Before this week, I hadn’t written about my sobriety a lot, other than a couple posts here and there. Part of the reason is that I don’t like labels – and all the inevitable and sometimes unintentional messages and preconceptions and inferences that get wrapped around them. Labels are limiting. And typecasting. And they carry the risk of becoming self-fulfilling prophecies (think “lazy” or “bitchy.”) Yet I understand completely the need to describe things. Just imagine if we had no words. The former newspaper reporter in me laughs at this scenario: “In other news, The Bank on Main Street was robbed today. Police say the suspect is… well… er… um….”
One of the great paradoxes of life is that we want words that express our identities – but we don’t want to be constrained by them. We want to be defined but not restricted. When it comes to labels like SOBER or ALCOHOLIC, I don’t like the sound of the words as I say them, don’t like the taste of them in my mouth. I don’t particularly care for their synonyms, either: Teetotaler. Boring. Addict. Drunk. And I struggle with the positives, too, because of what their dark sides imply: Now clean = once dirty. Know what I mean? Because that isn’t me now and it wasn’t me then.
When we hear that someone has “gotten sober,” we immediately spring to the judgment that they had been living life drunk. We assume there was some sort of bottom-hitting that forced them to change OR ELSE. That wasn’t my story, though. MY drinking was no rock bottom; it was the sweetest, softest landing a girl could ask for, a gentle easing out of the day and into the night. MY drinking was the warm glow of a candle that diffused the shadows of my stresses and insecurities. MY drinking was the utmost in sophistication and class. I mean, DRUNKS drink out of bottles hidden by stained and crumpled paper bags; drunks DO NOT insist on $20 bottles of carefully selected California cab or syrah or zin, right?? DRUNKS are not well-to-do suburban moms and yoga teachers on the path to enlightenment, RIGHT?! (she said, her words dripping with sarcasm.)
I dunno. I guess I’m proof that they are. Or were. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.
What matters is the honesty with which we look at ourselves. And the intention with which we pursue the lives we want.
The Dalai Lama said, “No matter what people call you, you are just who you are. Keep to this truth. You must ask yourself how is it you want to live your life. We live and we die, this is the truth that we can only face alone. No one can help us, not even the Buddha. So consider carefully, what prevents you from living the way you want to live your life?”
This is the part I want to tattoo on my forehead: “No matter what people call you, you are just who you are.”
And yet somehow, paradoxically, it’s in our labels that we find our truth – or some version of it, anyway. It’s where we can find our anchors.
I don’t want to be known as “the girl who quit drinking” because I’m so much more than that. So for as much as I initially resisted the word “sobriety,” the degree to which I’ve come to embrace it, cultivate it, and prioritize it is somewhat of a surprise to me. In the past several months, as my husband and I have been navigating our way through an incredibly challenging time both as individuals and together in our marriage… a time of financial instability, relationship crisis, depression, a health scare, and more… a time when I’ve wanted to drink not just as a noun (as in “to have a drink”) but as a verb (“to drink”) – I’ve found that I’ve clung tighter than ever to it. It’s almost as if it’s become something outside of me that I want to care for, like a child or a dear friend. It’s taken on an identity of its own (or her own, as the case may be). I’m even debating giving her a name. Sally Sober? Tina Teetotaler? Recovery Rita? Bwahahaha.
(I’m only partly kidding, you know. But if I start referring to “my imaginary friend,” you’ll know what I mean.)
Truly, though, my sobriety has become my companion. I take her with me everywhere. I care for her through my choices and vigilance and the awareness of when I’m feeling tempted to violate her – which, in all honesty, is every damn day. Often more than once. But I don’t. Because to violate her would be to violate myself. Instead, I listen to her. I remember why I turned to her in the first place. I pull back on the social gatherings, unroll my yoga mat and get closer to her voice. My voice. God’s voice.
A friend of this page wrote recently they hope I’m in a good recovery program with a solid support system. While I’m not in a formal program, I do feel like I’ve got strong support. I’ve got several in my circle of friends who are sober. I’ve got friends who aren’t but don’t need to be, either; their kindness and compassion and encouragement spends the same way. I’ve got a bookshelf full of readings, teachings and inspiration.
And, I’ve got you. All of you. The friends. The yogis. The members of this community. I didn’t really realize it until my husband pointed it out yesterday, but this place is like my meeting.
Ironic, huh? All this time I thought I was doing the giving. Silly me! I’m receiving like mad over here.
THANK YOU, as always, for all the ways in which you lift each other – and me – up. This place is simply effing amazing.
Love you all. So damn much.
Becky
