Good morning. Another Tuesday. I’m glad you’re here.

I wish I’d read Sarah Miller’s New Yorker essay before I sent out this prompt, because I don’t know if I sold the assignment the way I intended, but the responses were excellent. Just a quick refresher on what I was looking for:

For the next “What It’s Like . . . ” you tell me — what do you notice now that you didn’t before you got sober? Was it the sky? Fonts on billboards? The eye color of the weatherman on your local news station?

Now back to Sarah’s essay. Here’s what she’s noticed so far in her very early sobriety:

“As the days passed, I started noticing a few small things. Going to bed with no alcohol in my system, no matter how heartbroken and betrayed I felt, was good. The turning off of lights, the closing of curtains, the pulling up of blankets, the loss of consciousness—each piece of the routine felt distinct, and sweet. The mornings, likewise, offered new things to look forward to: waking up with no hint of a hangover, in the early-morning darkness; my one-eyed red heeler, Ruthie, pawing me and whining for her food; the way black coffee felt when it could work on a clean body, instead of having to fight its way through the remnants of alcohol.

This is harder to explain, but after maybe six or seven days of not drinking, I felt a softening in me. I was walking through the woods with Ruthie and I suddenly stopped, because I was aware of the absence of a feeling I’d had my whole life. It had something to do with acknowledging that it was a hot August day, uncomfortably hot, without moving into a state of feeling personally victimized by the heat. I had always felt that I was carrying the anger of my grandmother, which she had passed along to my mother. I had felt some force tying me to them, old and even antiquated frustrations and resentments that did not seem to be mine but felt impossible to get rid of. They were not in me anymore. That thick, ugly vein, the shrimp feeling, was gone. It was abrupt and unmistakable, like when you’re in a terrible mood and you don’t know why, until a neighbor who has been using a leaf blower turns it off, and suddenly you feel fine. It was like I had a dormant tablet of rage and fear inside of me, and alcohol made it dissolve and seep into the tissues of my body. Now, finally, I saw that the tablet could stay dormant. I never had to stare at a wine bottle, wondering how full it was, again. I never had to wake up hungover again, or hear the sound of my dumb drunk voice.”

So good!

Now, wander around online, and you’ll find the essay receiving praise from many in the recovery community, along with the usual thrashing from the 11th Tradition terrorists (an occupational hazard for writing about AA, even in a positive light, in this space) underneath the comments on the New Yorker’s Insta page. But let’s not debate that today. We will soon enough, since Sarah said she’d be up for writing an essay for us about this very topic. (Here’s where I remind longtime TSB readers that Sarah Miller has written for us many times since our existence.)

But today — we have some of you to guide us through what it’s like to be walking around with this newfangled thing called clarity. — AJD

Direct, Embarrassing, True

By The Small Bow Family Orchestra

When I look in the mirror during what I refer to as my morning ablutions because I’m easily amused that way, the clarity of my 56-year-old skin amazes me. Sure, wrinkles line my lips and crease between my brows, and my cheeks and jawline confirm gravity’s existence, but still, wow, look at me. When I meet up with a friend, I marvel at her beauty, the way her brows frame her eyes that I’m noticing are green, not brown, which is what I would’ve guessed during my drinking days, when everyone was filtered through the headache of a hangover and looking at someone directly was like staring into the sun. The waiter’s cheeks are kissed with freckles I wouldn’t have noticed if I were still drinking a bottle of wine with dinner — he’s in focus and adorable. I hope people are tipping him well. Free of post-blackout shame, I walk with my chin up and notice strangers on the street as we pause for the light to change, like really notice them, how they’re dressed, their vibe, whether they’re lost in their phones or open to an exchange of smiles and hellos. To smile and say hello is a soft breeze on a hot day. I won’t think about it later, but I enjoy it in the moment. Since I eradicated drinking and all the consequences of drinking from my life, I notice how I have space available for these moments of sweetness to fill, time to appreciate the curves and lines, freckles and creases, on the faces I love. Even my own. I type this out and notice what a miracle to be able to be here, saying this.

When I got sober I was shocked to notice the change in the seasons here in NYC. It’s sort of amazing how a steady nose-stream of heroin keeps you from feeling the damp bite of winter or the sweat-soaked summer heat. I had an orange one morning back in out-patient in the earliest days of sobriety and I remember thinking I’d never tasted anything so good. 

I’ve come to realize I’ve been a force of chaos in a lot of my life — even 13 years sober. Yeah, I’m counting. “Whoever got up earliest is the longest sober,” right?

The last time I spoke to my parents, my 25-year-old daughter and I went to talk after my mom told me if I wanted to stay in the family, I had to help her. We hadn’t talked in months. Flying monkeys and all — look it up. My family’s got them.

We left with my daughter in tears. I went back in — twice — not my finest moment, and told my mom exactly how I felt. I’ve got a nine-year-old son and a four-year-old daughter, and I won’t put them through that.

Later, my oldest told me my dad flipped me off as I left. Same daughter I met for coffee downtown Chicago, in her high-rise. Surreal. The city always pulls me back — West Side roots, South Side summers, Loop workdays. I stood in a place that once held a hard memory and saw it differently. That’s where she lives now.

I was downtown for an AI work event — senior IT infrastructure guy, about 18 months into this new wave. Feels like I’ve been waiting for it since I was a kid watching Tron. I still joke in interviews about negotiating with the robots someday. People laugh. They always laugh.

But this week felt like a turning point. It’s about people. We’re better together, but we hide. We don’t always say what matters. I try to now — with family, with coworkers. We show up for each other.

Life is good. It’s summer. Early sun, morning runs. I’ve got people I love — and I try to be real with them.

Before withdrawal, I never noticed how compulsively I had to seek attention from all the women around me. I knew there was something wrong, but I didn’t notice that driving, pushing, urgent requirement to do something to connect, to push things farther, to get more. 

After spending a year (mostly) away from sex and love relationships, porn, masturbation, and that same kind of attention-seeking, I can see when it’s happening, mostly. I notice the part of myself that starts to get frantic, and wants to chase, the part of me that’s powerless — and sometimes, I can let go, and feel sane again. 

I think about Mary Oliver’s poem “The Summer Day.” The line, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do / With your one wild and precious life?” isn’t about making the most of your life, as it is mostly quoted for. It is about laying in the grass and looking at grasshoppers. About slowing down.

I love how blue the sky is without any clouds. In West Michigan, we don’t see the blue sky all winter. It’s very dreary and daylight is very short.

I love the long days in the summer, not getting dark until around 10 p.m. and the birds waking me up very early.

I love Lake Michigan, how I can’t see Chicago on the other side. I love looking at the sun when I’m there. I know that’s bad for me. I don’t look directly at it. Sometimes I just take a picture of it so I can see it. In the late afternoon, the sun positions itself so that the water sparkles and maybe then the sand isn’t so hot. I make it a point to watch the sunset at least once a summer. When I’m there, everything feels like it’s going to be ok.

I love feeling the sun on my skin. I know that’s bad for me too.

I love the feeling of salt on my skin when I’ve sweated a lot during a run in the summer.

I notice how I feel and what I want. This is so direct it’s embarrassing, but it’s true. In the past I would wizard myself into imagining I knew what other people wanted, and then I’d say I wanted that too, to make them happy or seen or loved, or not-angry or whatever. I worked so hard at this I literally had no idea what I wanted myself, meaning big picture things like a stable long-term career but also small ones, like colors and flavors. One day my therapist asked me to list things I liked to do. I couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t related to my job, dissociation, or my eight year-old self, so after I cried, we listed things I might like to do. It mostly worked. Now I notice things like the pressure and release of punching awls into photos, or watercolor washes, or chipped nail polish or disorganized shelves, and best of all I mostly don’t perseverate on fixing any of it. My favorite symphony of all these elements is when I get to sit at the little table with my niece and nephew and just color or make puppets. Last time we made these maniac-looking frogs with giant googly eyes on popsicle sticks, and then we went to the park, and after we got home they wanted to make more frogs. Highest honor.

fin

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