It doesn’t take long to forget about it. The want, the need, the urge, the taste. The beer, the liqueur, the wine, the seltzers. The alcohol. All of it.
It’s hard at first. To remind yourself you can’t have it. To not reach for the wine glass. To not have some with dinner. Or when you get ready to go out. It’s hard to get yourself tired, to try to fall asleep at night.
The first week is the hardest and then it gets easier. Then it gets to the point where you don’t think about it as much. Normality falls back into place. You think this is what it’s like to not drink on the weekends or at bonfires or best friend’s birthday parties. This is what it’s like to be the sober one out. This is what it was like before you ever started drinking. And this is okay. This can be normal too.
It is reassuring to know I don’t need it. That if alcohol were to go away, I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t care. I would be fine and it was only a few months ago I wasn’t so sure.
It is good to know that I’ll be fine. With or without it.
That’s the thing about sobriety, once you get sober you start to realize all the things you do have and forget the things you don’t. You start to fit back into your skin, laugh at the little silly things, lip sync in the mirror, dance for no reason at all. You write more, you remember more; birthdays, anniversaries, to Facebook message your niece back. You care more about being on time.
To be sober. To be complete with yourself and solely who you are. There is no way out other than in.
Only the strong will go there and stay. Sometimes they will stay forever. Never looking back. Never even considering it.
Everyone at least should try. Try to be sober for some amount of time. It’s almost like a test. See if you would pass yourself. Try to give yourself an honest grade.
I have doubts tonight on whether or not I should have a glass of wine. I could. My 30 days of “Nothing November” complete. It has now been 33 days since I have had a sip of alcohol. I could make it 34. I could make it 387 days if I wanted to. But I don’t. I take the wine bottle off the shelf. The one I bought at Aldi’s the other day. The one that was priced a little higher than the others. A Malbec. From Argentina. My uncle taught me about Malbec’s and soon they became my favorite. I take the opener and slowly tear back the black seal. Piercing the cork with the sharp tip of the opener, cranking the screw down, all the way through the cork. I draw the handles down on each side of the opener and lift up, squeezing the cork up through the glass. Pop. That sound, that sensation, of opening a wine bottle. Red especially. The cork is out, the glass is poured. Half full. Maybe a little less. A blood red liquid dying the glass. I lift it up to my lips, open wide, and let the wine trickle down my throat. I swallow. That taste, that momentum of drinking a sip of wine. I set the glass down. The deed is done. The seal is broken. If I want more, I can take more.
If I don’t, I can go back to being sober.
It never hurts as much as we think it will.
And the sunset tomorrow will look just as beautiful as it did tonight. Maybe a little bit more. We’ll have to wait and see.