730 Days
And one decision to ditch alcohol
“I admire your willpower,” my dinner companion said as he sipped his third-choice beer—a Stella Artois, poured showily by our waitress into its signature chalice, since the strip-mall Thai restaurant was out of his initial picks.
I considered his words as I finished chewing a bite of fresh roll, then curled my lips into a closed-mouth smile, careful not to reveal any bits of cilantro or vermicelli noodle that were probably stuck in my teeth.
“Willpower has nothing to do with it,” I replied. “I made the decision once. I haven’t had to think about it much since.”
It’s not as simple as that for so many people, but I’m grateful it was for me.
I decided to stop drinking on my worst day two years ago, when it felt like my internal organs chose to shrivel up and die in response to my disregard for their difficult and dedicated work on my behalf. They pump my blood, filter toxins, digest food, deliver nutrients to cells far and wide, and for what? To be casually assaulted by four, maybe five, bottles of sauvignon blanc? Because I was sad, because it was there?
My guts gave up on me. Wouldn’t let me swallow so much as a drop of water without vicious revolt. “Stop fucking with us,” they said. I got the message, and have been paying my penance ever since.
Except it’s not much of a punishment to drink iced tea from Lipton, not Long Island. To hold an overserved friend’s hair back as she vomits rather than the other way around. To wake up in the same state of mind in which I fell asleep. To know every smile, laugh, touch, and kiss was chosen, not coerced by sips that sneakily turned bad ideas into good ones. To feel everything. To remember it.
That’s not to say all my decisions are good; just that I own them now. It makes a difference to instantly recall and cosign how I got from point A to point B, versus needing to launch a full forensic investigation to discover, in progressively more humiliating bits and pieces, exactly how I got here (physically) and how I got here (emotionally, spiritually, regurgitationally).
I trust myself more. I believe in my power to navigate life with exactly the amount of confidence, courage, and personality I’ve earned, not the extra I borrowed in liquid form. Maybe I’m a little less fun, less outgoing, less likely to grab the mic at karaoke, but at least that’s the real me.
Isn’t that why many of us drink so much in our teens and early twenties—to take a break from our insecurities? Alcohol emboldens us to open up, to say hello to the prettiest person at the party, to dance like no one’s watching. What if we could just… do all those things without it?
It’s so much easier said than done, but what a great challenge. Like I shared about writing, in life, pain is the point. Insecurity is the point. Awkwardness is the point. Grief and loneliness and self-doubt are some of the worst but most necessary points. If we can feel all these difficult things and move forward through them anyway, haven’t we succeeded and grown so much more than if we drowned them out?
And feeling the icky stuff along the way makes all the wonderful things at the other end of the spectrum so much sweeter: joy, confidence, security, contentment, love.
Like jigsaw puzzle pieces, we all have our tabs—those strong, protruding parts that reach out to connect with other pieces—and our blanks, the indentations. I used alcohol to fill in what I thought were my deficits, to smooth my edges. But that left me nothing to offer the other pieces that feature just what I’m missing. It’s better to stay vulnerable, embrace my blanks, and find my truest fit. I’ve had to become confident in all the various bits of myself because I’ve had no other choice.
That confidence ebbs and flows. Some days I have bad-bitch energy; others, I live in self-doubt city. Both versions are authentically me. It’s all part of the ride.
It’s been 730 days since my last drink. 104 weeks. 24 months. Two years. All because of one decision I made on my worst day. And each of those 730 days has been better. Even the day my mother died. Even the day my marriage ended. I was present to feel all that pain. My internal organs were back on my side, ready to rally around my broken heart.
Freedom from alcohol has given me the capacity to process that pain in more productive ways. I sleep better, wake up earlier, and have the energy to start most mornings with exercise. Breaking a sweat always feels cleansing and sets me up to make healthier choices throughout the day. In turn, I think more clearly, sleep more soundly, and so on.
I think I look better, too—more hydrated, less inflamed. Maybe it’s confirmation bias, but I’m happier with myself, inside and out, at 39 than I’ve ever been.
There are so many positives to being free from alcohol. I can’t speak to any negatives. I feared my social life would become awkward, but no one I love cares, and anyone I could potentially love who has an issue with it won’t stay in the running long anyway.
Most of my friends still drink. I haven’t once felt like I was missing out. Wherever I am, I feel right at home with a glass or can of something zero-proof in hand, and there are more options than ever to choose from. I’ve enjoyed them all with great enthusiasm and no regret, except for some underwhelming and overpriced mocktails. (Why are they $14? It’s just juice!)
Here are some of my go-tos.
Brewery
Options are hit and miss, but the best places offer hop water (sparkling water flavored with hops), NA kombucha, or even root beer on tap—yum!
House Party/BBQ
Swipe a can of sparkling water or, heck, a Capri Sun from the kids’ cooler, or BYO whatever you like.
Concert/Sporting Event
NA beer. Athletic Brewing and Deschutes are my favorites. Most major beer brands have NA options now. Scope out the venue’s selections ahead of time, or BYO to the tailgate.
Wedding
Soda water with lime at cocktail hour, sparkling cider to toast the happy couple, sparkling water to rehydrate on breaks from the dance floor.
Restaurant
Depends on the occasion and company. For a casual meal, I’ll stick with tap water. Something a little nicer? San Pellegrino. For a girls’ night out where we’re going to split the bill and everyone else is sharing a bottle of wine, I’ll order a fun mocktail. For a date, I’ll take into consideration the payer’s tax bracket and order. If he’s a teacher drinking a beer, I’ll get an unsweetened iced tea. If he’s an executive already halfway through a dirty martini with another on the way when I arrive, I’ll be sampling the most exotic mocktails on offer. (They’ll still be underwhelming. So will he!)
One year in, I wrote: “No regrets. No missing out. No going back.”
I don’t have it all figured out; so very far from it. But about this, I’m certain.
Reflecting on my worst day helps remind me why I stay the course, and sharing about it might give someone else the nudge they need to make a decision. I’ve heard the same whisper from so many people: “I’m thinking about quitting, too.” It’s a crossroads many of us reach around this age, for one reason or another.
I made the decision once. I haven’t had to think about it much since.
It’s not always as simple as that, but it can be.
If you enjoy reading Rollercoaster Road, please help it grow by liking, sharing, or leaving a comment. Thanks for joining me on the ride.
I am a big mocktail fan and have found quite a lot of good places that have "justifiably" priced ones. But you'll have to come to Tacoma with me 😉
"I'm thinking about quitting, too." This was the most surprising part of my journey. I was anxious and rehearsing all of the ways I'd have to explain why I didn't drink at a function, but more often than not I was met with that inquisitive look, like it wasn't the first time they had thought about reevaluating their relationship with drinking themselves. It's fascinated me!