It’s September. A new month, a new season on the horizon. Beginnings are hard, aren’t they? Though that’s also the trick of them. Making the decision looks so tough in the moment just before that you forget that’s often the easiest part. You make the decision to do the thing, okay. Then you have to do it. To tweak an AA-ism: process, not perfection.
For anyone struggling with a beginning, a middle, an end, or anything in between: We have a meeting today at 10 a.m. PT/ 1 p.m. ET. More info, including a full schedule, here.
Onto the check-ins. —TSB Editor
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It’s Never Too Late to Begin Again
by The Small Bow Family Orchestra
I keep vacillating between meddling and controlling and judging or just shutting down. But of course I actually need to let go.
My best friend is dying. Suddenly and slowly. It’s so unfair. She has two inoperable very aggressive brain tumors. She is also an untreated addict who is drinking like there’s no tomorrow. Truth is, we had drifted somewhat over the last couple years. Partly because of geography, partly because I’m in recovery and she’s not, and now I’m struggling to hold onto what I have learned in Al-Anon. What I learned and unlearned from being the adult child of an alcoholic. I keep vacillating between meddling and controlling and judging or just shutting down. But of course I actually need to let go. To detach with love. To support her as best I can without throwing my life into chaos as though that would be helping.
I am grieving my friend, and I’m grieving the person I was when I met her. Even though that person was very fucked up and self loathing and mean, and drunk or high a lot of the time, I still thrill at the thought of her freedom, her punk. She was exciting. I’m kind of boring now, and my friend is anything but. She is spectacular and horrifying and she’s disappearing like Marty McFly on the guitar at the end of Back to the Future. It feels like part of me is disappearing with her. A part of me I’ve been pretending I’d let go of a long time ago.
*****
I can’t be expansive and patient and forgiving anymore until I’ve dealt with my rage.
I’ve spent the last several weeks grappling with rage. It’s not an emotion I metabolize well, and I am so haunted by the legacy of my father’s and grandmother’s rage — deeply linked to their addictions — that it’s always felt like a huge liability to ever touch the well of anger within me. I think most people in my life see me as someone who doesn’t really get angry — I think most would be surprised to see me actually direct my anger at a person I’m angry at, without at least sending it through several layers of processing. But I’ve been treated really terribly by some folks I loved and trusted in the last year, and the bill is finally coming due: I can’t be expansive and patient and forgiving anymore until I’ve dealt with my rage. I got real angry six or seven weeks ago and I’m still dealing with the exhaustion. Sparks are still spilling out here and there and catching me and others off guard. It’s so hard — it’s so hard working out how to be someone who is really allowed to be angry, even for a little while. I still worry it’ll make me evil or unmanageable, a forbidden potion that will unlock something awful I can’t put away again.
*****
Mainly, I’m just keeping track of things, observing my feelings, and trying to be very selective about my surroundings and what I expose my brain to.
I’m about a month sober. I truly don’t know the precise day I last drank, because I’ve been on and off the wagon so many times that resolving to quit no longer seems like a momentous event. But I recall what happened a few days before my last drink. I’d gotten hosed out of a great deal of money at a strip bar, then fell off my bike on the way home. A security guard stopped me (for my own safety, he said) and I wound up in the ER with an ethanol level of .342. I remember the doctor saying “I’m a little surprised you’re articulating and ambulating” (which means walking and talking). Had to buy a new bike because the hospital temporarily lost the one I had with me. I drank for a few more days after that, nursing my wounds. That was a little over a month ago.
Since then, I’ve been very intentional about how I spend my time. I set goals, and I’ve been planning my days by the hour. In the morning, I take a few moments to reflect on the things I’m grateful for, and before bed I review the day. What did I do well, that I can compliment myself on? Where is there room for improvement? And I’m using some wellness hacks — getting sunlight first thing in the morning, exercising and eating clean. I re-started a membership at a luxury wellness studio that has an infrared sauna and a cold plunge. I can’t easily afford it (though of course it costs far less than a month of drinking). But I used to go there, back when my life was going much better, so I’m returning to what works. (And man, I love those plunges! They bring on healthy surges of dopamine.) Mainly I’m just keeping track of things, observing my feelings, and trying to be very selective about my surroundings, and what I expose my brain to. Just a bit ago I was on YouTube and my algorithm led me to some disturbing cop body cam videos. And just as I was about to get sucked in, I said “You know what? I’m not doing this today!” I closed my laptop and took my dog for a short walk. A small victory. See you next month, perhaps.
*****
What am I gaining by not putting myself out there?
So I’ve just come up to an anniversary of sorts — a yearly milestone for when I was last paid for work. I’ve done some good work on myself in this time, but still am not able to produce the willpower, the push, the whatever to really go after a job. While I can live, I’m seriously sacrificing future me. With Labor Day comes a reflection of the passage of time, the end of summer, the turn towards cold in the north. I ask myself: “If not now, when?” Not in the way that I’m trying to pressure myself, but more in a factual way. What am I gaining by not putting myself out there? A quote in the context of writing I recently heard that could be applied to anything: “Write for your fans, not your critics.” While I may forget it in ten minutes, it seems like the kind of thing which would benefit me to think about and possibly meditate on. Not that I have a meditation practice, per se.
I recently got an assessment in my government medical system. Primarily because I wanted to access help that would not cost me money. The hour-long assessment seemed to be a bit short to really figure out much of anything, but I thought the questions were good enough. Anyways, in addition to some medication recommendations, the therapy recommendation was group Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Not really what I was looking for — I’d prefer something that emphasizes the body more. Having said that, its been a very long time since I’ve done CBT so its probably worth a try. The term waiting list was mentioned so I may not have to face the possibility of actually doing it for some time.
*****
My movement through time is graceless.
Instead of writing about time, I keep reaching for my phone, as if my feed could offer a shortcut. Scrolling is a drug — erasing seconds I’m too impatient to bear. There’s a flash of anger, the urge to run, the delusion that inspiration might strike between an ad and a meme.
When I first got sober, I came home from rehab and sat on the couch. There was an AA meeting in five hours. My tacky, mirrored IKEA clock ticked loud and cruel. What the fuck do people do? I cried. I rearranged my closet. I cried again. Four hours to go. Was there an instruction booklet for this shit?
My movement through time is graceless. Waiting is torment — whether it’s biopsy results or my dog to come when I call him. I announce to my family what time we’re leaving for my mother’s, and five minutes before that I’m in the car, fingers twitching near the horn, trying not to become my father.
I haven’t had a drink in a long time. But if I ever do, it won’t be because of a catastrophe. It’ll be to lubricate my relationship with time. To soften now.
*****
I only knew I loved him so much, I would tolerate total devastation as a way of life.
It took me five years to end my 10-year marriage with an addict who I loved so much, I too lost touch with reality. The day of our wedding, I asked him, “Are you an alcoholic? Everyone in my family marries an alcoholic so I need to know if this is a problem.” He said he wasn’t, and we married hours later. I wasn’t yet ready to face my own denial, to heal my family’s generational trauma, and to save myself from abandonment. I only knew I loved him so much, I would tolerate total devastation as a way of life. I slowly and painstakingly accepted the only truth that could settle up the differences between his words and actions: What I wanted in life wasn’t want he had capacity to give me. Now as we pack up our marriage and coparent two kids, I understand that — for me — loving an addict means loving him from afar.
*****
I find myself wishing I’d made a sly case for her to stop drinking, but she never indicated any desire to stop, and I know that each one of us has to make that choice for ourselves.
I recently lost a friend to suicide, which was wholly unexpected. She was depressed and drinking a lot while presenting a cheery face to the world. She seemed to be in control of her future but the wheels fell off the cart one night. I find myself wishing I’d made a sly case for her to stop drinking, but she never indicated any desire to stop, and I know that each one of us has to make that choice for ourselves.
I am rounding the bend on seven years of sobriety. Lately my work schedule has kept me from my regular home group meetings, and though I know that there are many, many other meetings where I live, I most often get lazy, make excuses, and don’t go. The chaos and suffering in the world make me want to retreat into oblivion. I’m not tempted to drink or use drugs but I am re-creating a version of that indulgence with hours of reality television paired with mindless scrolling on my phone, and handfuls of candy. Still, I am slowly plowing through my step work, taking care of my kid and getting my work done. I set a one-hour limit on Instagram and I am relieved when I don’t get cut off by the end of the day.
*****
I can’t handle this assignment. I’ve lost it. It’s all moving too quickly. Why’d I say that one weird thing on Slack. Should I delete it. They can tell. They can all tell.
In an ever growing list of neuroses and maladies the triumphant emotions this month have been fear and anxiety. Like an old pair of shoes, they are.
In a job where I’m experienced enough to know whether I’m performing well — I push that voice of reason down into an impossibly small compartment. It’s like one of those sleeping bags that can roll up into a sack the size of a water bottle.
Then I let the fear and anxiety blossom! Sometimes I wake up with my fingers interlaced across my chest in a cold sweat, then it’s just more versions of that throughout the day. I can’t handle this assignment. I’ve lost it. It’s all moving too quickly. Why’d I say that one weird thing on Slack. Should I delete it. They can tell. They can all tell.
Then the meetings go fine and the deadlines get met and I wonder how I was ever in that headspace in the first place, it feels incomprehensible.
At home it’s a little more existential. Will the bookbag we got her for the first grade make her feel embarrassed and she’s just wearing it because we picked it out and now she’ll be pilloried. What about pre-school for the other one? It’s perfect but it has tuition but how can I pay for that anymore and I promised myself they’d get all the opportunities I didn’t and I’m fucking failing them and they know I look at my phone too much.
Then we play keepy-uppy with a balloon in the living room and go to the park and swing and I get the biggest hugs and most adorable moments and every day is the best day of my life.
So it’s pretty much just been all of that happening everyday for a month.
But, like, I really love my life and I think everything is going to be fine.
*****
And then there are days like today when I’m yelling maniacally at a five-year-old while the toddler watches and learns.
I am really struggling with self-loathing tbh which is extra annoying because just last month I submitted a check-in that was sincere at the time but feels smug in hindsight since less than 30 days later my hard-won serenity is nowhere to be found. And I’m sure it’s my own fault I’ve lost it, even though I badly want to blame my circumstances.
If left to my own devices I would carve out a safe and cozy nook for myself and stay there forever. But because I ended up in a healthy marriage with small children (absolutely what I wanted more than anything and 100% only possible due to sobriety btw), constancy feels utterly inaccessible.
On healthy days this obvious truth feels manageable and even exciting, and then there are days like today when I’m yelling maniacally at a five-year-old while the toddler watches and learns.
Last night I prayed so hard for mental intervention and it worked. This morning I forgot prayer was even an option. Fortunately I know how to make amends, to repair and try again.
*****
It’s back to day one and attempting some achingly brilliant and resonant closeness with a higher power, the program, and the thing I’m most terrified of — myself.
Bottomed out of SLAA withdrawal for the second time in August. Or was it the third? I guess it’s neither here nor there. Either way it’s back to day one and attempting some achingly brilliant and resonant closeness with a higher power, the program, and the thing I’m most terrified of — myself. Brilliant and resonant was how I described life after I quit drinking for the fourth and last time to an unavailable person I’d seen on and off throughout their own long-term relationship. Next time I question whether or not SLAA is for me, I’ll replay those details. May I stay willing to put a halt to the harm, to heal my dumb heart this time.
*****
At first it was quite fun, I suppose like the beginning of my alcohol addiction was.
After more than two decades of sobriety (from alcohol), I got breast cancer. My oncologist told me about a half-price deal they had with a local marijuana dispensary and without much thought I embraced the product to help with chemotherapy symptoms. Ha! At first it was quite fun, I suppose like the beginning of my alcohol addiction was. But before long I was using all day. The depression I have battled all my life got way worse. I was in a fog and avoiding everything that was the least bit difficult. I totaled my car in an accident that was my fault and I’m sure weed played a role in that. I’m newly clean and the fog is lifting. Once again I realize I am an addict and I cannot moderate substances no matter what other people may be able to do.
*****
But what the hell am I going to do with this footage? And how does this solve anything?
I drove around my neighborhood last night in my minivan trying to find the kids who kicked my door and then ran away for the third time this month as part of an idiotic TikTok challenge. I found them and rolled up on them recording a video with my phone. Four of them scattered. But I got two of them to talk to me on camera. I was so proud of myself for sticking up for everything that is right and just in this world. But what the hell am I going to do with this footage? And how does this solve anything? In the light of morning what I did seems like unhinged behavior. I haven’t been to a meeting in over a month. I thought I was cured because I hadn’t thought about drinking or drugs the whole time. I was normal and my drinking and using had been fixed. I was the first alcoholic to fix things permanently. I made history. I didn’t need to go to meetings anymore. Only side effects include harassing children in the streets where my kids are also growing up and tossing and turning all night in fits of rage. So yeah, I’m gonna get to a meeting.
*****
I got so addicted to this fantasy person, and the intoxicating potential of every interaction, that I failed to develop a sense of self apart from this person; he was my universe.
I am trying to keep myself in withdrawal from love addiction, so that I can teach my brain to exit the cul de sac of needing intense connection in order to feel OK. I attended Al-Anon for a while, but it kept me subtly focused on my “qualifier,” even though I know that the problem drinker is the only thing you need to get you in the door, then it becomes about you. So, I told my sponsor that I had gone as far as I could go for now with the program. The truth is, I became addicted to a person and a process in my teen years in the mid-nineties (along with dieting and kickstarting an eating disorder), looking to something to help me feel solid inside, like a gummy bear, but also craving something to help me feel lovable and good, like a J.Crew model. I got so addicted to this fantasy person, and the intoxicating potential of every interaction, that I failed to develop a sense of self apart from this person; he was my universe. No one could see that I was struggling with an addictive process as crippling as any substance. Fast forward: We have been married for twenty years now, and I’m trying to figure out what it means to be sober from him, from an addictive process, while married to him, the object of my long standing fantasy life, and the father of my children. I know the right thing for now is to be appropriate, polite, civil, kind and lean into the shattering boredom and bottomless disappointment — that no one is coming to nurture me, or fill me with a sense of my lovableness. I have to stop “checking levels” of desired intensity like I’m a lifeguard checking chemicals poolside. I know It’s an inside job, and a big part of it is not saying provocative things to him like “I’m a love addict because of our fucked up teenage years” and then telling him to read Facing Love Addiction by Pia Mellody so that we can “connect more.” It is hard work, but I will be sober if I keep my desperate desire for intensity and connection between me and my Higher Power, feel my feelings, find out what I need, and love him for who he actually is, one day at a time.
*****
It was never as good as I imagined it and perimenopause and migraines would frankly kick my ass from the first sip but in the almost seven years since I quit I’ve never craved it this much.
I’ve been sober from booze and American spirits since February 2019. I was a grey area drinker since 14, slowing down when I had my kid at 34 but slipping back now and again to a bottle of red a night but revisiting dry January etc etc. Family members going into recovery and some shameful moments like FaceTiming drunk with my kid from a girls trip to Napa spurred me to give it all up. I don’t work a formal program but lean heavy into stoicism, transcendental meditation and daily intense exercise. It mostly works, but recently I just slowed down in the wine aisle at the grocery store and actually looked at the bottles instead of breezing past. Ever since that moment I’ve been remembering that first drink of the night after my kid is finally asleep and lighting up a smoke and exhaling. It was never as good as I imagined it and perimenopause and migraines would frankly kick my ass from the first sip but in the almost seven years since I quit I’ve never craved it this much. Will keep keeping on I guess, keeping passing open windows like they say in The Hotel New Hampshire and doing my level best to stay level.
*****
I had the physical part down, but the emotional part was terrifying.
July 2025 marked 8ish years of sobriety. But it was only in year 6 that I understood the difference between physical sobriety and emotional sobriety. I had the physical part down, but the emotional part was terrifying. I put in the work in my own way. Incremental improvements started building on each other, and I started to feel better. I started to set and hold difficult boundaries. But, recently, this has taken a turn. My voice has become louder and my heels are dug deeper in the ground. I finally realize who I am and why I’m here and I’m tired of dealing with other people’s bullshit. More yelling and less breathing is a recent trend. Not cool. Hoping September brings clarity.
*****
Though I wasn’t tempted, I’ve never been around so much booze and weed since recovery.
Having 7 years of sobriety, I felt pretty confident going into a camping trip with an old partying friend. It had been a couple years since the last time we camped together and he knew my journey better than most, I mentioned the trip in TSB chat (thank you, TSB!) and that I was feeling confident. Still, though I wasn’t tempted, I’ve never been around so much booze and weed since recovery. Another old friend from out of town seems to hit his vape pen every 1/2 hour or so, and I don’t crave joining him, only occasionally remembering how much we’ve done that activity together in the past. I did easily stay away from the drugs all weekend, and was even a little proud of myself: When asked, “Maybe later?” (to hitting the joint creekside) I replied “Maybe, in about 25 years, if I have no reason left to use my brain.” Friend replies, “Oh, not around midnight . . .” Me: “Nah . . .” The weekend was also a good reminder of how plans and intentions go by the wayside (trailhikes, getting up at a decent hour) when someone chooses to get loaded.
So, good for me (and so good for me!). Didn’t get injured, didn’t embarrass myself, kept my goals, stayed in solidarity with others in group who stayed sober, didn’t suffer, don’t feel any cravings, and feel strong and ready for the trip I’m leaving on tomorrow, which is possible courtesy of me not being hurt, arrested, sick, broke, alone etc. due to my past problem behavior(s)!
Plenty of people make it through life’s journey without using, and I am one of them. It’s easy for me to think of some now that I’m among them.
*****
The heavens parted and HP stuck their finger at my phone and that was that.
In July I drove from Philly to Boulder with my 18-year-old cat. I’m starting my “act 3.” After two months of a restaurant job that my body couldn’t take and which was bad for my sobriety, I lay sick on my couch in February and I knew the gig was up. Philly had been my home for 30 years. I raised a family, got married and then divorced, and spent the last several years of this “act 2” crashing from one shit storm to another.
On the couch that night, sick as a dog, I scrolled through the website of the university my mother used to work for. I came upon their graduate program in clinical counseling. The heavens parted and HP stuck their finger at my phone and that was that.
Classes have begun and I have a redonculous amount of reading to do. But I love it. I have been graced with that magical self-assurance we can feel when we are aligned with our higher power. I’m living in an apartment in my mom’s house and helping her out (she’s 87). There’s a long story about this return but it’s for another check in.
Recovery teaches us that it’s never too late to begin again. In all our affairs.
*****
I would look at my 11-year-old, and wonder how much he understood; if his internal monologue was similar to mine when my grandfather would look after me, completely pissed drunk.
I went home to visit my mother and grandmother (who’s 98, God love her!) this past month. Always a perilous journey to the depressing town I am from. With my wife and 2 kids in tow, we got to hang out in my mother’s apartment, which she shares with the supposedly recovering opioid addict I went to high school with. In the dense haze of incense to mask the more intense haze of cannabis smoke, both of them continuing to try and remove the drug paraphernalia they had forgotten about. Her clearly starving, likely from being focused on other things, and falling asleep on her pizza, almost spilling her to go mug of wine, which she was never without over the 3 days of our visit. I would look at my 11-year-old, and wonder how much he understood; if his internal monologue was similar to mine when my grandfather would look after me, completely pissed drunk. My heart ached, at bringing my kids into this situation, for the pointlessness that is her life.
I live with MS, just as she does. Though my life is grace upon grace, my cup spilling over, and hers is darkness. I have never been so grateful for my sobriety, for the opportunity to rise everyday with all the clarity of mind and vision I can muster. Grateful I get to participate in the life around me. Grateful I can be a part of my kids’ and partner’s becoming. Grateful I hold my painful upbringing and early life tenderly and glean, with God’s help, the lessons it holds. Grateful I can take my family to the beach in the beautiful northern parts of the island that was my home, after touching the despair of my past.
On the night we left town, I passed out for unclear reasons (stress? Emotional desecration? Dehydration?) while using the bathroom in our hotel room, falling and cutting my head open on the towel rack. The wound is closed but still healing, unsure of how significant the scar will be. The dark forces of my past continue to try and haunt me. Each day I seek my family’s and God’s help to escape their grasp, knowing I cannot do this on my own.
*****
fin
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OTHER RECENT CHECK-INS:
Why the Impulse to Suffer?
Is there something inherently sad about August or do I just have the upside-down version of seasonal depression?
Getting to Just Unhappy
It’s July. How have the first six months of the year been? The first six months? Of this year? The one we’re in? Currently? Well actually [sound of a train horn]. Hm, that’s odd. Let’s try again. So the thing is [gets yanked off stage by one of those old-timey hooks]. Okay
To All The Skeletons Drinking Coffee
The other morning, while I was under-rested and underwhelmed and standing in the kitchen, drinking coffee, I realized I felt an uneasy vulnerability I hadn’t experienced in several years. I was flummoxed: What must I do to feel like I’m back in my skin again? What must I do to feel like myself again?
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