I wake very early and feel fine about it – good even. I want to write. I don’t want to have sex. I am very clear about both of these things although neither feels natural at all to me, they both feel shitty in fact because right off the jump things are irritating. I want to figure some shit out that has been rattling around in my brain since last night.
Last night which was also fine, good even. really good. Fortifying in a weird way, if a bit nerve biting, trying. I kept faithful to my sobriety which is to say to myself which is to say I kept the promise I had made forty four days ago today which was to not drink no matter what. I know very little but what little I do know seems to be enough. Enough for what? Enough to keep me safe. Safe from what? From the voice of the addict living in my head and my body and my blood. The one that reaches for me. The one that clutches way too close.
I want to say it’s been a breeze. I want to say that I made the decision to remain sober and since that decision makes perfectly logical sense given the trajectory I was on (down, would be the ‘trajectory’ down and then down and then down some more until the unspeakable, really, because the nature of substance abuse is to increase) but last night was harder than I saw coming. If you think you don’t have a drinking problem, quit drinking. It’s a great way to prove yourself wrong.
I stopped because I was terrified to stop. Now it turns out I am terrified of both being stopped and of starting up again. I’m feeling a bit fucked either way is what I am trying to say, I guess. I don’t know why I didn’t see this coming but perhaps it’s for the best I didn’t. Would have made giving in to the voice which scoffs at me on relentless repeat ‘Just wait -you won’t last – you’ll give in – you’re not serious – actually wait no, you’re too serious – lighten up – get over yourself – what a silly little sad girl making herself miserable for no good reason – it’s just a matter of time‘ and so on and so forth trying to drown me in my own terror so that grabbing a bottle seems like the only cure to the thing which put the bottle in my hand in the first place, would have made giving in to all that a lot easier.
I smoke a cigarette by the fireplace. We watch a movie about falling in love. The guy and the girl are cute but he’s uptight and she’s got self-esteem issues, the solution to both of these adorable afflictions being, of course, downing a bottle of tequila as they toss off their shoes and dance like two fools before making cinematic love to each other in her perfectly manicured apartment only to wake in each other’s arms looking glowy and flawless, which would never be actually possible in real life given the stupefying amounts of alcohol they’ve just sucked down while discovering each other’s wide-eyed, life-awakening, gravity-defying, soul-transforming inner ‘magic.’
As the fire in the fireplace dies out to a low smoldering simmer, I am struck by a question I never before considered quite so mindfully: is it worse that they are selling us booze as a solution to our busted-up selves or love? The cascading questions this question stirs up in me are too many thousand to count or to get a handle on in one sitting. I swallow the last of my chamomile tea and the fire burns out entirely, without as much as a sizzle.
Sunday comes and it is the first sober one in a string of seven (seven!) that doesn’t exactly feel sparkling. I have the coffee and read the sober blogs and the quit lit and all the motivational speak sounds like top shelf bullshit to me. I question how I got myself into this mess. I rage quietly at Big Alcohol and teenage angst and all the people who ever wronged me since the day I was born. I water my plants which crowd the glass doors that open up to the deep back yard. I make tea and pour it in a mug which is painted with beautiful springtime flowers and am grateful for its warm lavender heat. I watch as the snow continues to fall and blanket the grass and the trees. I never wanted to be one of those sober bloggers telling her story for all to read. I want to write about anything else but nothing else fits inside of me anymore so nothing else can spill over and out. No matter what I write about anyway, I will be sober and I will be blogging, so the point is rather mute it would seem.
As I realize in no uncertain terms that I have now entered a cringingly real part of recovery for which I am going to have to learn mad amounts of new coping skills in order to survive, crystal clear tears stream hot and wet down my cheeks. Which I say not to invoke pity but to demonstrate that if you are gonna tell the truth for once you might as well tell it to the bitter fucking end. And therein lies the one simple, arrogant, incredible, ecstatic, impossibly, annoyingly hope-filled truth about sobriety and, if we are being totally honest, about life itself: as long as you are still here to tell the story – whether you want to or not – it isn’t the end.
Allison Marie Conway 
Don’t fucking take your foot off the gas, outrun those demons, your hands are on the wheel. Hugs, C
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Hugssss 🤍🤍🤍
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Feeling a little worked over myself today. This helped me! So thank you! 🤗
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So glad this helped, SSW. That’s the best. 🤍🤍🤍
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It’s an unenviable path when the goal seems so far. You’re on your way for the 44th day. Wow. Congra🤗. You are a warrior …wonder woman 🤞😘😉
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🕊🌱🤍🌱🕊
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Addiction is a creepy monster that loves to drown people in its underground pool. I understand your pain. and it is hard. But be harder. Congrats to the 7 Sundays. Don’t listen to this creepy monster. he thinks he knows what is best for you but you know better.
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🕊🌱🤍🌱🕊
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My first five years of sobriety felt like punishment. As a near year seven, I am aware that those years of painful awareness were necessary. Stick to it. You’ll think yourself in the morning. 🤓☺️
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🕊🌱🤍🌱🕊
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Despite all of incredibly beautifully expressed thoughts that attack your mind and soul from all sides, thoughts that are very much real and legitimate, despite their brutal onslaught you succeeded in not grabbing for a glass of twenty of a booze of your choosing. I can only imagine how tough that might have been. Nevertheless, you did it yesterday and you are doing it today. To find all the small things that matter before, to experience them in a clearer state – it’s definitely scary. Fuck that, it’s not only scary it’s beyond terrifying because it’s not “just” quitting the alcohol. It’s way more than that. It’s perhaps also realizing that some things that used to be absolutely magical and amazing – well… suddenly you see that they are not all that anymore or worse yet you start to question yourself if they would ever have been “all that magical and amazing” if there wasn’t alcohol involved. It’s fucking brutal, precious Allison. I’m sorry for the pain you feel right now. You are a powerful being, not just a brilliant writer and creator. Never forget that.
One thing is for certain as well: your brilliance exists whether there’s wine in you or not. I’m incredibly grateful that you are sharing your journey for it helps in planning my own… whenever that may be. Thank you for existing, thank you for sharing your brilliance. You are a fucking rockstar. Always will be. (I know this most probably sounds similar to the bullshit you experience at times when reading or listening to motivational crap, however, if nothing else at least know that quite a few of your readers desire that you succeed in your journey. For real.)
❤️❤️❤️
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Thank you, my dear friend. For all of this. It is true, this is about way more than trashing the alcohol but it is in that specific act that all of this comes into razor sharp focus. It can be quite hard to take. Your kind presence and attentiveness is so deeply generous and so deeply appreciated. May we all find our way safely and true. 🤍🤍🤍
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You are a warrioress and I truly wish for you to succeed in your journey. Most never gather enough strength to face their self without the help of any kind of “enhancers.” It is getting harder and harder these days for we are bombarded by concepts that work as romantic concepts in fantasy worlds. That especially applies to love that is nowadays portrayed as a simple caricature dressed and pimped up to look like THE way to BE. It’s not only cheesy but also very unrealistic. When we try to translate it into the real world of course it doesn’t resemble anything close to what is projected on us and then people think that they either will never know “true” love or find the love they have in their lives as severely flawed (which for sure in some ways it is but hey that is what makes it so damn infectious!).
Furthermore, alcohol! The way it is portrayed it again paints highly unlikely world where hangovers and blackouts don’t exist. It is shown as THE life elixir that will make your life amazing. To be honest first couple of drinks usually do “enrich” the mood, however, it rarely is the case it’s just the couple which means an aftermath that is a long ass shitshow.
So, yeah, Allison, you are tackling a lot these days and are discovering that you are stronger than you perhaps thought. Sure, there will be hard days when a glass of wine or scotch will look like a perfect cure, however, the further you make the more you will become aware of your senses as you experience them with clarity that perhaps before you didn’t know is possible. Rock on, precious friend! ❤️❤️❤️
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“….as long as you are still here to tell the story – whether you want to or not – it isn’t the end.”
I loved this! A brilliant, hopeful sentence. Definitely resonates.
Keep at it, Allison!
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Thank you so very much, Tom. That you loved this means worlds to me, I’m not kidding in the least. So glad it resonated. 🤍🤍🤍
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Seriously. Such a beautiful line. It’s not over yet.
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❤️
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