Twelve Years Sober

12/07/12

Twelve years ago, on December 6, 2012, I got wasted for the last time. I was 41. I remember the trip to the Harris Teeter on Martin King Jr. Parkway. I got my usual- a bottle of white, a bottle of red, a 12-pack of some kind of craft beer, and some American Spirits in the blue pack. We still had the gold Honda Odyssey then. My youngest was 4, my oldest was about to turn 8. I left them in the car and ran in right quick. Like I did every time we last minute went to the store that fall.

When we got home and I poured my first glass; by this point I was drinking my white wine with seltzer in it so I wouldn't drink it too fast. Plop the kids in front of the TV and do my it's-a-drinking-night ritual. Take that first glass outside with my cigarettes, smoking one or two while I chugged it down. Back in for glass two and start dinner. Back out for another cigarette. Back in for glass three and eat dinner. Upstairs with glass four for bathtime, storytime, and bedtime.

By the time the kids were tucked in I had a nice buzz, the bottle of white empty. Pour a big glass of red, bundle up and take myself out to the back porch to smoke and get drunk. After a glass or two of red I'd need to switch to beer, because I needed some red to share with my husband when he got home from work. He waiting tables at night at the time.

I think that 12 years ago night he was running extra late, and I was drunk and needed to be more fucked up so I ate some pot infused coconut oil cubes friends had brought over earlier in the week when they came for dinner. I probably should have had none, I probably had two or three.

I don't remember anything else.

Which wasn't unusual. I drank to black out. That was the point. For 27 years.

Now my oldest is about to be 20, and my youngest is 16. And I...well, now I'm 53. And tomorrow it will be 12 years since I've had a drink.

Tonight, December 6, 2024, I'm sitting on my couch in the dark. One cat sleeping at my feet, the other by my thighs. I'm eating my dinner out of a cake pan (because it's wide like a plate but with sides like a bowl) like I always do- my usual spring mix, microgreens, chick pea salad, and tomatoes- tonight with salmon and orecchiette pasta because I'm running a 6 mile trail race tomorrow morning. I'm listening to a steady stream of chatter, outbursts, insults, and laughter while my 16 year old plays Fortnite with his 3 best friends. After I write this I'll get up and do my nighttime routine: floss, waterpik, wash my face, take my magnesium and half an OTC sleep aid, brush my teeth and turn down my covers. Empty the litter box. Tell my kiddo goodnight and to not stay up too late, knowing he will anyway. Snuggle in and read until I fall asleep.

It's just a regular night.

I think that's what I wanted all along- to have some regular things I could count on, to know what was happening- and to know that when things get rocky or wavy I can count on myself.

All the things that have happened over the past 12 years, they all happened while I was sober. Raising children, evolving a marriage, being alive- all without alcohol. My mind is flooding me with memories: my youngest jumping from the tree swing into the van, walks around our U-shaped block with my oldest listening to her endlessly talk about Minecraft knowing that if I listened then she would know I would listen later. Telling my husband I wanted to separate in January 2020 and then moving out the last weekend of February- two weeks before the pandemic happened. Staying married, but living separately. Our 20th anniversary. Taking both kids out of public school. Kids in middle school. Kids in high school. Kids dealing with the pandemic. Kids in therapy. Having hernia repair surgery, again. Run of the mill skin cancer that brought me to a moment of feeling my aliveness and my death at the same time- the knowing life everywhere would go on, even for my children, without me. A weird suspicious lump on my thyroid that showed up in a shoulder x-ray. We spent a week going to a different test every day, my husband and I lost in the maze of Duke hospital all for the needle biopsy to show that weird lump to be a run of the mill thing too. I had frozen shoulder twice- once in each shoulder. Waiting tables through my 40's, wine dinners, surrounded by alcohol, drunk people, and staying sober. Peri-menopause. Menopause. Ending 2 long time friendships that weren't working. Making other friends, deepening other friendships. Having a full right hip replacement. Running again. Doing trail races again. Running with other people instead of always running alone. Both kids learning how to drive. Traveling on my own to Taos, New Mexico to see my best friend, and then going again 2 years later. Going to NYC for the first time with the kids. Paying off my car. Yoga teacher training. Life Coach training. Starting my own business. Learning how to be a small business owner. Truly, finally, healing my relationship with my parents. Trying AA meetings. Not going to AA meetings. Giving up caffeine. Quitting social media. Supporting my trans teen. Improv classes. Sewing. Getting diagnosed this year with ADHD, then 6 months later Autism. Everywhere I went, there I was- sober.

Twelve years ago, I woke up so hungover I couldn't get out of bed. In the blur of that morning I saw a clear vision of my future if I kept drinking, and what I saw was enough to make me quit- forever.

Tomorrow morning I'll be twelve years sober. I'll be able to get out of bed, just like usual. I'll get up and feed the cats. I'll make a hot cup of Dandy Blend, make oatmeal. I'll put on my running tights, a t-shirt from another race I did earlier this year, warm wool socks, a long sleeve shirt. I'll fill up my trusty hand held water bottle, and head out the door. I'll drive to meet a dear friend who is running with me, and we'll go run 6 miles with a few hundred other people in the cold cold woods. Then we'll get pancakes with more dear friends. Tomorrow afternoon my oldest and I will make our almost famous orange chicken, and my family of four will sit down together to eat. We'll watch Taskmaster and laugh and I'll look at all of us and know we're here because I'm sober. At the end of the day I'll go do my nighttime routine, just like usual.

Tomorrow is a miracle. And tomorrow? It's just a regular day.