Day 2,604
Well, so much for posting here on a regular basis, especially after making such a big deal about the irregularity and pitiful state of my old posts. But with 7 solid sober years under my belt this month, I thought I should at the very least show up where it all began and write, if only to remind myself on here.
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I didn’t show up. I wrote the above paragraph on May 4th, with the honest intention of posting a lengthy piece of positivity-filled writing on my sober anniversary day (14th May). It’s now almost July. That’s as far as I got. Simply acknowledging it to myself on my hard drive. Sometimes that’s enough. God knows what you’ll get here by the time this is posted. If it ever gets posted. Good luck.
Anyway, the sober anniversary came and went, as all other types of days come and go. They start, things happen here and there, and then they end, until the next one begins. My day was pretty much the same as yours (unless you’re a serial killer or the fly on your screen that’s reading this). You get the picture. The anniversary is a metaphorical notch on my bedpost, minus the grunting, sweating, back ache and mess. I’m sure there are much better analogies than that but, hey-ho. Luckily nobody pays to read my literary incompetence, which lets me off the clarity and sanity hook.
I do feel a little disingenuous in celebrating the stopping of something (knowingly diluting my blood with alcohol) that I shouldn’t have been doing in the first place. Especially when the world is spinning out of control like a trash fire and seemingly heading towards its own oblivion. Men, women, and children are having bombs raining down on them whilst snipers pick them off as they are starving to death. AI is being trained to steal the work of authors, musicians, and artists without having to bother with those pesky little details such as permission, copyright or the law. The climate is turning into an MRI machine, bombarding the burning earth and seas with this and that, and none of it good. Seasons are slowly going out of sequence. Countless people are living (dying) in debt, without being able to afford even the bare minimum to sustain themselves. They can’t afford to live. They can’t afford die.
As all the above biblical darkness and so much more continues; metal birds filled with breathing human life are falling from the skies, seemingly on a daily basis, creating non-breathing human non-life. Flooding, burning, infecting, shooting, stabbing, quaking, erupting, slaughtering, warring, dictator-ing, starving: dying-dying-dying.
End times? Near the end times? Or have times already ended without us knowing as we stare zombie-like with anaesthetised empathy at our phones? At least we’re not over there. At least we’re not them. At least it’s not my kids. At least it’s not me! Oh, a new TikTok with a cat!
Anyway! Happy thoughts, eh?
So, yours truly celebrating being a good boy for seven years doesn’t quite feel the same these days as it once did, especially after a few minutes of scrolling through the news. Maybe stop scrolling the doom? Reading the paper? Watching the news? Just pretend it’s not there?
In the old days my carpet bulged with all the things I’d swept underneath it. All the hidden life in-between floorboard and carpet made it hard to walk across the room, but at least I didn’t see or hear what I didn’t need to. It was worth the inconvenience. Or at least, that’s what alcohol told me. But now it’s no longer there to give me bad advice. It left (was kicked out) 7 years ago. My bad advice to myself is now completely my own and self-inflicted. Hey, let’s celebrate?
Well, I am. I’m simply not shouting it from the rooftops, phoning and emailing everybody I know. Gone are the days of posting my yearly joy on multiple social platforms and waiting for the ‘likes’ and congratulations to roll in (and they kindly did, because most people are nice and want to see others doing well). When my trusty sober app notified me last month of my achievement, pinging me awake in the morning, I may have given a little internal yay! before getting up, having breakfast, brushing my teeth, and beginning the day. I didn’t make anyone aware of the significance of the day.
In other words, I didn’t tell anybody. I’ve only told you, but I don’t know who you are, and that’s ok. Yay! Actually, I may have quietly told one or two people in passing that the date was arriving at some point, and they will have told me they were happy, maybe even proud. That’s enough.
I suppose the reality of getting on with my day, and living a life is quiet celebration enough. I’m making it sound like a silent disco – minus the dancing, and the people, and the music. Yep, another crap analogy. It sounded good at the time. But it’s free of charge.
Am I embarrassed about my recovery and it coming around every year? Is that why I’m not making a big deal about it?
Absolutely not.
But I am embarrassed that I haven’t achieved more with my sobriety. I’ve achieved a lot, much more than I thought I would ever do. But I’ve always been cursed with a brain that has placed a bar way too high for everything I do. I’m embarrassed by my internal procrastination and laziness. I’m embarrassed that I’ve lost control of my future, and I’m not exactly where I envisioned to be in my present. Maybe I’ve achieved enough (my mind gives the middle finger as I wrote that).
Facing the days head-on and tackling life’s shenanigans without the aid of my old liquid invisibility cloak, doesn’t make me want to sing it from the rooftops as I once did. Life without alcohol, and getting on with it no matter what, is simply, life. It’s what everybody does every day. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s a shitshow. The self-delusion was simpler with alcohol until that option had to be deleted. I can still delude myself, but it’s harder and wears off quicker.
Don’t get me wrong. If you’re reading this and your knuckles are white from being one day/week/month/year – clean and sober, you shout it from the fucking rooftops as loud as you can. Get on social media and tell everyone your amazing achievements. Post the screen captures of sobriety anniversaries. Go and visit your IRL (yes I can netspeak) friends and let them hug you with pride. Have some well-deserved LOL’s together. If you still have any family left, repeat all the above. Anything that makes you feel good, confident, motivated, and alive – do that. You completely and absolutely deserve it. You’re making the impossible, possible. You will make it if you want to make it. It’s the want bit that’s important. Being clean and sober is the most important and life-affirming thing you will ever do! Some people liken it to being a warrior. Be a warrior! Be the warrior in the army of yourself. In time, maybe you’ll help others in the fight. But it’s not obligatory. Do what you need to do, not what other people think you should do.
So, why haven’t I made my 7-year sober anniversary sound as amazing as you beginning your sober journey?
It is amazing. Firstly, it’s amazing I’m alive. It’s amazing I have retained enough brain cells to write all this stuff online to complete strangers. It’s amazing this account exists. It exists because I exist. It’s amazing I can hear birdsong in the rain. It’s amazing I witness the sun in the day and the moon at night. It’s amazing I have people who still want to be my friend. It’s amazing I can read all the books I want to read and listen to all the music I want to listen to. It’s amazing that my mum’s passing last year didn’t bring alcohol back into my life. It’s amazing that I’m employed and still employable. It’s amazing I can smile and laugh, sometimes when I don’t want to, but to make others smile and laugh. But the most amazing thing of all . . .
A card arriving with a present. The card said this:
Dad, HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!! Hope you take it easy and read a ton!
You’re an inspiration, thanks for being amazing and I’m proud of you every single day. Keep doing what you’re doing, you’re the best!
From your favourite son, love you loads xxx
If my sober anniversary didn’t come around every year – if my sober anniversary wasn’t amazing – if my sober anniversary didn’t exist – I would never get to read these stunning words from my son. I would never get to ever see or talk to him. I would never get to tell him how proud I am of him and how much I love him. I would never get to hear how proud he is of me and how much he loves me.
I would never get to feel how proud I am of myself.
I just never need to shout about it anymore. Or maybe, in a way, I just have. Shhh . . .
Take care everyone x
Stumbling Towards Hindsight 