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.