I'm Still An Alcoholic

The last time I had a drink, I could have died. I didn't, but here's the thing about surviving what should've killed you — it doesn't cure you. You think because I got sober I stopped being an alcoholic? Absolutely not. I've just become better at saying no to something I still miss sometimes.

There are days when I still want to drink. That's the truth most people don't say out loud — especially the ones who've "gotten better." But fuck it, here it is:

I haven't had a drop of alcohol since November 24th, 2019, and some nights that old hunger comes creeping back in.

I don't miss the wreckage. I don't miss the shame. I don't miss the anxiety that came with waking up in hospital beds with IV tubes in my arms. I don't miss the guilt that came from my fuck ups or the shame of sitting in courtrooms waiting to be called up, watching other people's lives getting torn apart right before my eyes.

But I do miss the nothingness.

The silence that alcohol gave me. The way it shut up the screaming parts of me I didn't know how to live with.

Anxiety? Gone. Shame? Muted. Loneliness? Doesn't fucking matter when you're unconscious.

The way my body would loosen up after that first drink, like someone had finally turned off a switch I'd been desperately trying to find. The warmth spreading through my chest, my shoulders dropping for the first time all day, my racing thoughts finally slowing to a crawl.

I miss the way three drinks in, my jaw would finally unclench. How by the fourth, I could actually look at myself in the mirror without wanting to punch the glass. The way alcohol turned crowded bars from overwhelming chaos into background noise, where I could lean against the wall and watch people without feeling like I was suffocating in my own skin.

I miss falling asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, instead of lying there for hours replaying every awkward conversation from the day, every stupid thing I said, every moment I wished I could take back. Just... nothing. Sweet, merciful nothing.

That's what alcohol was to me — the pause button I kept slamming because life felt like a movie I didn't want to star in.

And even now, even after five years, even after all the apologies and amends and rebuilding, there are moments where I think, a drink would make this easier like when my grandfather passed and I had to sit with that grief sober, feeling every sharp edge of it with no way to dull the pain. A drink would have made it easier to suppress the grief of his passing, to push down all the complicated shit that came with losing him — the guilt, the regret, the things left unsaid. All the messy parts of grief that alcohol used to silence for me.

Not better. Just… quieter.

You want to know what being an alcoholic really fucking looks like?

It's driving past the bars where I used to blackout and feeling a hook twist in my gut, trying to reel me back in.

It's sitting across from friends while they sip their drinks like it's no big deal, pretending it doesn't feel like a piece of me is missing.

It's showing up, staying sober, making conversation, and ignoring the voice that says, one drink wouldn't kill you.

Even when I know damn well it would.

Because the difference between me and them? They can stop at two. I never learned the word "enough."

I'm not writing this for applause. I'm not interested in your gold star. I'm writing this because someone out there needs to hear that you're not broken because you still want it, and you're not weak because it still calls your name.

You're strong because you haven't fucking answered.

I'm still an alcoholic. I just chose not to drink today. And tomorrow I'll have to choose again. And the day after that.

On certain days that choice is easy.

Other days it's the hardest thing I do.

But it's always mine to make.