The Stigma of Being Sober.

The following are actual snippets over the last six years from people reacting to the fact that I don't drink:

"Are you boring?"

"When are you due?" (I'm not)

"I can't BELIEVE you don't drink, what's wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry"

"So, when do you think you'll drink again?"

"That sucks....." (said person ignoring me for the rest of the evening)

"Come on, you don't have a problem"

"Wow, you must hate your life"

In the last six and a half years, because of my decision to be sober...and publicly sober, I have had the interesting experience of mentally collecting people's reactions to my recovery. And in doing so, I have become too aware of how people react when I tell them I don't drink.

When I first became sober, I was twenty seven. In the world today, particularly in our society, there are not many twenty seven year old women who can manage sobriety and being social without feeling the wrath of discrimination. Even twenty something starlets have a difficult time in the celebrity obsessed media realm handling their own recovery. At that age, it was difficult. I was newly single after my divorce. I wanted to maintain my social life, but being sober was my first priority. To do this successfully, I cut out many of the old haunts and the majority of my toxic friends. Even still, I found there to be a great stigma suddenly attached to who I was.

People wanted to know what made me like this. What possibly could have happened to me to cause such a drastic change in my life. Had I gotten a disease? There were times I flat out lied....."I'm training for something" or "I am taking a break". It was as if there needed to be a horrible, melodramatic explanation to cause me to cease a life of total irresponsibility.

There were some people, and still are, that would look at me sideways. I have gotten high fives to looks of disgust. I have had to answer questions, tell my life story, dodge out of places and look to other people for conversation. "Oh, you must have had a difficult childhood" or "You graduated from college and are an alcoholic?" I cannot tell you some of the crazy questions and perceptions that I have gathered over the years. It blows my mind.

Six years later, aside from battling the fact that every day of my life I would like to drink, I battle my own insecurities about being sober with the perception that others have of my choice. It's no longer as easy as early sobriety because I am fully integrated back into my life. I work in the advertising industry, with all its bells and whistles. I travel to hotels with mini-bars (I call and have it restocked with Diet Coke). I allow myself to go out where alcohol is served. I date men that drink normally. These are all choices that I have made to allow myself the freedom of living responsibly in the life that I want.

And with this, I live with discrimination every day. There are still parties that I am not invited to for fear that I may relapse (I don't plan on it, but telling that to some bigwig throwing a high end party doesn't work). I find that it has become my task to ensure that other people are comfortable with my decision at times.

In all of this turmoil, however, there is a drive that being sober has instilled within my core being. I am public about being sober and this works for me. I am convinced that I can change the perceptions of the people I meet. And I am determined to exist in this very hyped drinking world and remain a pillar in my own recovery beliefs.

It's not a stigma. If something doesn't work in life, one generally tries to fix it. Same with being an alcoholic. I was a broken, shattered twenty seven year old woman that would have either lost all my marbles or died if I didn't change the variables. So, I became the proverbial tool girl and gave myself the resources and strength I needed to stop.

While I live with all the conversations, perceptions and stigmas, I knowthat I am the only one who is responsible for my happiness. And to be happy, I cannot drink. I believe that being sober is a great existence. The self awareness and love for my life overcome most of the difficulties associated with being sober. The people I've met on my recovery journey are some of the most creative, articulate, passionate and successful people in the world.

And the resources and publicity that surround recovery, if it keeps gaining more respect to be sober, will overcome the negativity that people associate with the choice to be sober. At some point, I am hopeful and optimistic, being sober will be viewed by those people who still drink, as simply a good, healthy choice.

If not, I will personally continue to crusade the fact that recovery is amazing and very very cool. And I will continue to listen to the ridiculous reactions from people in hopes of compiling one of the funniest anecdotal books ever. And when I make my first million off of it, I will laugh.

Radio Appearance

I will be on the radio May 9th @ 7:35am. The link to the site is http://www.mix97fm.com/PAGES/morningmix.htm. Bob Miller is a great morning host!

Enough is enough.

One of the many things that I found dysfunctional in my life as an active alcoholic was the serious inability I had to decipher when it was simply time to let go of a negative situation.

In the past, I clung with all my might to maintain and keep close those elements in my life that weren't working. My marriage? I knew it was over so long before and did nothing but live in misery. My toxic friends and relationships? Held them around for as long as possible. It's as if I needed the self-deprecation and pain in my life. It's familiar. And it's a comfort zone that I very rarely traveled from.

When I became sober, it was very obvious to see which of these relationships and situations I needed to shed. I was beginning recovery and everything had that "new car" smell to it. I changed my life with one drastic measure, so dumping all the toxicity was easy at the time. I was on a serious mission to rid my life of all the negativity.

Years later, the "pink cloud" that is analogous to the "new car" smell has dissipated significantly. The benchmarks of what I accomplish are no longer measured in leaps and bounds. And I have found it very easy for old emotional habits to come creeping back into life when least expected.

However, while old habits do creep through, I have learned to move out of that dismal comfort zone in which I have lived so much of my life. If a relationship is no longer healthy, I will eventually let it go. If I feel self destruction coming around the bend, I do my best to counter it with something that is constructive.

This weekend, it happened. I stood ground for what could evolve into unhealthiness. I made a decision and will stick by it, for the good of myself and necessity of successful recovery. And in the process, the feelings of sadness carry only the weight of loss. There is no weight of maintaining the dysfunction, no weight to carry knowing that I could not control my own situation and ultimate goal of happiness.

And to recognize this has allowed a variation of that early "pink cloud" I once felt. And it's good to know that being sober has given me the tools to process, grieve and let it go.

A new painting.

It's been two years since I have painted anything more than a small watercolor.

Today, I finally got my paintbrush out and just let emotion flow through the brush. These are the times I thank being sober.

When is it drama?

Last night I was sitting in an airport waiting to fly home from an exhausting business trip. I had traveled on four planes in less than twenty four hours. I had been to nine meetings, two time zones, dinner, work and more work. I was spent.

As I sat waiting for the inevitable delay on my last leg of the journey, I became extremely emotional. Tears were flowing and I started conjuring up self deprecating thoughts...making myself feel even more exhausted.

Then I thought, why do I do this? What is causing me to sit in this airport drudging up things past? Did it matter that when I was twelve, I sat on a plane traveling alone, crying for hours because I was flying away from my best friend? Did it really need to affect me over twenty years later?

I was, emotionally, all over the place. From getting ready to rage on the person listening to their ipod next to me, to feeling wistful for some time in my childhood.

So, I decided to be rational and think about why I was creating even more drama for myself. I mean, I had just had enough with all the business and travel I was doing. Why would I want to subject myself to any further frustration?

Years ago, I would have thrived on this. I would have gone into full "feel sorry for myself" mode and began the arduous process of serious self deprecation. A place I was brink of going last evening. For some reason, I just didn't feeling like allowing myself to go there. It seemed tortuous. In some moment of sheer revelation, I decided to stop and think for a moment instead of running full steam into my internal diatribe.

First, I took inventory of all the physiological; I was tired. Hungry. Aching from seats too small and multiple flight segments. These alone are cause to feel oversensitive.

Second, I looked at my emotions and how they related to the above. I was angry because I was tired. I was frustrated because I was hungry. I was conjuring up the past because all my senses were overwhelmed.

Finally, I decided to figure out which things I could control. The flight delay? No way. The hunger...hello? I needed to find food. The exhaustion and frustration? I needed to do something calm. So, I bought a cooking magazine and turned OFF my blackberry. Easily controlled.

As for the conjuring up the past? It happens. It's not that dramatic if you are able to handle the other variables that cause you grief or frustration. I was able to understand that crying about a childhood friend twenty years later does not mean that I haven't made strides in my life or that I am back to square one. In reality, triggers happen all the time. I also made that trip two weeks after my father had passed away. I had spent most of my childhood in small planes such as the one I was desperately hoping to board. So, I knew there was significance to remembering the event and I just let it go.

My takeway from this:

• Be conscious of the things that can be controlled like hunger or sleep.
• Realize that triggers exist, let them fire off, put them in their place and let it go.
• And, give yourself a break once in a while from the self imposed drama. It's worth it.

It's nice to be home and traveling by train.

Renewal

The long awaited spring is starting to finally arrive in the Hudson Valley. I commute home on the train along the Hudson river and am happy to see it's no longer dark when we pull into the station. Spring fever is running rampant. The cows on my farm are crazy, the dog, virtually everyone I know.....all the pent up energy from a very long winter in the NorthEast.

This weekend, I felt a sense of massive relief. The months of being introspective and cold are making room for the experience of warmth and free spirited-ness.

And with that, in my own recovery, I have to remind myself that being a free spirit can happen without the lures of being intoxicated (from alcohol at least).

This year, I think the intoxication of the flowers starting to bloom, the wind being warm and the joys of throwing tattered Uggs in the closet are enough.

It's a lucky time in life. I don't think I have ever remembered being this impressed with the renewal that comes with Spring. I used to dread this time as it began the season of being more social....more opportunities to feel sorry for myself that drinking was no longer an option.

Today, I'm happy that when I leave work, I can watch the sunset along one of the coolest rivers around....and still have a few precious minutes of daylight to see spring happening in all its simple glory.

the last glass.

People have requested that I post this again, I wrote this story years ago.....


I started with twenty-four. Twenty-four Waterford wine glasses. It was weeks before my wedding to the man I so arduously loved. Some were gifts from my family. Many were gifts from our friends. The blue boxes with white ribbon poured in like the wine collection I so astutely built. I took each one out of the box, unwrapping their delicate tissue. The chardonnay glasses with their spindled stems- as if ready to be caressed by the sophisticated hand. Waiting for the candlelight to pour through, reflecting romantic evenings. The cabernet glasses with their wide mouths waiting for a supple reward. I could tilt the glass back to meet the succulence in my lips. Finally, my most cherished eight..the Bordeaux glasses. They were the generals in my army. The glasses were heavier in weight yet far more elegant than the rest. I sat waiting for the right vintage to begin my revolution.

I whimpered when I broke the first six. Three months after my nuptials to the man I thought I loved. The expensive vintage collection began to dwindle. In its place came the bottles that I found at a local winery. Not a bottle from Georges Duboeuf, but some fine wine. A large soiree, friends mingling around the fire. Forbidden fruit poured endlessly by the gracious host, who was subsequently in the Garden of Eden herself. Words began to unfold and emotions began to erupt. First went the chardonnays. Thrown with such vigilance. Aimed right at my beloveds head. There went two hundred dollars towards the refrigerator door. Tearfully, I swept up the shards of glass. But, alas there were eighteen more. I still had the reds. In my battle, I had lost a troupe but still had soldiers.

I cried when I broke the next four. In the early light of spring, I reached for a glass. My coordination stifled by my constant imbibing. I poured a bottle of inexpensive cabernet into my tall glass. I no longer took trips to the winery anymore. I had been there far too often; my face was beginning to be recognized by the patrons. I searched for replacements and conjured up my imaginary wineries in Southern France. I could pretend. I could pretend that my wine rack was not empty. I could pretend that I was not alone. I was drinking away the grief that his silence caused. The grace of the Waterford could not still my shaking hands. I dropped them. Four of my best friends dropped in one evening. With such ferocity, I tried to save them. I had my own personal drunken funeral for my glasses. Tossed into the trash compactor.

I sobbed when he took the next eight. Fall had come. He left with the decanter. The wonderful Waterford decanter. With it etchings so meticulously set in the glass. He lovingly wrapped up the reds and left me with six. He continued the romance, the love affair with elegance and sonnets. Only, my glasses were now empty on the shelf. No life seeped into them. No reflection from candles would burn again. Dust began to choke my thirst. And the flames had been extinguished. Candlelight would no longer pour through the same glass. The wine bottles taken to a new place. To begin a new life. Without me.

I panicked when I broke the next five. One more left. I no longer looked at the glasses with a fervent eye. I used them for anything that could numb the pain. Vineyards had stopped producing the fruit of my garden. In its place found the weeds of alcohols existence. I could only bring myself to lift the glass if it contained venom. I had begun to despise the glasses for the life that used to be contained in them. Glamour had ceased to exist. The clanging of glasses was not in toast but in concerted effort to forget celebration. If the glass was not full, I panicked. Pouring into the loneliest, endless black hole. But not even the last of the glasses could sustain the ache. I threw them in angst. Threw them into the floor as if I could demolish my past. As if I could break this state of destruction. Angry rants begot sophisticated conversation. The stems became daggers into my own heart. One final glass remained.

I rejoiced when the last one broke. It stood on the shelf. An icon to my former life. I worshipped the last glass as if it was on a pedestal. Like a far removed screen star. I looked lovingly at the shining reflection every evening. Yet, I hadnt touched it in months. Hadnt caressed its sleek, smooth body. A friend from my old life came. She let it go. It slipped out of her hand. I watched it. I saw its demise. Falling, falling, it shattered into tiny pieces. The stem no longer recognizable. The body marred. Suddenly in one moment, the pieces were gone in the trash. I had scraped them up and thrown them into the past. I looked up. My heart lifted. The war was over. The Waterford was gone. The whites, the reds gone from my life. The wine defeated. Swept up into a pile and discarded into the past. I smiled.


My glass was empty. My life was full.


copyright, kjpartstudio 2008