Six Months Sober. Alexa, Play “Every Day Is Exactly The Same” by Nine Inch Nails

Six months into sobriety, and I feel like a snake shedding its skin over and over again.

This past April, I found myself stranded in the Mojave Desert with six days to race out of there alive. The only water available was toxic, but every minute that ticked by without reaching for it was insufferable.

Okay, that's a bit theatrical. I was actually at home, detoxing alone from my bed in Austin, Texas. But seriously, that's how difficult the first few days can be when you're fighting the urge to drink again. The detox process this time was so intense that I’m convinced my body wanted to make sure I didn’t forget how hard it was. Six days of purging, feeling like a stale raisin, and battling the worst physical symptoms imaginable left me shaken, but alive.

I was ecstatic when I finally made it through. The next few months felt almost blissful as I reveled in the joy of hopping off the addiction merry-go-round, even for just a while. The living felt easy, and I was high on gratitude.

Suddenly, I was feeling things I’d never really felt before: serotonin, maybe. I was riding this endless wave of relief and happiness, feeling like a dried-out phoenix rising from the ashes. I could take a shower without my knees buckling beneath me, walk to a farmer’s market, juice up some treasures, and feel a breeze on my freshly sculpted legs. I was obsessed with getting my shit together. It was almost like I became addicted to self-care.

I walked away from toxic relationships, built a new business plan, and even started a website. Every action was a victory. I proudly considered myself the reigning champion of the Sober Olympics taking place in my mind. Charlie Sheen would have tweeted about my “winning.” I smiled at strangers at the store and even smiled at my kooky neighbor who never seems to wear a shirt and stares just a few seconds too long. I was finding joy in the simplest things like the perfect avocado.

And then, around month four, something happened.

Emotions. They hit me like a Miley Cyrus Wrecking Ball.

I had my walls down, and they surged in until I was submerged in a flood of feelings. I’d naively thought I could bypass some of the trauma and just get on with my brand-new life, but nope. That’s when things got dark, really dark. I was in limbo, floating between being overwhelmed and completely disassociated.

My mind started spinning out of my control, and it was agonizing. I was chewing on the inside of my cheeks while I slept and collapsing in hysterics over spilled quinoa. Seriously, it’s the worst thing to clean up. Anyone would cry.

I expected these feelings to dissipate as each day passed, but they didn’t. Day after day, week after week, the emotions arrived every single morning.

Then I was reminded of something Gabby Bernstein once said, “Show up for what’s up or it will keep showing up.”

I couldn’t outrun my life anymore. The mental suitcases kept piling up, and I knew the only way out was through. I had to face it all. There was no running away from the feelings, no hiding in my old crutch (alcohol). I had to show up, sober and all, to deal with the emotional wreckage I’d buried for so long.

Weeks passed. I was listless, lethargic, and my body was so tender that even the touch of my own skin felt unbearable. It felt like the beginning of recovery was a lifetime ago. But I kept going to therapy, joined support groups, and, above all, stayed sober. I didn’t want a drink, but I did want to escape.

I wasn’t sure if I could keep going, but somehow, I just did. One step in front of the other. I pushed myself into a routine, and slowly, I noticed the pain began to soften. Maybe I didn’t actually “move past it” as much as I just gained the strength to carry it.

And then, I recognized it. I was grieving. Grieving for the old, lush-y me. Maybe she’ll always be a part of me. After all, she got me here. She held my hand through love, heartache, cross-country moves, and everything in between, even if she was prone to screwing things up. She was reliable, if not always responsible. But she was there.

And now, I’m left with this new, reformed version of myself. I’m not sure how she operates just yet. She’s still figuring things out.

I essentially entered a new relationship with myself, and had to be patient as I figured out how to love myself. This new love was patient and gentle, but I could never forget that Roberta (my drunk alter ego) is still out there and can throw my whole life off a balcony. She’s done that before.

Existing in a spot where I feel so distant from my old self but not yet safe in my new one has me feeling like I’m not sure where my home is. It’s a necessary transition, but I can’t help but wish it didn’t have to be this way. I fantasize about a day where she, whiskey, and I could still hang out sometimes, but that throuple could never last.

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Eight weeks of suspected mania and six months into sobriety later, I’m entering a realm of stillness and acceptance. My heart still aches sometimes, but I’ve developed a newfound trust in myself to get me through it. I’m no longer obsessing over what it’s going to take to break me or where this road goes. I’m exhilarated, I’m hurt, I’m resilient, I’m hopeful, I’m evolving, and I’ve got this. At least I do today. I am living in the moment. One day at a time. Yee-haw.