Sober. Fucking. Curious.

Dry January. Sober October. No drink November (okay not sure if that last one is real). Sober Curious. It’s a thing. A micro movement, if you will. Well, it certainly is aptly named because I’m sure as hell curious.

And not just curious about what an alcohol-free life might look like. I’m curious why we don’t talk about it. Curious why there are 14-and-a-half million alcohol abusers in the U.S. but only 8% of those get treatment (mayyybeee because we’ve told them to stay anonymous and that the only treatment option is rehab). And on that note, I’m curious why people who struggle with alcohol have to be anonymous in the first place. Curious why women seem to fall victim to this drinking culture more than men. Curious why we feel we need alcohol to get through life.

Curious how this happened to me when I have such control over all other aspects of my life. Curious how, if I hadn’t self-diagnosed and said “hm.. maybe I have a problem with drinking” that I could probably still pass in American society as a ‘normal’ drinker who indulges too much, sure, but isn’t an ‘alcoholic’ because I’m not physically dependent on it. Curious how to quit and not feel like I’m depriving myself of one of life’s greatest pleasures. Curious if I -can- quit.

On December 23rd, I got super drunk. Like blackout, throw up in the toilet, where-did-that-bruise-come-from drunk. If you’ve never had a 3-day hangover, here’s how mine go… Day 1: headache, dehydration, nausea, shakes, anxiety and shame. Day 2: Anxious, can’t keep my eyes open, body aches and fatigue. Day 3: Depressed, headache comes back, and zero motivation.

Truthfully, on more than one occasion after my 6 month alcohol-free period, I‘ve been drinking in what society would probably define as moderation (whatever the fuck that even means) — having only a few drinks, sometimes enough to get a buzz, and sometimes not. Not wanting to admit I caved to the evil elixir, I kept it quiet and basically convinced myself that I didn’t have a problem. On one such occasion, I sat alone, brought a glass of pinot to my lips, took a sip, and thought “why did I ever think I should stop drinking?” I was already planning out the next time I’d be able to have a secret drink(s).

To an outside observer, these occasions where I don’t get blackout drunk, where I don’t wake up with a debilitating hangover, where I don’t put myself or others in danger, probably, on paper, look a lot like the dictionary definition of ‘normal’ drinking — of ‘moderation.’ Congratulations! You did not go over the allotted 3 drinks in one day, or 7 in aggregate for the week. You have achieved moderation.

These are also the occasions that make me say “See! I CAN control it!” thereby convincing me I don’t have a problem. Until… I inevitably go too far and drink way too much, which makes me vow to never drink again, so I don’t drink for like a week, then I introduce it again in but I don’t overdo it and think “See! I CAN control it!” Until… I inevitably go too far and drink way too much —

Wait, didn’t I already say all this? Why yes, yes I did. Well go ahead and record that last paragraph, put it on an endless loop, go make yourself a sandwich, come back 15 years later and there you have it: my relationship with alcohol since 2005.

So, sure, what may technically look like “moderation” to the outside observer, when you tear off the mask, actually looks like “obsession and preoccupation with an addictive drug.” So who’s really in control here?

Alcohol is still consuming me even when I’m not consuming it.