Easier on Myself

perfectionism and solitudeI know it is still early days here (this is Day 42), but I have this inkling that I may be easing up on my perfectionism. Wow. That would be cool.

For as many years as I’ve been running, I’ve been fighting the nagging Beeotch in my head who tells me I’m not going fast enough. There’s a healthy space of setting personal goals and taking pleasure in achieving them. It’s one of the things I love about running… setting little goals for myself and achieving them: one extra hill on my hill repeats. One quarter mile push when I feel like I am spent. You get the idea. The Beeotch is not satisfied with this.

Beeotch in my Head: “You are slow. You can’t run fast. You’ll never be any good at this.”

Me: “Fuck off. I like running. Quit wrecking my fun.”

But the Beootch in my Head is persistent. She comes back pretty regularly to try her hand at undermining me. And here’s the thing. I think she might have been dating the Drinking Voice in my Head, Cap’n Mo.

Several blogs ago, I wrote that I was surprised that I was far from alone in managing to exercise like a lunatic despite daily drinking. I’m thinking this has served two functions. First, has served as a subtle form of self-flagellation to assuage my drinking guilt. Second — and perhaps more importantly — it has been on my list of “Things I Do That Prove I’m Not a Drunk.”

I’m wondering whether these conditions have empowered the Beeotch in my Head. She can come after me harder and push my perfectionist buttons when I’m already feeling crappy about myself, and pouring energy in to denial.

So the thing is that I am noticing the Beeotch retreats more readily these days. I felt a little slow-ish today, and I fully expected her to show up, which she did. But it was — I don’t know — just easier to blow her off. “Not every run has to be my best run,” I reminded myself. And I let it go. It has been part of feeling more at ease about missing gym days, or not quite reaching my mileage goals during a busy week.

In the months leading up to my quitting, I had been worrying that I was getting a little obsessive about exercise. I felt anxious if I missed the gym. I found it easier to work out than to be around other people. Socially, you get reinforced because people admire you for being all fit and dedicated and stuff, not knowing that you are using exercise to hide from the shit in life that scares you or makes you feel bad about yourself.

I’m truly wondering whether the obsessive gym behaviour has in fact been connected to my drinking. Who knew?


Cottage Cravings! Ugh.

It is Day 40 today. Last night was sooooo hard. I thought at first with this whole not drinking thing that I would be most at risk at home, because that’s where the daily habits are most entrenched. However, this hasn’t really been the case. If I’m alone and happen to be feeling sorry for myself, I might fantasize about drinking, but the audience for my fantasy is a skeptical, Sober Me going “Really, genius? And then what?” Maybe there have just been too many times in the past that I’ve self-medicated and… well… it never actually works.

Last night I was not alone. I am with folks at the family cottage. The cottage is very cottage-y: one swims, naps, reads, cooks and drinks. So G&Ts and beers come out around 5:00, followed by copious amounts of wine with dinner. The dedicated (myself formerly among them) would carry on with one or two more drinks after supper during “everyone sits around reading” time before bed.

Around 5:00, I was starting supper while cheerful people around me bustled back and forth fixing cocktails and pouring cold pints. I thought I was going to have an aneurysm, I wanted a drink so badly. It’s alarming how something that is psychological can feel like a physical thing that is taking over your whole body! I mean I wasn’t twitching on the floor or anything, but it was really uncomfortable. “If I just… do it, everything will be easy and normal again,” I thought. I wanted relief. I wanted to stop trying. I wanted a fucking drink!

I’ve got nothing here but waiting it out. “This will pass,” I kept reminding myself. One thing I’ve found useful from Buddhism is recognizing that there are two kinds of suffering: primary suffering – the “shit that happens because you are a human being” – and secondary suffering, which is the extra shit you pile on by trying to wrestle down the primary suffering, if that makes any sense.

The short of it is that when we feel uncomfortable, stressed, anxious or otherwise miserable, we scrounge around trying to make those feelings go away – to fix them, or drown them, or distract ourselves from them. To make them go away and never come back. Paradoxically, all this struggling can just compound the problem.

So, the idea is that, instead, you look that primary suffering squarely in the eye, and do nothing. You go: “Hello craving. You kind of suck.” And you just sit with it. You don’t screw yourself in to the ground analyzing it (my personal favourite); you don’t fight it; you don’t give in to it either. You just sit with it. And it does pass.

Last night’s craving moments passed. About midway through supper I was still noticing the wine on the table, but I wasn’t salivating for it anymore. Supper was good and my strawberry, basil and balsamic drink was good. And there was ice-cream and strawberries after, and those were good. I got to wake up this morning sober, which so far has not gotten old. It’s awesome.

Hopefully every craving you survive makes you stronger?


Dem Precepts

If you really want to be a good Buddhist you take the five precepts: you agree to

  1. refrain from killing (I’m still not a vegetarian. Sigh.);
  2. refrain from taking stuff that doesn’t belong to you (This isn’t just material “stuff.” It can include others’ time, attention and labour.);
  3. refrain from inappropriate, exploitive, or harmful sexual relationships;
  4. refrain from false speech (like not lying, which is of course harder than it ought to be); and
  5. refraining from taking intoxicants that cloud the mind.

I will say that not drinking gives me a fighting chance of living according to the precepts. It’s always bugged me that I haven’t been on board with number five.

Lots of the precepts seem like “well duh,” but like most religious stuff, it is much more complicated and subtle once you dig in to it. The gist in basic Buddhist terms is to live your life in a way that minimizes your own suffering, and that of others.

So a little more on number five there, for obvious reasons: Buddhists don’t tell you drinking and drugs are immoral in and of themselves; rather, intoxication is more likely to lead to you screwing up the other precepts. (You know. I know. We’ve all been there.)

The “clouding the mind” thing is super important too. One thing I’m struck by when I listen to other recovery stories — I’ve been doing a ton of that on the Bubble Hour — is how people describe coming to see themselves and the world more clearly. They don’t always love everything they see, but there is a freedom and peace that comes with knowing that you aren’t bullshitting yourself day in and day out about your alcohol use.

But its more than that. People talk about getting their heads out of their own arses — about how drinking leads to self-absorption, and sobriety helps them to re-evaluate and work on their relationships with others. Community is really important for most people in achieving and maintaining sobriety because we need to give and receive love to feel whole as human beings.

Maya, in Eastern faith traditions, names the veil of ignorance that we live under when we cannot see ourselves and the world clearly. And one of the biggest deceptions we live under is that we are separate from others. You can’t achieve enlightenment without grasping, fundamentally, that we are interconnected, and you really have little hope of seeing this when you are chronically under the influence. I think that Maya is kind of synonymous with using alcohol for “numbing,” because we just don’t want to see things clearly! It is, or has become, too painful.

I’m still a long way off from achieving enlightenment! On good days I have catches of light — tiny spaces where I feel the kindness and compassion toward others that one tries to cultivate as a Buddhist. On bad days, I walk around lost in the noise in my own head. But sobriety may be turning down the volume a bit, and at least I’m feeling less stuck. And I can finally *nail* that fifth precept. Yeah!

Hey! I’m Less Stupid!

I am noticing something. I am less stupid now. Here’s the thing: I have for the longest time been this person who wakes up pretty smart in the morning, and I’m brilliant for a few hours, and then it is all downhill from there. By bedtime, I have a double-digit IQ. This is still the same pattern, only by bedtime, I am finding myself sharper, and I really like it! I can get a little more work done before bed, or read in bed, and some of it actually sinks in. Or I have a little burst of energy before bed and might tidy something up, or get a little house thing done that makes me feel good, like ironing. (I really like ironing. I don’t know why. I just do.)

A couple of things about drinking that really scared me these last few months were the “grey outs” where I didn’t *quite* remember going to bed, and the growing number and persistence of questions in my head: “Would I have done that/said that/remembered that if I were sober?” I couldn’t answer these questions because I never took a break from drinking. It was a rare day that I didn’t have a couple of drinks, so there wasn’t even a fully sober me to use as a basis of comparison — a control group, if you will.

Alcohol does cause cognitive impairment and brain damage over time. Part of the alcoholic’s awesome arsenal of denial skills is playing games with that idea. The whole “cognitive impairment” thing doesn’t really apply to me because:

“I am a moderate drinker, not an alcoholic.” (Moderate is the *best* lying word ever!)

“I don’t black out.” (But I grey out. But that’s okay. I still remember. Sort of.)

“I’m high functioning!” (Produces evidence via job success, clean house, great grades in uni, etc.)

“I’m only 32. I’ll start to worry when I’m forty.” (Or choose some other arbitrary and elastic number.)

That’s the other thing. Whether we like it or not, our drinking years accumulate. The idea that those effects occur over time starts to resonate. I think a lot of people my age and a bit younger (I’m 48) have an added dimension to their sobriety journey in recognizing, painfully, that their daily drinking can be counted in decades. If I am brutally honest with myself, I say that I have been a daily drinker or close to it for twenty years. Twenty. Years. All of a sudden that cognitive impairment over time thing becomes relevant, even if you don’t count yourself among the most hard-core of alcoholics.

The good news is that the fuzziness from drinking seems to reverse pretty quickly if you lay off the stuff. Count me as anecdotal evidence for this! And honestly, middle-age is accompanied by a deep recognition that your time on earth is on the waning side. Do I really want to spend another decade or two in an beer and wine induced fog? I think being less stupid is better.


The 30 Days Post

(Well actually today is Day 32, but I’ve been busy!)

I had a really crucial conversation with my daughter (who is in recovery as well) right around the time I quit drinking. I’d been toying with the 30 days thing but, as I shared with her, the last time I pulled off 30 days, it was only a matter of a few weeks before I was back to old form. “How long does it take,” I asked her, “before quitting stops being a total drag?” In her experience, and in common lore among the NA/AA crowd, it seems that the 3 month mark is a bit of a turning point.

I took a deep breath. “I’m thinking about doing 100 days this time,” I said. Saying that out loud for the first time, I felt like I was making a commitment. My daughter would not and has not asked that of me, but I know that was the moment I made the commitment to myself.

Part of this was fuelled by solidarity. It was a way I could quietly support my kid, who is still in fairly early days herself. But part of the commitment was sparked by genuine curiosity: What would happen at the three-month mark that didn’t happen in the first thirty days? Maybe nothing. But maybe something. I guess I’ll find out.

My first thirty-day sobriety bout was more difficult than this has been. I counted *hard.* I toyed vaguely with permanent abstinence, and attended Women for Sobriety meetings, but I just couldn’t get my head wrapped around whether or not I actually needed to quit drinking. And I never seriously visualized or thought of myself as a non-drinker.

I think what is different this time is that I am much, much more open to the (growing) possibility of ongoing sobriety. Before, I was (figuratively but sometimes literally) drumming my fingers and pacing, waiting for the thirty days to be over. I expected white-knuckling, and that’s what I got. This time, I’ve spent these past thirty days observing how I feel (lots through this blog), and actively practicing sobriety.

What does practicing sobriety look like for me? Well not a whole lot different on the outside except I find I need to keep myself busier in the evenings, which — surprise! — is less difficult when I’m not sitting on my ass all night.  I’m going to bed earlier, and giving myself permission to have dessert. I’ve been experimenting with and embracing non-alcoholic beverages like drinking vinegars. (I know that sounds revolting, right? But they are freaking delicious.) Instead of just coping with not drinking, I am thinking in terms of changing the habits that accompany my drinking.

Most of the practice of sobriety in on the inside though. It is “trying on” the sober identity, like you’d try on something you never thought would look good on you. It’s bringing some patience and mindfulness to cravings instead of just feeling pissed off or sorry for myself that I can’t have a drink. A lot of it is just not judging the experience, if that makes any sense. I’m not expecting it to be great, or awful. It just is what it is.

I still feel a little stupid committing to 100 days instead of sobriety forever. I still feel trepidation using “drinking” in the past tense, or saying I “quit drinking” with finality. I’m scared I will sabotage myself if I start thinking “never again.” I’m feeling very positive about one hundred days. But the real goal, in my heart of hearts, is to finish 100 days with the desire to keep going. Maybe this is just my way of doing the “one day at a time thing.” It’s a weird little mind game, but its working for me.




What Would It Fix?

I think I am finally coming off the early sobriety pink cloud I mentioned a couple of weeks ago. The last week has been somewhere within the range of  “meh” to downright bummed out.

You do hear some great things about early sobriety: relief from the guilt, a sense of possibility, having more energy, and no hangovers! (I super love the last one.) This can lead to magical thinking about sobriety: Once I am sober, everything will be awesome. But sobriety doesn’t change you. It doesn’t change everything. It just gets you and your bad boyfriend, alcohol  (Cap’n Mo — I told you the drinking voice in my head is a pirate), out of your damn way so you can work on changing.


Come on, baby; you’ll feel better.  You know I love you.

I knew drinking wasn’t going to “fix” everything when is I started this. I knew it. But there are things you know in your head that you don’t know in your heart and soul until you’ve lived them. Now I am working my way in to living a life that is, at present at least, about the same as its ever been, sans alcohol.

One thing that keeps going through my head when I have a wild attack of self-pity or frustration is just thinking “Okay I could drink tonight. I could totally choose that. I could observe myself buying a bottle of wine, triumphantly opening it, drinking it, and uttering a satisfied “There. That’s better. Fuck it!”

But what would it fix?” Seriously? I might have a few minutes of feeling like I got some treat I’d somehow earned just for having a bad day as a human being, but I wouldn’t feel any better going to bed half cut than I feel going to bed sober. And I’d pay for it the next day in guilt, guilt guilt: “To hell with it. Might as well buy a bottle tonight too. I can’t do this. I suck.” Self-pity/shame spiral. That’s how you fall off the wagon.

I got through the night before last without drinking, and it was still a crap night, but it was a crap night unaccompanied by the delusion that I needed alcohol to get through a crap night, or that alcohol would somehow make the night less crap. Once you stop operating under that very entrenched belief that alcohol “takes the edge off,” you can see that your life is just your life with all its regular ups and downs that happen no matter what. And you can at least start asking yourself, “Okay. This is my life. Now what?” That’s a scary feeling. But it is a different and better feeling than being stuck on the roller coaster. At least my feet are on the ground now.

Constant Craving

Caroline Knapp’s drinking memoir Drinking: A Love Story continues to be widely read twenty years after its publication. Knapp’s writing is emotionally honest yet unsentimental in a way that gets you right in to the mind games that we play with ourselves around drinking.

Like many others I’m sure, I’ve underlined and dog-eared parts of Knapp’s book (among others) to  reflect on my drinking. One section that really hit home for me was her account of a formless kind of need in alcoholics that nothing seems to satisfy. Swilling scotch from a bottle at the time, she recalls, “I just remember the hunger, the need….Most alcoholics I know experience that hunger long before their first drink, that yearning for something, something outside of the self that will provide relief and solace and well-being.”

Knapp goes on to recall her childhood…craving and obsessing over attaining things — party shoes, she says, or horseback riding lessons. Over time, the object of that craving became alcohol, but the underlying drive to fill a hole she just didn’t understand was always the same.

It was the little kid thing. “That was me,” I thought. I’ve always viewed my drinking behaviour as a long, slow evolution of my habits in adulthood. There was no alcoholism in my home, so no obvious need to go back to my childhood make sense of my drinking. But I immediately recognized myself as a child in Knapp’s chant: “Fill it up, fill it up, fill it up. Fill up the emptiness; fill up what feels like a pit of loneliness and terror and rage…”

The pit I have been trying to fill since childhood is one of profound loneliness. When I was a kid, I fantasized about being anything or anyone other than what I was, and what I was was a gifted little dork with no social skills, and big emotions that came out at all the wrong times. In retrospect, I would have been diagnosed with ADHD and childhood depression. ADHD People are often “divergent thinkers,” so my mind did constant acrobatics, trying to imagine ways of being in the world that might feel less sad and angry, where I might fit in with my peers, where I might not have felt the need to hide in bathroom stalls and the corners or rooms with books, and the diaries I wrote in constantly.

I am still lonely, as I’ve mentioned. Perhaps this is a blog and a journey as much about loneliness as about drinking. I had all this trepidation leading up to quitting drinking before I actually committed. Now I’m having trepidation about committing to some kind of sobriety community. It’s just like quitting drinking. I know I have to do it but I’m scared.

Emotional Triggers

Today is Day 27. On Day 26, I wanted to drink rather badly.

So first: A success story. I cooked with wine last night but didn’t drink any. Yay! Followed the plan of buying a tiny bottle… 375 ml. My partner reserved the cup I needed for my ciopinno, an Italian seafood stew. It was freaking delicious. As I said, I refuse to stop cooking with wine. But anyway. He reserved the cup, discreetly drank the rest in a boring non-wine glass, and even covered up the stuff I needed so I wouldn’t be all tempted by the smell. That was great. I still wanted wine with dinner, but it didn’t wreck my meal or anything.

What wrecked my day and evening and made me want to drink last night was envy: a formidable, old enemy of mine. One thing I have been noticing about myself is that, at least so far, I’m not particularly triggered by stuff outside me; its the inside stuff. I got through the pub fine, and my partner still has alcohol in the house. I mentioned I’m not triggered by pretty wine glasses, or non-alcoholic beer. Instead, I am triggered by shitty, shitty feelings that cause me to think hopeless thoughts.

Yesterday we visited my partner’s dad, and he has a beautiful, spacious condo with a kitchen I would die for. And he doesn’t cook! Oh the agony. We drove home past all of the beautiful houses in our neighbourhood back to our unremarkable walk-up apartment. I went down the rabbit hole: Why can’t I be financially successful? Why can’t I get a big-girl job? Why can’t I ever have  a nice kitchen? Why did I make stupid life choices?

My rational brain and the better part of my heart know that a fulfilling life does not come from status or from stuff. But, man, I sank like a stone. Two things happened. First, I didn’t frigging like myself anymore. I intensely dislike Envious Me. Envy is a toxic emotion, and my capacity for it something I really loathe about myself. I fight it, but I can never quite shake it.

The second thing that happened inside me was despair, because I am so convinced that no matter how hard I work, I can’t change my financial circumstances. Despair gives me one big, whopping case of the fuck-its, moreso even than the envy. “I might as well drink. I have nothing else.”

Wow, is that bullshit. Even as I write it I’m thinking “Oh get over yourself!” I have tons of great stuff in my life. My kitchen sucks, is all. But emotions can be strong, and that deceives you in to thinking they are right — that they are some sort of accurate reflection on the state of the world and your place in it. Enter cognitive behavioural therapy I guess?

Also I swear I need to get out more. I have no community. I keep mentioning loneliness, and not doing anything about it. I say this because having authentic relationships with other people helps you to check your small, distorted thinking when you start losing gratitude to the demons of envy and self-pity. In short, everyone has their crosses to bear, and I think I need to put myself in a better place to see that. Right now all I have is the noise in my head.

When I am Tired

I suppose it would be lovely to say that sobriety has resulted in me having boundless energy, but hey — life is still life, and I still have the same demands and stressors I’ve always had. So yeah. Some days I’m meh in the energy department. But at least I know I am really, actually tired. The thing is, if you are a functioning daily drinker, which I have been for many years now, an always ready-to-hand denial strategy is to plead fatigue when you are in fact, either half-cut or hung over.

My drinking has crept up over time. (Which I hear it does. Which is scary.) A couple of bottles of beer a day went to a couple of pints. A couple of pints went to sometimes three, or a couple of pints and wine with dinner. Before laying off the stuff, wine with dinner was going on more evenings than not.

And I found myself feeling tired. I was so tired that the details of going to bed were fuzzy some nights. I slept poorly, so woke up tired many days.

Edit: I found myself feeling tired. I was so tired drunk that the details of going to bed were fuzzy some nights. I slept poorly, so woke up tired hung over many days.

In the months leading up to my quitting thing here, I kept hearing the word “tired” coming out of my mouth while chastising myself in my head for being so full of shit. I felt like I was lying most of the time when I said it, and I was. To others, but of course mostly to myself.

It’s easy to perpetuate the lie when you’re a functioning alcoholic because you still keep up your routine. You go to bed. You get up and do your grown up thing. You come home and drink at night. For me, the routine was so entrenched I didn’t even know anymore what a good night’s sleep felt like, what it felt like to wake up in the morning after a good night of sleep, or even what if felt like to wake up after an authentically bad night of sleep.

I can say that I’m sleeping better and feeling better in the morning when I wake up, which is great. On the nights I don’t sleep well, I might still wake up feeling like crap, but at least it isn’t a crap sundae smothered in a topping of denial and guilt. I’m just tired. Not more or less hung over — just tired. So even if I don’t feel great physically I’m weirdly happy just to be in my sober body and clear head.


The Roller Coaster Sucks Rocks

There are a lot of things about quitting drinking that remind me of when I quit smoking. That was a long time ago now, but I still vividly remember The Roller Coaster. It looks like this: “Dammit. I need a cigarette.” (Smokes cigarettes.) Wakes up in the morning. Guilt, remorse, and frustration. “Dammit. I need to quit!” (Stomps around mired in self-loathing, resolved to make that change.) Several hours pass. “Dammit. I need a cigarette.”

Repeat. Again, and again, and again. Up to the top, down to the bottom. And you get exhausted and you want to barf, but you just don’t get off the fucking ride.

When I did finally manage to quit smoking, I remember that the most powerful tool I had in my tool-belt was really acutely calling to mind the awfulness that is the roller coaster. When I craved a cigarette, I would ask myself: “Do you really want to get back on that ride? Because that is where this goes. Not maybe. Definitely.” And I had umpteen past attempts to quit as evidence that even a drag from a cigarette was like handing my ticket to this guy:


The quitting drinking thing is really very similar. I have these fairly regular thoughts: “Maybe I could have just one.” And the worst part is that you get some sober time under your feet and you start getting all cocky about it. “Yeah. I totally got this.”

Only you don’t got it. One drink isn’t one drink. It’s one drink this time. And then a couple of drinks in a couple of days. And then just on weekends. And then….

Yep. I know how this works. Roller coaster. Every. Damn. Time.