I saw a t-shirt that said, “Retired Blackout Artist.” 

There are so many times I miss my old drinking self. I was a short, dark-haired lady with a tolerance for alcohol so high that I could drink an old school biker under the table. It was who I was, a persona I created for myself to justify the alcoholism in my head. I was the lady with a nice rack who would order two vodka martinis, dirty as her first drink at the bar. I thought she was funny and fun. I know the reality was much different. Double fisting martinis all night was not artistry, it was insanity.

Still, I mourn that person. I was her for 30 years. She was my alter ego, and she was fun. She was also my shield, my armor, a way to protect all the brokenness inside me from spilling out. I hid all that pain away behind her. Nobody wanted to see what was under the cocktail napkin and lip gloss warding off wine stains on my lips. I thought people wanted to see what kind of shenanigans I would offer up after five martinis and a bottle of wine in my belly. They didn’t. For those that love me, it wasn’t a fun ride. It was a scary-ass rollercoaster.  Picking me up and chasing me down. Cleaning up the messes I left. Knowing one loose screw could derail the whole fucking thing.

I am sorry.

But even knowing all of this, I still miss her. With her, my penchant for the dramatic, my wild side was left unchecked. The freedom I felt from my otherwise regimented life was intoxicating in and of itself. It felt good. She helped me master the art of blacking out, of functioning in a haze. She was the one who assured me a shower and makeup would hide all the sins from the night before and the fact that I was still drunk when my alarm went off. It felt good. Until it didn’t. Yes, she took me to some crazy fun places. We saw a lot of things together. I thought she was my friend, but she didn’t really love me, I didn’t love me.

It’s been 406 days since I’ve heard from her. I miss her, but I wish her the best. Things with us were never really good, and she would have been the death of me. I learned a lot from her but I also hope I never hear from her again. I hope her retirement is going well. Mine is. Being without her is a struggle. I fought hard to hold onto her but sometimes it’s just best to part ways.

Sober.

I am sober.

It has been one year since I had my last drink. It has been painful.

Getting there has been one breath at a time.

Heartbeat by heartbeat.

As the fog started to lift from my brain, the emotions I ran from hit me full force. Unrelenting gut punches. It hurt. Without an escape, without reprieve, I felt it all. All the pain, all the traumas, all the heartbreak. Facing that pain without the buffer of the bottle was overwhelming. 

It was uncomfortable, it was gut-wrenching, it was transformative.

I felt like I was being pulled under by the currents of the Lake. Fighting for air and being tossed around. But as I rolled closer to the surface, the waves spinning me, I was being cleansed.

Minute by minute, day by day, I found pieces of me and my new life and started to put them together. What I saw was that vast emptiness, the place I left inside myself as a hole in my heart, was filling up. I discovered running and a renewed connection to the Earth. I discovered hot yoga and a new way to connect my body to my breath. I rediscovered writing. My old disjointed, often incoherent script fell away, and a new creative and clear style emerged. And I discovered myself.

Over the months, I gained new friends from yoga, was welcomed by my Saturday morning recovery group, and reconnected with my circle of women. These are the people who support me. They offer ears to listen, hands to hold, and an acceptance I’d never felt. Held up by my collective of loving souls I grew stronger. Pulling in the pieces of my sober self, I started to fill up.

I looked within and stared down the demons inside. They had sobered up too and were ready for a fight. It’s a scary place to be. Facing the truth, feeling the pain, and going head to head with the parts of my life that hurt so much I had to constantly numb them was hard. It still is.

It has been one year since my last drink. Hopefully, I have many more years to grow in my sobriety. My transformation is not complete. It never will be. But my journey down my new path toward it is wide open. I’m walking slowly, gathering up pieces of myself and starting to fill that vast emptiness. Sobriety is challenging and sometimes overwhelming. It can be a lonely place, but it is soul work. And the point of soul work is to heal. In surrendering and allowing myself to break wide open, I can allow for healing to begin.

One year does not mark an endpoint. One year is the beginning. I broke through the waves of the Lake and am swimming with the current. I am tired, but I can see the shore.

Sobriety is the best gift I’ve ever given myself. I will treat it with the reverence it deserves and accept the grace it has to offer.

With every beat my heart has taken this year, I am grateful.

In this moment, I let go and breathe.

In this space, I am allowed.

In my heart, I hold it all.

Slow-motion shifts in time.

Peaceful and blissful moments of detachment.

I am fluid, floating in the warmth of booze in my belly

Smashed.

I am falling, forgetting.

The choppy waves are rocking me unconscious.

Waves threatening to engulf me bottle, cork, glass, and all.

The days and nights cycle.

I am adrift and longing.

Painful realizations and self-loathing.

Acceptance of what is, I am fluid.

Surrender.

Forgiveness.

Grace.

I saw a t-shirt that said, “Retired Blackout Artist.” I found myself smiling but sad. There are so many times I miss my old drinking self. In my head, I resembled Karen Walker. A short, dark-haired lady, who had a tolerance for alcohol so high she could drink an old school biker under the table. The lady with a nice rack ordering two vodka martinis, dirty as her first drink at the bar. It was who I was, a persona I created to justify the alcoholism in my head. I thought she was funny and fun. I liked being her. I know the reality was much different. Double fisting martinis all night was not artistry. It was insanity. 

I mourn that person. I was her for 30 years. She was my alter ego and she was fun. She was my shield, my armor, a way to protect all the brokenness inside me from spilling out. I hid all that pain away behind her. Nobody wanted to see that. People wanted to see what kind of shenanigans I would offer up after two bottles of wine in my belly. Until they didn’t. For those that love me, it wasn’t a fun ride. It was a scary-ass rollercoaster, probably with clowns. One loose screw could derail the whole fucking thing.

I am sorry.

But even knowing all of this, I still miss her. With her my penchant for the dramatic, my wild side was left unchecked. It felt good. Until it didn’t. Yes, she took me to some crazy fun places. We saw a lot of things together. And she helped me master the art of blacking out, of functioning in a haze. I thought she was my friend, but she didn’t really love me. I didn’t love me.

It’s been 306 days since I’ve heard from her. I wish her the best. I hope her retirement is going well. I learned a lot from her but I also hope I never hear from her again. Sometimes in life, it’s just best to part ways.