I have been sober for over eight weeks. I don’t remember a
conscious decision to stop drinking, though I’d been thinking about it for a long
time. It just happened.
I’d been feeling like shit for a while, had gained a lot of
weight, and was having some problems with my health, but kept telling myself
that I just needed to slow down, not stop. If you’ve been reading this blog for
a while, I think you’ve gathered that alcohol is a large part of the culture at
the café, it’s not a good thing, but that’s the way it’s been for a long time.
I’ve made half-hearted attempts to change that, but never had much follow
through, being as bad as, or worse than, everyone else.
Then, one Wednesday, I didn’t drink. That turned into a
couple of days, I made it through the anger and agitation which had attended
the first few days of sobriety each time I had tried in the past few years, and
I just kept going. I knew that if I had a drink, it would turn into two, then
three, then a six pack and a couple of shots, so I held off. I haven’t avoided
being around alcohol, I will still go next door to the bar with the crew from
time to time and have a limeade while they have a beer or shot, and I still go
to the pseudo-Irish pub in town to see my friends, I just drink tea. There was
a period, about a month in, where I was pissed off about the whole thing,
wanted to drink, was tired about the “still on the wagon?” question, or worse,
the “why?” but I got through it and around week six my mood improved and I
started hitting the gym with a bit of regularity.
I had beer in the fridge for about the first month, then I
poured them out. There is still a bottle of nice bourbon and a good bottle of
wine in the cabinet, but I feel no desire to drink them. I think that if I got
rid of those I would get mad again, better to just leave them where they are,
let myself think that I might be able to enjoy them some day.
