500 Days 

It’s been a minute. My brain had been sluggish and unable to focus—partly due to menopause (YAY, said no woman ever), further complicated by post covid brain fog (it’s real friends), and partly because those emotions I’ve been dreading? Well, they finally showed up. Not a fan.

Those unwelcome guests aside—I have hit 500 days. The year mark was big and I certainly celebrated, but somehow this feels bigger. I don’t know why. Half way to a 1,000? Over a year? Good round number? Maybe because I am starting to get my faculties back and able to digest all that I’ve accomplished? At any rate, 500 days feels like a milestone. I’ve learned a lot.

But there is still more to learn. There is always more.

Sobriety is (at least for a former drinker, duller, greaser of the wheels-er) personal growth in its most raw form. 

And growth is an ongoing process. Hopefully until the day we die. 

So here I am growing—and not always delighted by it…

In all this growing and struggling and realizing —what I know right now is that I have unencumbered gratitude and a healthy dose of fear.  They both seem equally necessary.

The fear is not foreboding, as you may think. I used to question the idea of fear as a little girl. When I was told to fear God, it seemed the opposite of the other thing I was constantly being told-which was to love Him. Why were we supposed to fear God? If he was this entity that loved us, and wanted to guide us to our best life, well why would I be afraid of someone like that? I was afraid of creepy clowns, slumber party stories that inevitably took place at summer camps and entailed dripping blood and a licking dog (that—spoiler alert—WAS NOT A DOG. Duh dah dummmmmm), and anything from the mind of Steven King. I was even starting to be afraid of strangers (the 80-’s was the height of stranger danger after all)  But I never understood why we should fear God. It wasn’t until someone told me that the word fear, in that case, could mean respect or reverence. For me, That makes sense. 

I had a relapse dream the other night. I woke in a fit of anxiety. Like hangxiety but without the hang—thank goodness. I dreamt that my husband was telling me a story about a dinner party we had and I didn’t remember anything about it. Nada. Nothing. He kept saying I was there—I was right there! with him —I should remember it. So he took me back to the scene (and this was completely believable because in a dream it is totally normal to float in and out of parts of your life like Ebenezer Scrooge) and I was, indeed, there. I wasn’t slurring my words or falling over drunk, but I was definitely tipsy and at the top of my “Look at me I’m hilarious” routine. The point was—I had absolutely no memory of it. And this struck fear, because if I was there, and I didn’t remember, that means I had drunk enough to not remember…and that terrified me. Which in turn signaled the real life, in the moment, anxiety without the hang. 

Which got me thinking: I cannot afford to be complacent. 

I think that humans naturally start to take things for granted as they become common place. You move to a city by the ocean. Within a few years you rarely go to the beach. Not because it’s not there—but precisely the opposite, it will always be there, you have simply forgotten that glorious feeling of the ocean air in your lungs. 

We forget wonder and awe so quickly. It is a phenomena we need to fight against. All the blogger/youtube/author/ted talk gurus telling us to keep a gratitude journal aren’t so far off the mark. If we are looking for the little blessings-we see them. If we aren’t —they become background noise. 

When I am practicing gratitude I become aware of things like the color of my perfect cup of coffee: not deep charcoal black and not pale tan, but just the right shade of creamy latte goodness. I notice the butterflies in my garden—and not just notice, but take a breath and smile. They are always there but when I am not fully engaged, they are peripheral, at the outlying areas of my vision and day. 

If I don’t appreciate my sobriety, if it becomes commonplace, I could lull myself into a place of complacency. There has to be gratitude for it. A practice of recognition. A hats-off to my state of sobriety. 

And a healthy dose of fear of losing it. 

I’m sure this is why in the 12 step programs they open with “Hello my name is _______ and I am an alcoholic”. I’m sure this is why grey area drinkers we are admonished to keep in mind the beauty of a Saturday morning free of hangovers and regret. 

The appreciation is tempered by trepidation. They play off each other to form an armor against the belief that all of a sudden I can be the one glass of wine kind of girl. Because if there is one absolute truth I can say without a doubt in my sobriety: it is that I will NEVER be the one glass of wine kind of girl. 

Never was. Never will be. 

And I’m ok with that. 

As long as I remember. As long as I am aware. 

So when I get a little cocky and ponder “Why not just one glass?” (and those moments happen) I need to chase that fear down—and look at those old home movie highlight reels, to examine at exactly what self sabotaging point I EVER thought I could be a one glass of wine type of girl. That, quite literally, NEVER happened. After I witness that little homespun matinee and scare myself straight (again with the 80’s abstain jargons) then, sigh of relief, I will remember how grateful I am to be where I am now. 

Because where I am is sitting pretty at 531 days, and even with these pesky little evil monsters (aka memories/emotions) terrorizing me, it is certainly better than where I started. 

Exponentially better. 

And I’m so grateful for that. 

So let’s rejoice in our accomplishments, but temper it with a modicum of fear. 

And, as always, drench ourselves with a bucket of grace. 

Jennifer