Freedom isn't free

On the tradeoffs of sobriety.

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I’ve been more social this fall than any other time in my ten years of sobriety, and social in a different way. Not just going to coffee shops and lunches and having dinners with friends where I’m still tucked in bed by 8 pm, but going to bars, parties, staying out late, hopping around, going dancing.

Before this year, I thought the appeal of this kind of socializing was dead to me, and I was fully content with that. I loved knowing my limits, going to bed early, erring on the side of quiet and cocooning, opting for the buzz of early morning coffee and texting or talking with other early-rising friends, often getting all my social and connection needs met before 10 am! Walks, hikes, early dinners, the occasional game of cards afterward—that was about as wild as I was getting.

The fulfillment of this new rhythm I’d found in sobriety was hard-earned. It had taken me a long time to let go of the uprush of energy and possibility that came from drinking with friends (and even alone)—even if it was only a romanticized notion—and to crave a more steady, middle-way existence. It took years for me to feel like I wasn’t losing more than I was gaining by staying sober in all contexts.

Some dynamics were harder to rewire because there was more history with drinking, like being with my close group of girlfriends from Boston. Certainly, anything to do with men or dating. And some came more easily, like new groups of friends, being with other sober people, working, and mothering. I naturally focused on what came easier and put my time and energy there. And besides, I learned to love my new life and how I was moving through it: more internal, more quiet, more—as I came to believe—who I’d really been all along.

I learned I get easily overstimulated. In social situations, I read all the interpersonal dynamics instantly and often start to fuss and manage people’s energy if it doesn’t feel right. I can get flooded, physically agitated, restless, and a little manic-feeling at times. I used alcohol to manage this. I drank to cut out the noise, bring down the register of my energy, or to wake me up when needed. I used it to become whoever I needed to become so I could show up for others in a way I thought they wanted, and so I could get my own needs met, too.

Because of this, I think I overidentified as being the social, extroverted, bring-the-energy kind of fun person. And in sobriety, I came to feel as though that persona was manufactured by the drinking and not necessarily authentic to me. Some of that story is true, but some of it isn’t.

A few months ago, I told my longtime friend Kate that I’d forgotten I used to be fun. “I used to like being social, remember?!” I said. Even in the depths of heartbreak this summer, I felt more socially alive. I was enjoying being in my town again (I’d moved because of the relationship), playing pickleball with my girlfriends several times a week, walking to friends’ houses on a whim because I could, having people drop by because they were walking their dog or wanted to drop off cookies or just wanted to say hi, going into the coffee shop and chatting people up. I felt this part of me emerging that I thought had gone mostly dark, and I wasn’t sure if it had gone dark because of the relationship, sobriety, the pandemic or some combination. Other people have noticed it, too. My friends, yes, but also acquaintances. A man I see at the gym frequently said to me recently, when I went to change the music and glanced around to make sure others were good with that, “Laura, you bring more energy into this place than anyone. I trust you.” I was taken aback, in a good way.

Part of me thinks it’s just taken this long to be truly comfortable and confident, period. But it’s also been ten years of sobriety to unlearn twenty years of relying on crutches like alcohol, and perhaps even more, to recover from everything that came before I’d started: the traumas, the shame, the insecurity, the lack of coping skills. All I know is I want to engage with people and be part of the world in a way I haven’t in a long time.

Anyway, back to the parties and such. It’s been genuinely fun to step back into these contexts, but also interesting. I shared in a recent sobriety support meeting I led that I’ve noticed myself, in moments, feeling wistful about the giddy energy and raucousness that comes from drinking. Like when I’m getting ready with all my girlfriends in a hotel room in Boston, or when I was at a holiday party a couple weeks ago talking with a group of guys who were all pretty buzzed, or when I’m going to meet someone new for a date and the city is all festive with holiday lights, and there’s an electric crackle in the air. I’ve noticed in these moments that I want to reach for something to dial the energy up or down, and then I’ve noticed the momentary feeling of loss or frustration that there’s nothing I can reach for.

I know enough to know these feelings pass quickly, and I have total trust in myself that I’d do about six hundred other things before I’d drink, but the desire itself is what I want to talk about.

What I said in the meeting and what I’m saying to you now is that there are losses when we give up drinking. Just like there are losses when we let go of a toxic relationship, or disordered eating, or taking benzos, or watching porn. While the gains—particularly in the long-term—far outweigh the losses, that doesn’t mean the losses aren’t real. (Also, I’d say alcohol has a unique constellation of losses because of its cultural ubiquity and acceptance.)

The most interesting thing about having these flashes of feeling is how much it takes me back. The grief of losing drinking was so complete for me. It felt like total annihilation.

Back in the early days of trying to get sober, I thought the deep feelings of loss would eventually abate—and that when they finally did—I’d be able to stop for good. But that’s not what happened. I had to stop drinking while very much still wanting to drink. I had to create a life that put distance between me and the alcohol, but the space didn’t kill the desire. Not for a long time. Is there anything harder to do as a human? It was like breaking my own heart every day.

But so was drinking.

It was this—let’s call it a skill, I guess—that I had to use this year when I wanted to reach out to my ex and scream or yell or cry or do something, anything to stop the pain. When I wanted to drive to his house and open the door and fall into him. I wasn’t perfect; I did send pleas for connection. I tried to get answers a few times. But I never lost my shit. I never did something I regretted. I didn’t abandon myself.

I somehow held onto the bigger picture of what I wanted for myself, for my life, which is exactly what you have to do to get sober.

It’s fucking terrible until it’s not. Freedom isn’t free.

Love,
Laura

Since we’re almost there again, last January, I wrote For you, who needs more than a Dry January.

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You are reading Love Story, a weekly newsletter about relationships, recovery, and writing from Laura McKowen. Laura is the founder of The Luckiest Club, an international sobriety support community, and the bestselling author of two books, We Are The Luckiest: The Surprising Magic of a Sober Life and Push Off from Here: 9 Essential Truths to Get You Through Sobriety (and Everything Else).

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