okay, I will..." to the hygienist’s earnest request to floss and then never do it again until their next appointment. I am that person with a bloodied mouth walking into my dentist because I frantically flossed the night before. “Oh yes, I’ve been flossing every day, I swear...” But my husband? It’s a routine instantly. Never misses a day

I have a hard time with routines.

Let me rephrase that to be a bit more truthful: I struggle with doing things that are good for me.

I am one to revert to the lizard brain. I take the easy way out. I do the shortcuts. I binge and purge my life. When I was little, my bedroom would get so messy to the point it was photo-ready for Hoarder auditions. Then in a fit of desperation, I would clean it.

Again, let me rephrase that to be more truthful: My mother would clean it.  

This is how I approach my life. A pattern of bad-bad-bad-bad-coursecorrect-great-good-good-too good so let's be bad again.

Sustained goodness is hard for me.

And I struggle with consistently being responsible.

This week I missed my company's open enrollment for health insurance. I just completely forgot to deal with it, and it's a $2,000 mistake. My husband was furious. I also forgot to submit a $25 receipt for repayment at work. Just simple stuff I forget. And now it’s a good place to note that I also make splurge purchases - I don't always look at our budget. I'm known to spend a $4.16 multiple times a month on Top Chef episodes - throwing wasted money to the wind.

Why can't I just be good?! I've asked myself this many times and journaled it with shame throughout the years. Why can't I stick to the budget? Why can't I floss? Why can’t I maintain an exercise routine? Why can’t I remember to make appointments? Why can't I just DO things, as I should, when I should? Sure, I forget things but sometimes, I downright don't give a fug. That consistency of being good and following through is just so hard for me.

Except for drinking.

Today, I haven't had alcohol for 337 days.

[soberbabydeer]

Just 24 Hours

All I ask is for 24 hours that I don't feel like an outsider.

That I don't feel like I'm missing out on this joy that everyone else has access to but me.

That I'm not living this way because terrible things happened that forced me to change. And be different.

I ask for one solid day, where I don't see beers in the park as people bask in the sunshine and glow of their buzz. Or glasses sparkling with bubbles on a restaurant patio as I walk by with my dog and stare at the bucket holding the prosecco as I watch from a different plane of existence. Banished.

I ask for one day where no drinking jokes are made...where being sober is phrased as the downside. The pitfall. The worst thing to be and we all laugh laugh laugh.

I ask for one day. Where I don't feel so alone and different and scarred. And punished. And weird.

Dare I say I wish for one day that I could talk openly about this issue and not get shunned or judged. To celebrate freely that I've hit 290 days of a battle of my life.

I'll be realistic and ask for one day only where I see nothing. Hear nothing. It's just suspended from culture for just a day.

Just 24 hours is all I need.

Photo by @rogerwilkerson​

[soberbabydeer]

No, I cannot make your Zoom happy hour

Hello! I hope you're well. Confirming receipt of your invitation for a Zoom happy hour. I'm flattered to be considered so close within your circle that I received a request to be a square making up the screen of your digital gathering. But my deepest condolences, for I must decline.

I decline because as of this moment, I am three months sober. 

And friend, you are allowed to laugh along with me on this one (because laughing is all we can do these days) on how absurd it is that I stopped drinking during a global pandemic. Technically, I decided to become sober before the collective world went on hold and then the universe worked in mysterious ways from there.

It's difficult to make a change. Especially a life-altering, deep-in-your-bones, call-upon-all-the-grit-you-have change. That's what it feels like to be in recovery. Then layer on all familiarness going away because of COVID. As I stepped on these shakey, baby deer legs with my declaration to no longer drink, the country went into lockdown and I was knocked on my ass.

It's a strange paradox to finally grant yourself freedom a poison but then have your day-to-day freedom limited. 

The freedom of the routines we take for granted went away overnight with stay-home orders. No longer going into the office to focus my brain on work. No longer exercising the demons out at an Orange Theory class. No longer the joy of bopping 'round town on a sunny day. No longer retreating to the mountains on Saturday for a juicy, life-giving hike.

I was only beginning to come to terms with losing certain routines with my sober decision, like a tall glass of red wine after work. Instead, I was looking forward to the inverse effects of that decision, like waking up fresh-faced to go to the farmer's market without a hangover. Really do ANYTHING without a hangover.

But then - coronavirus.

Oh dear friend, please don't mistake my bellyaching for pettiness. I know there are people with real problems. Real limits to freedom. I am a privileged, wealthy white girl at the end of the day, albeit with an alcohol abuse problem.

However, if I traded my memories with yours and you saw the horror I put myself (and my poor spouse) through year after year, you'd see this is very real for me. You'd feel the strong, magnetic pull I felt for so long and how freeing it is to break from it.

But to be free and run to where? My 800 square-foot apartment? I've walked laps around the park near my house so many times there's a path worn down from a certain female's size 7 AllBirds. There's nowhere to go and it infuriates me.

Well, there is one place that everyone seems to have agreed upon as satisfactory and that's the computer. Are you too marveling at how many "virtual happy hours" are popping up? Everyone with a damn webcam wants to imbibe. Friends I didn't even go to a normal happy hour all of a sudden want to have a digital one. Even my work calendar requests that I be present at various team happy hours.

I just can't. 

Please know that I tried; I suffered through two separate occasions with water in a wine glass. There's something soul-depleting about seeing people drinking combined with forcing a conversation that feels as lively as in-person. It made me realize that right now, in this precious moment, I need to focus on being sober. I cannot watch drinking go down in front of my computer. The universe has worked in mysterious ways to put me in a safe cocoon with my home and shut off from the world.

They say the first few months are the hardest. I figure that to mean for both getting sober and getting through quarantine. Once we reemerge from our homes and I reemerge from this fierce focus of recovery, we are going to need each other. Real-life connection.

But until then, I cannot make your Zoom happy hour. Send my best.