I Don’t Know What To Call This So I Refuse To Call It Anything!!

Everything is going great for me!!

It’s been six months and it’s pretty tight or whatever because, check it, I don’t even really miss it. I don’t. Really. Okay, don’t look at me like that. I hate when you look at me like that. You know what I’m talking about. It’s this thing you do with your mouth. Yeah, trust me, it’s always done that. I don’t know, whatever. You are for real, for real, seriously doing it right now because you don’t believe me. You don’t. Fucking for real. You gotta stop.

I don’t miss it. I don’t miss the taste of alcohol, or the smell. I don’t get jittery when I pass a bar on the street, or when I see a commercial with some hot broad dousing herself in tequila. In fact, If you were to sit right down next to me with a dirty martini in your hand, I don’t think I’d even get a twinge of longing. I mean, I might be like, “huh, feel the room, friend.” But I wouldn’t be like the alcoholics you see on HBO when a stiff drink tempts them. Something devastating and surprising happens in their lives, and it’s all “fuck it, gimme a whiskey” to the concerned bartender who’s just always inexplicably drying glasses? And the alcoholic is waiting there for their drink all tweaky and shifty and blinky and shit.

During the early days of silently meditating on my own budding (aw, cute) alcoholism, that’s actually how I thought shit went down when people got sober. Alcoholics are denying themselves, so, obviously, they are going to seriously fucking want it when it’s placed in front of their big, dopey faces. They can’t have it, no, no, no, bad dog. And everyone knows that things are just generally better and more delicious and dangerous and sexy and fun when you can’t have them for yourself, and that there’s this scrummy, yummy, yum-yum, naughty feeling that comes along with it, which is exactly what makes you keep reaching for all of those things that you know you definitely should not reach for.

But, yeah, anyway, fuck that, I was wrong, because that’s not what it’s like for me at all. Probably because I am extremely enlightened now, have you heard? I know that I’m not actually “denying” myself anything by not drinking except for maybe some bruises, half-eaten quesadillas left on my sleeping face, and some other really fun dark shit that I have chosen to withhold from you to maintain my mystique.

So, yeah, what can I say? I’m six months sober and I don’t miss drinking. When do you want to throw me a parade? Now? Later? I fucking deserve it because I don’t miss alcohol, I don’t want it, I don’t think about it. Bye. Who is she? Never met her, don’t know her, don’t need her. Later. Bleh. Gross. Why did I ever. Why do you? Goodnight. Don’t miss it.

Anyway. How are you? Staying safe? Healthy, I hope? How are your parents? The cat? Do you think you’re going to stay around here or maybe head out for a while? What kinds of things have you been getting into? Wow, crocheting, huh? That’s awesome, that totally fits with your whole thing, yeah, yeah. Totally, no sure, I’d love to hop on a Zoom call with everyone, maybe next week or — FUCK, okay, sorry, sorry, sorry. Before we completely move on — can I just clarify something?

Thank you. Thanks, really. I do want to hear about everything but, listen, first, I have to tell you that I definitely do NOT (I do not miss it in a house, I do not miss it with a mouse), miss drinking. I do not miss drinking EXCEPT FOR WHEN. Except when I — when I, you know, when I MAYBE look at a sliver of light coming in through my kitchen window in this very specific way, or I hear how a chord progresses on a song I’ve heard a thousand times, or when I stare emptily at a pot on the stove as the water starts to boil over, or when I feel sweat drip down my back, right between my shoulder blades.

Or when the air in a room gets hot and tense and angry and confrontational. Or when I look in the mirror and for a moment I see my face gently flickering in the bathroom light of some velvety bar during one of those nights where I could feel my face flush, my tongue loosen, my body relax, my weight lean into his, blood rushing and sloshing up to our temples as we silently agree “tonight, tonight, tonight.”

But, yeah. Don’t really miss it.

Except for when I smell a freshly lit cigarette, or when I tug the hem of an old, tired t-shirt I’ve had for 10 years, or when I am knocked back onto my heels by the unforgiving smell of the subway entrance right as daytime transitions to nighttime.

Or when I turn my head like this. Or when I picture you, right now, forming your mouth around my name. Or when I feel this ache, right here, right in the middle of my sternum.

I don’t miss it, I swear, I don’t.

• The other day I got so fucking angry because the government punched me right in the cervix and I wanted to break glass or throw my cat but I didn’t do the first one and I only lightly tossed my cat.
• I like to sweat now.
• I think my eyes are looking particularly…sparkly?
• Did you know it’s possible to wake up before noon when it’s not for a flight?
• The other day I googled “How to be a Vegan.”
• After googling “How to be a Vegan” I got extremely tired, so, now I’m just going to try and drink oat milk.
• This is going to sound wack but I think my imagination is expanding?

Damn. I’d highly recommend making a little list like that sometimes, just right in the middle of some other shit you’re busy doing. Just a little list of things that make you feel happiness or peace or pride while you’re spinning ‘round and ‘round in this apocalyptic storm of plague and garbage and panic attacks. I’ve got a wee pep in my step right now because I remembered I’m going to start drinking oat milk like some sort of celebrity nutritionist.

Anyway, do you know what’s some shit though? I haven’t had a drink in six months (air horn, air horn, air horn), but I still betray myself every fucking night. It’s always at an anonymous party in a stuffy house that’s eerily empty, and it’s always “just one sip” of some random guy’s drink that I’m trying to impress enough that he’ll sleep with me (don’t) and then I’m in bed the next morning cranky and twisty and ashamed and holy shit, did I smoke an entire pack last night, too? And did I lose all of my teeth and contract Covid and proceed to spit all of my teeth into my hand and then sink into a pool of quicksand and then get chased by faceless men with assault rifles?

I didn’t because that was a DREAM, my DUDE.

And the relief after that realization is so sweet and purifying. It feels like a fucked-up gift given by my subconscious mind to my conscious mind, a reminder that the world is still in focus for me. The nightmares are there for a reason, to remind me what’s possible (relapse), what’s to be genuinely afraid of (Covid), and what’s really out there (men with assault rifles, fucking unfortunately). My teeth are fine. The quicksand represents the fear of… I don’t know, being stuck, or like…fuck…I don’t know, like, probably lack of advancement? Whatever. Shh.

Here we are. You and me, waking up, every single day, rattled by nightmares that torment our sleep cycles, and actual ones that are playing out in real time, right in front of us. So, really, It doesn’t matter how you’re waking up, sober (like me! ME! Did you ever think you’d see the day?) or still drunk from the night before. Just that you’re doing it. And you’ve been doing it for six months, too. So happy six months. You’re still here, and so the fuck am I.