On June 13th, 2011, I will have been clean and sober 20 years.
20 years. Twenty. Two decades.
Some people might ask why I'm even writing about this, publicly, on my blog. Isn't this a private matter, Maven? Shouldn't this be a little more hush-hush? To them, I say the following:
1. Um, hello? Have you read anything I've written? Am I ever hush-hush about anything, including my addictive personality? You are obviously not a real fan if you haven't yet figured out that I'm anything but reserved.
2. Is diabetes private? Is M.S. private? Is cancer private? Those are diseases. I also have a disease; it's called alcoholism. There is a stigma attached to it, but I talk about it anyway because I'm a rebel. But don't worry; I also have a disease called egoism, and I freely show that off every time I discuss how amazing I am, too. (Which is pretty much daily).
3. If recovering addicts don't ever discuss their addictions, how on earth would anyone know they can reach out to us if they need help? This is my outreach. Maybe someone will read this and think, "Wow, if that overwhelmed mother to three unbelievably busy children can get and stay sober, maybe I can, too." I'm a public service announcement wrapped up in great hair, bitches.
Anyway, I've been trying to figure out how, exactly, I can giftwrap what two decades of sobriety feels like and pass it on; what it means to me to have been given this second chance at life. I don't know if I can. That's right: I'm a writer, and I don't know if I can.
How can one summarize what it feels like to know - absolutely know, beyond a doubt - that she won't live to see past her teen years unless she accepts help, because her disease is too strong, too all-consuming, too dangerous? How can one put into words what it's like to feel fear so deep and despair so dark that she eventually accepts the help - the incredible, miraculous help - that's offered to her and leaps with her last bit of strength because there is nothing to lose anymore? How can one truly explain the contrast between that sad, broken little girl and the woman she is today? (Still a little bit broken, not very sad, and in fact grinning ear-to-ear most of the time.)
I had lost almost everything - my friends, my education, my self-esteem, my strength, my hope, my will to live, and nearly my family. I was out of options, I was out of chances, and the path that awaited me if I didn't step into that treatment center would be short and frightening and very lonely. So I did, and I got my life back. And on that now solid foundation, I slowly built up something incredible.
They say most addicts never stay clean. And yet I have, one day at a time, for two decades. This disease is powerful and all-consuming. It's a deep hole to climb out of, and I understand the desire to stay in that hole, or to head back down there when the world gets tough. I don't believe I'm any stronger, more capable, or more insightful than anyone else. I don't know why I've been able to maintain my sobriety. I just know that I have, and that I'm incredibly grateful for that fact every single day. And that now, of all times, I want to shout from the rooftops that it's possible, achievable, incredible.
Heck, if I can do it, anyone can. I am definitely not the poster child for sobriety by any means. I'm far from perfect - just read through my posts over the last few years to get a good idea of my numerous shortcomings and multiple blunders of various types. If I can beat the odds, so can anyone else. No joke. You just have to really, really want it, more than anything else. And you have to be willing to work damn hard for it.
So, if I can't write about what it means to mark this milestone, maybe I can show you. And maybe you can show this to someone else. And maybe they can show this to someone else who is struggling right now. And maybe, just maybe, it will help someone a little bit and I can feel even more awesome than I usually do (if that's even possible).
This is what twenty years of sobriety is to me:
How have I stayed sober? No substance holds a candle to this amazing, frustrating, beautiful, incredible, overwhelming, insane, adventurous life. I am so blessed to have what I have, and I will fight tooth and nail to keep it. It was statistically improbable that I could have all of this in my life given the disease that nearly swallowed me whole. And now that I have it, there's no way I'll ever let it go for anything. Ever.
Finally, there's an abundance of this in just about every day in the last 7, 304 days:
This is a rockin' life. I'm so thankful. So very thankful.
20 years. Twenty. Two decades.
Some people might ask why I'm even writing about this, publicly, on my blog. Isn't this a private matter, Maven? Shouldn't this be a little more hush-hush? To them, I say the following:
1. Um, hello? Have you read anything I've written? Am I ever hush-hush about anything, including my addictive personality? You are obviously not a real fan if you haven't yet figured out that I'm anything but reserved.
2. Is diabetes private? Is M.S. private? Is cancer private? Those are diseases. I also have a disease; it's called alcoholism. There is a stigma attached to it, but I talk about it anyway because I'm a rebel. But don't worry; I also have a disease called egoism, and I freely show that off every time I discuss how amazing I am, too. (Which is pretty much daily).
3. If recovering addicts don't ever discuss their addictions, how on earth would anyone know they can reach out to us if they need help? This is my outreach. Maybe someone will read this and think, "Wow, if that overwhelmed mother to three unbelievably busy children can get and stay sober, maybe I can, too." I'm a public service announcement wrapped up in great hair, bitches.
Anyway, I've been trying to figure out how, exactly, I can giftwrap what two decades of sobriety feels like and pass it on; what it means to me to have been given this second chance at life. I don't know if I can. That's right: I'm a writer, and I don't know if I can.
How can one summarize what it feels like to know - absolutely know, beyond a doubt - that she won't live to see past her teen years unless she accepts help, because her disease is too strong, too all-consuming, too dangerous? How can one put into words what it's like to feel fear so deep and despair so dark that she eventually accepts the help - the incredible, miraculous help - that's offered to her and leaps with her last bit of strength because there is nothing to lose anymore? How can one truly explain the contrast between that sad, broken little girl and the woman she is today? (Still a little bit broken, not very sad, and in fact grinning ear-to-ear most of the time.)
I had lost almost everything - my friends, my education, my self-esteem, my strength, my hope, my will to live, and nearly my family. I was out of options, I was out of chances, and the path that awaited me if I didn't step into that treatment center would be short and frightening and very lonely. So I did, and I got my life back. And on that now solid foundation, I slowly built up something incredible.
They say most addicts never stay clean. And yet I have, one day at a time, for two decades. This disease is powerful and all-consuming. It's a deep hole to climb out of, and I understand the desire to stay in that hole, or to head back down there when the world gets tough. I don't believe I'm any stronger, more capable, or more insightful than anyone else. I don't know why I've been able to maintain my sobriety. I just know that I have, and that I'm incredibly grateful for that fact every single day. And that now, of all times, I want to shout from the rooftops that it's possible, achievable, incredible.
Heck, if I can do it, anyone can. I am definitely not the poster child for sobriety by any means. I'm far from perfect - just read through my posts over the last few years to get a good idea of my numerous shortcomings and multiple blunders of various types. If I can beat the odds, so can anyone else. No joke. You just have to really, really want it, more than anything else. And you have to be willing to work damn hard for it.
So, if I can't write about what it means to mark this milestone, maybe I can show you. And maybe you can show this to someone else. And maybe they can show this to someone else who is struggling right now. And maybe, just maybe, it will help someone a little bit and I can feel even more awesome than I usually do (if that's even possible).
This is what twenty years of sobriety is to me:
 |
| It's me (not drunk) |
 |
| And him. Oh, him. I love him very much. |
 |
| And us. We're a really great us, I must say. |
 |
| Together, we made wonderful him. |
 |
| And beautiful him. |
 |
| And very sweet him. |
 |
| Sobriety is them and the life we have as a family. |
 |
| It's being here to capture these moments. |
 |
| And especially these moments. |
 |
| And absolutely loving these moments. |
How have I stayed sober? No substance holds a candle to this amazing, frustrating, beautiful, incredible, overwhelming, insane, adventurous life. I am so blessed to have what I have, and I will fight tooth and nail to keep it. It was statistically improbable that I could have all of this in my life given the disease that nearly swallowed me whole. And now that I have it, there's no way I'll ever let it go for anything. Ever.
Finally, there's an abundance of this in just about every day in the last 7, 304 days:
 | ||
| Coffee. And joy (Same thing, really.) |