This is the second in a four-part series. See the first piece here and check back next week for updates on SDM staff writer Danielle Allaire’s month-long sobriety quest.
People touch your life for brief moments, with varying degrees of intensity—and sometimes the short-lived ones hit the hardest. Strangers morph into best friends. Lovers fade to strangers. Friends move on with the demands of their opposing lifestyle. Or they die from it.
I recently found out a new friend had passed at the age of 42 after checking himself into rehab. He was my age. I listened to the voicemail he sent me on December 26. I’ll get back to him soon. I’m traveling. I’m busy. But here I sit with a ghost trapped in my phone, a constant reminder of my shortcomings as a friend; for not calling him back and, really, for not telling him to stop.
I didn’t cry—I’m not sure why—but I was heartbroken for his friends and the community he had built. As I grieve him, his loss is serving as a reminder to love and take care of myself.
And that’s what my Dry January is all about.
Then comes January 8. I was feeling so proud that I had spent a whole week without alcohol for the first time in quite a while. I was waking up early. I was tackling my tasks with gusto. I had so much time to devote to myself and my new routine. But my pride was paused when I found out about the severity of the Palisades and Eaton fires.
I lived in Los Angeles for nearly 20 years before my move to San Diego, from a freshman in college at Malibu’s Pepperdine University to becoming a bona fide adult attempting to live out her dreams in northeast LA’s Highland Park, just southwest of Altadena. My heart is utterly shattered for my former home, my friends who have lost it all, and the city’s history that has been scorched. This ache for Angelenos is compounded by the fact that Lahaina is my hometown. I’ve been through this before.
Anybody else need a drink?
Dr. Katarina Thatcher, an addiction specialist and therapist at Monima Wellness Center, San Diego’s first female-only therapeutic recovery center, notes that “a lot of the times, I noticed that people typically start getting into a maladaptive relationship with substances when their mental health is on the decline. And, to be honest, substances work. That’s part of the reason that we gravitate to them.” There’s the rub.
Depending on the severity of one’s use, Thatcher cautions that when choosing sobriety “it’s really important that you get a health care team involved … because it can get very scary and people can get very sick.”
Overall, she says, “I think what is important for people to realize is when you’re challenging your relationship with a substance, [ask] what function does it serve? Or, what is it that keeps me coming back to this thing?” Most of us know what we’re numbing but naming it out loud can be the hardest thing to do.
But here I sit with a ghost trapped in my phone, a constant reminder of my shortcomings as a friend
My sister invited me out to dinner on January 9 for my niece’s birthday. I knew this would be the hardest hurdle I’ve faced. My sister and I grew up in restaurants together, always surrounded by the normalcy of drinking. Cocktails to start and a bottle of wine (or two) to finish was the liquid cadence of every meal. My sister is my best friend—and neither of us can deny an Aperol Spritz. The co-signing on questionable behavior is real. She texts me the wine list as I’m driving to the restaurant. I walk into the clamor of kids and the din of the other diners. She’s sitting there smiling through the cacophony with a Sauvignon Blanc.
I know I don’t have to drink. I know she’ll be fine if I don’t. She won’t shame me. She won’t get sad. But I feel the urge to keep up appearances. This is how we dine.
Dr. Thatcher calls out some of the main triggers for people on their sober curious quest. “My mind goes to people, places and things,” she says. “If you know maybe you’re going to be in a situation where you’re going to be really uncomfortable, or you know that there’s going to be a lot of drinking, and maybe you’re fresh on your recovery journey or your abstinence journey, maybe it’s best to sit that one out.”
But, again, there I sit. The waitress approaches and spews that baiting line I myself have said a thousand times, “Anything to drink?” I spy the happy hour menu and spot a Chardonnay. Despite my better wine knowledge, it’s my kryptonite. I order the $6 glass and know it’s going to be horrible.
The waitress comes back, delivering the chintzy glass full to the brim. I think of my friend who’s gone. I think of the LA that’s gone. I think of my progress, which is seconds away from being gone. Surely one little glass won’t set me spiraling. I take a sip. Gasoline with notes of pear. This pick wasn’t worth breaking my fast, but I’m heartened by the fact that I don’t finish it. Maybe because it’s terrible or maybe because I know better.
Dr. Thatcher emphasizes that “relapse is a part of recovery, which I think can be really daunting and maybe even discouraging for folks. But also perfectionism, or the idea of doing things perfectly, is also damaging to mental health. So, if you do relapse, or if you do have those sips, and you’re like ‘That’s not for me.’ Then, okay, there’s no need to beat yourself up over it.”
Though I let myself slip, I got right back on the horse and haven’t touched a drop since. Am I disappointed with myself? A little. But this experience proves that I can allow alcohol in when I want and shut it off when I want. I think.
Next week, we give our state’s latest adult export a shot and go Cali-Sober.
