On Sobriety

Written: 2025-07-12

Not a place I thought I'd ever be...

I reached a new milestone this week. Six months. Six months of being sober. It's... weird to say it out loud, weirder to write it out.

I know I should feel grateful to have managed so far, and proud of myself to hold on. But I keep thinking that I'm cheating, as I was sick as a dog/almost unconscious for half of that time, that I would have been reaching a year in a few weeks, were it not for the Holiday periods being extra difficult and me being week, and that I should have never let it get to this point in the first place.

I'm still having a hard time grasping with the whole thing, and accepting that I won't ever have a drink again. That I can't ever have one again.

Until fairly recently, I never thought I had a problem with drinking. If anything, I thought I didn't drink much, especially since I'd reduced my consumption drastically since my university days. I rarely drank alone, keeping it for social settings, and usually nothing more than a couple of glasses. Even when I was younger, I never really went on benders, blacked out, or got so sick from drinking (besides hungovers). And most importantly, I never ever drunk and drove (not even a sip).

There was a tipping point, last summer, losses that truly broke me (and I hurt myself in response). It forced me to take a hard look at myself. Drinking was the least of my worries then, but it sure didn't help. I had to face it eventually.

Sobriety was forced on me, at first - medication required it, and I felt it was unfair. Here I was, grieving but unable to grieve the way I wanted to, the way I needed to. Just because of a misstep.

Of course, in hindsight, this was an incredibly selfish way of looking at it. And completely destructive. There was no way dealing with grief with alcohol would result in anything but a mess.

Nonetheless, I complied. The reluctance left quickly - the guilt of what I had put my loved one through that summer was greater than my need for a drink - and I soon settled into new routines. Gifted were the filled bottles in the pantry, recycled was the empty collection, and cleaned and dusted were the now-empty cabinets. For a new start.

Not having any alcohol at home helped for the most part - it's easier to forget its existence when you don't see it. Still, reminders can't always be avoided: I still needed to go on grocery runs, meet friends at their place or outside, live my life outside of the safety of my home. And the urge was still there.

Understanding what pushed me to drink, what drinking made me feel, and what repulsed me, was a breakthrough.

Drinking always enhanced what I felt in the moment. If happy, I became ecstatic. If a bit down, and I'd get right down depressed. If stressed, I'd have full blown panic attacks. I had learned to regulate myself, and avoid drinking outside of optimal times. My number one rule before all this was: never drink if I'm not in a good mood.

Evidently, I wasn't really good at following my own rules.

It started with an extra glass of wine, or a refill on a cocktail, even if I was already pretty boozy. Then the random bottle of cider after a not-particularly-tough workday. Then a nightcap before bed, for tougher days, to sleep more heavily (which never worked, because I get intense vivid dreams after drinking). And sips here and there, hiding it always, when times got stressful.

And it almost always made me feel worse, more down or more stressed. So I drank a little more. Because for the brief moment the alcohol touched my lips, a wave of relief washed over me. For a few seconds, I felt calm.

It's crazy how quickly things can get out of control.

I joked once, years ago, that I was predisposed to be a drunk. At my baptism party, my parents dipped my pacifier in champagne, some sort of "pagan" baptism/family tradition (my unbothered face got a lot of laughs).

Once, around 6-8 I think, I finished a glass at a party, which had whiskey-coke (I'd mistaken it for mine, they looked the same) and complained to my parents the coke had gone bad (they were rightfully horrified, and pulled the ear of the adult who forgot to put their drink away).

By 10, I was allowed sips of champagne during Holiday celebrations, and sometimes had my own glass with a drop of the liquid. During dinner parties, I could try out wines served at the table (just a sip, and I'd only ask for the white, especially the dessert ones, because they taste sweet).

From 14 onward, I had my own glass during those dinners. Limited to one glass, at half the amount of the adults if it was wine, 2/3rd if it was cider. And during celebrations, I had a full champagne one. I still preferred sweet white wines, though I started to appreciate rosés and the drier whites. As for bubbles, I always looked forward ciders from Normandy and Brittany

Around 16, starting to go to parties with my friends, I got my first tastes of harder alcohol, diluted with the most sugary and sweet juices, sodas, and syrup you could find, that it only left after tastes. I was allowed to take sips of Mojito, Sex on the Beach, Margarita, and other cavity-inducing drinks ordered by the adults around me when going out (just a one-two sips). And in the summer, rosés mixed with pomelo juice were poured a-plenty during BBQ's. By then, wine and bubbles were as good as soda during dinners (pretending to be like the adults, every teenager dream).

By French standards, it's not really shocking. Even within my own family, we were on the more conservative side. Drinks at home were restricted to parties only (which never happened more than once a month). Out of all the cousins, we drank the least, and started the latest.

The end of the year became difficult. I was dealing with a stressful environment, which made staying sober all the more difficult, and more losses that I couldn't process properly. I was also dreading going back to my family and having to constantly remind them to not serve me (they didn't think I was that much of a drunk to need sobriety; and I was off meds at this point).

At some point, during those holidays... I caved.

It was just a sip then, but it set me back months.

Because I caved again.

And after the third time, thinking you're still in control of yourself, a sip turned into a glass.

It never got as bad as the first time around, thank goodness, but it still is something I feel guilty about. Because it took me being incredibly hungover, the worse one I'd ever gotten (turns out, it was because of norovirus, not the leftover gin), to realise what I'd done. All the work put in the past months, drowned in a glass. Right back to square one.

I felt so stupid, and so incredibly angry at myself. Because I felt like I caved so easily. Because while those previous months were hard, I'd done a lot of work on myself too. Learned how to deal with my grief in a more productive way (a.o. cooking their favourite meals). Started to make peace with myself. And working on some trauma too. I was painstakingly getting better.

So I swore off alcohol right there and then, promising I wouldn't be found touching even a drop of it ever again. This time, sobriety came from me. Honestly, I was hoping this would be a more stable starting block, that I was the instigator of this change. So far, so good, I guess...

My health got worse before things got better - it took me almost four months, because pneumonia decided my body was a perfect host. I often lost track of time during that period. Some days were clear, some blurry, some nonexistent. But during none did I pour myself a drop. Apparently I had been lucid enough to do my taxes, but for the life of me, I cannot remember having done that.

But I still feel guilty for those lost days. That they passed but I wasn't really there. Like I wasn't actively making this choice not to drink. Like I'd gained a bonus I didn't deserve. Just because I was too sick to take a few steps, too sick to get out of bed, too sick to be conscious. It feels like cheating.

Which is bollocks, because I used to drink while sick before all this - slash of rum in my hot cocoa to make a chocolate grog to clear out a cold. This is what I remind myself.

It's still hard, some days. As the days became longer, the weather warmer, and summer approaching, I found myself craving rosé and whites, a cool can of cider (with the condensation dripping outside of the glass), a tall mixed drink with tons of syrup and ice, a dipped cup in a Jungle Juice mix... That refreshing and bitting liquid going down your throat as you soak up the last warm rays of the sun.

It stings catching yourself rummaging through the cupboards for a bottle, when you know full well there is nothing, but most importantly, when you know you know better than doing this. A mix of disappointment and guilt washing over you... Not the funnest moment.

My calendar is marked with hundreds of tiny stars, for each day spent sober. It's weirdly rewarding, seeing it filling with a little doodle - like a promise for better days.

Six months and counting!