December 9th, 2024
Seven years ago today, I flamed out.
My throat opened and drained the tiny bottle of sauvignon blanc from the trunk of my car and I decided it would be the last drink I would ever have.
For then. For now.
I don’t have to get into the rest in detail (it is well-documented around these parts). Melted down after having insane hallucinations; ended up in the hospital for over a week; crawled my way out and found some sober friends; started being way less of a piece of shit and kept on living despite the unbeatable odds.
Sorry if you lost money on me.
For my sobriety chip this time around, I chose the image of a phoenix.
When I hear people talk about the phoenix, I feel like they solely use the bird in severe terms. You rise from total devastation. You are the phoenix when you suffer a traumatic loss. You are the phoenix when you go through a life-changing event. You are the phoenix when you thought your time was over but it was extended at the very last moment.
That hasn’t been my experience at all.
The phoenix isn’t who I have to be under extraordinary circumstances. The phoenix is who I have to be every fucking day.
Because here’s the truth: even though I try really hard, maybe too hard; even though I attempt, like magic, to do everything that is expected of me and then more on top; even though I read a ton and listen a lot and learn so much; even though I seek out and pick up new tools to use whenever I (or others) need them; even though I try to be kind and open and inclusive and not rude and not thoughtless, I fuck this up every. single. damn. day.
And that doesn’t even cover how I still have to live inside the body that has said and done the things that this body has. I can make amends and be truly sorry for every bad thing, big and small, that I have done, but this body is still my only home and this face is the same face that has hurt those I care about.
These are thoughts and feelings that burn.
So at the end of every day, I am ash.
And then, every morning, I am the phoenix.
I get up and I grow new feathers to ruffle others. I look in the mirror and the guy on the other side nods his head, not so much in approval but with acceptance. I stretch out my wings and wonder if I’m still able to fly. I accept the things I cannot change and all that jazz. I promise myself that I will be good to those I love.
This is the common routine of rising.
I couldn’t possibly thank all the people who have helped me, but I do have special gratitude for Holly, Jack, Marvel, and my close friends and family. I haven’t had a drink in seven years and there has never been a downside. Ever. In fact, I used to live in the shadow of the downside and I don’t miss it at all. I like that the tiny bottle of sauvignon blanc in my trunk was the last drink I ever had.
For then. For now. For as long as I possibly can.
The Den 