Life Doesn't Give a Shit How Long You've Been Sober

I think the first major shift in an alcoholic's life is admitting there is a problem.

Actually, it's more than admitting it.

I admitted I had a problem for years before I did anything about it.

The real shift is that gut-punching realization that life as you once knew it is over. My best friend and lover was being torn from my hands.

Alcohol and drugs had been there for everything.

They helped me celebrate.

They helped me escape.

They helped me avoid reality.

Eventually, they helped destroy me.

My body had given up, and I was angry, frustrated, and oozing self-pity from every pore.

People sometimes say alcoholics don't have a choice.

I don't believe that is entirely true.

We always have a choice.

I could have continued drinking and drugging until I died a slow, miserable, and agonizing death.

Or I could get sober.

I had no idea what getting sober actually meant. I didn't realize I was about to begin changing my entire existence—mentally, physically, and spiritually.

Physically, I was already a wreck.

When I was 19, the doctors told me I probably wouldn't make it to 25 if I kept going the way I was.

I'll never forget it.

A doctor came into my room, sat down, looked me directly in the eyes, and said, “Kid, you are not going to make it to 25 if you keep this up.”

I had ruptured my esophagus.

I was in terrible shape. A priest even came into my hospital room to discuss the possibility of my final departure.

I certainly did not want to have that conversation with him.

You would think all of that would have been enough.

It wasn't.

I didn't really hear the doctors or nurses. My friends and roommates tried talking to me, but I didn't hear them either.

The person I finally listened to was my boss at the restaurant where I worked.

He sat me down and told me I was a valuable human being. Then he asked whether I wanted help.

He even offered me a place to live.

This man was willing to bring me into his home even though he knew I was a full-blown alcoholic.

For some reason, that was the moment something got through.

It wasn't exactly when I got help, but it was when I finally understood that I needed it. If I remember correctly, I was in rehab within six months of that conversation.

My drinking and drugging had been ruined forever.

I didn't know that yet, but I was about to find out.

Talk about having the rug pulled out from under you.

I'm sure life had smacked me across the face with reality plenty of times before that. I just wasn't a big fan of reality.

I enjoyed living in a dream.

I loved being staggeringly drunk and stoned to the point that I was tripping. I absolutely loved getting high.

It was euphoric in many ways.

What I didn't enjoy was the humiliation that began happening more and more often.

I didn't enjoy the shame and guilt that became an anchor on my soul.

I didn't enjoy the darkness or the belief that I was evil and should keep doing what I was doing until it finally killed me.

I didn't want to live.

I didn't want to die.

Once I started drinking and drugging, my loss of control became increasingly obvious through my disgusting behavior.

That was all part of the “fun” I was mourning when I came into AA.

I was mentally and spiritually bankrupt—and I still fought getting sober.

Try making sense of that.

Normies might say, “Well, just stop. Stop drinking.”

Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way for us.

As my sober journey continued and my head began to clear, I slowly became a functioning adult in AA and in life.

I had a great job.

I started my own business.

I got married.

I bought a house, tore it apart, and put it back together.

I had children.

I was active in AA, had plenty of friends, and built a good family life.

I was living life on life's terms.

Then—BAM.

Life decided to hit hard.

My mother became seriously ill, and nobody could figure out what was wrong. She went in and out of hospitals and doctors' offices until we finally learned that she had mesothelioma from asbestos exposure connected to washing my father's work clothes.

My mother went through hell.

I was there.

I was able to be a good son. I was able to bring my sons to see her. Even near the end, her grandsons could still make her smile.

Because I was sober and had AA, I also had the support I needed to walk through what was happening to our family.

To say I loved my mother would be an enormous understatement.

She was everything to me.

Unfortunately, I don't think I fully understood that until she was gone.

I was devastated.

I ugly-cried for days, weeks, and months.

It took years before I began feeling okay again.

Twenty-five years later, the pain has subsided and the constant ugly crying is gone, but I still carry her memory with me.

I remember how much she loved me.

I remember how much she loved her grandsons.

Life isn't always fair.

Life doesn't give a shit whether you have one day, 20 years, or 38 years sober.

Eventually, it is going to punch you in the face.

For this human who happens to be an alcoholic, I need to talk about that stuff.

I needed to attend meetings, share what was happening, and ugly-cry in front of people.

I knew some people were probably tired of watching me break down.

I knew there were people who didn't want to hear me talk about it anymore.

I still had to walk through it.

I had to keep going to work, taking care of my family, and making sure my father continued seeing his grandsons.

Life didn't give two shits that my heart was broken.

Life kept moving, and somehow, I had to move with it.

Without the support system I built in AA, I don't know whether I would have made it through that period of my life.

Sobriety can be beautiful, joyful, and wondrous.

Don't ever mistake that to mean life can no longer wreck your day.

It can.

I've experienced it personally and witnessed it happen to too many other people.

How do we keep moving forward?

We just do.

Why does shit happen to us?

Why not us?

It isn't only about what happens. It is about what we do with it.

Thirty-eight years later, things still happen that I don't like.

I would never have chosen the situation I'm dealing with at work. I would not have chosen the physical limitations I'm facing today.

But you know what?

I'm going to be okay.

I will deal with whatever life throws my way because today I can.

The alternative is giving up.

Today, I choose life.

I choose to move forward.

I choose to stay sober.

As long as I remain sober, anything is possible.

That doesn't mean I'll handle everything exactly the way other people think I should.

But I will handle it.

If I return to drinking and drugging, my choices will become very limited. I will no longer be living life on life's terms.

I will drown in self-pity and delusion.

Eventually, I will drown in alcohol and drugs and probably die a miserable and lonely death.

I no longer choose to live inside that black hole of despair.

No matter what life throws at me, I remain grateful to be sober.