Today is a mile marker in my sobriety. Today I am 90 days sober.
I’ve been counting down to this for what seems like much more than 90 days. As much as I stick to the adage of one day at a time, I still have to have shiny objects for my mind to seek out and 90 days was one of those. It’s hard to truly put into words why it means so much and also why it was a stepping stone for me. Other than I would not have guessed I would be here if I had asked myself six months ago. This is the longest I’ve been sober in nine years. And I was only sober then because I was growing a person.
I’m happy, and proud and feeling accomplished. Excited to announce it and let people know I’ve done it. It’s only three months. 90 little days. 2,160 hours (or so). But a difficult 90 days that have taught me a great deal including the understanding that I have an intense amount more to learn.
But I’m also stressed, anxious and my depression is sneaking up behind me after a lengthy reprieve from its haunting effects. There are parts of these past 90 days that have been a breeze. No hesitations, integral revelations and appreciation for the route I’ve chosen. Others have been rife with hurdles and land mines. Some requiring moments of seeking out a life raft or reassuring words.
Last night, as my anxiety and panic overwhelmed me over something that would perceivably be innocuous to others I had a moment of alcoholic longing. It was wine that came to mind. The velvet feel of it on my tongue. The warmth as it spread through my chest. The gentle buzzing that would fill my head space, crowding out the nagging thoughts and ringing cry of my unease over all the things my anxiety was showing me.
Because sometimes my anxiety is like show and tell in a class of kindergartners who have been eating sugar all morning and also got no sleep the night before. Belligerently holding up their favorite toys, screaming at you to look and throwing tantrums when someone else gets more attention. It’s chaotic and demanding, which exhausts me.
Overall, while I have this significant moment to applaud and feel pride over, I’m weighed down by a clamoring of thoughts. Of dissatisfaction with certain areas of my life, that aren’t immediately reparable and some I just haven’t come to understand yet. The mom guilt on the days I question my parenting, which are most of them. Usually for simplistic reasons that are truly unjustified self persecution. Sullenness and frustration over constantly having to worry about finances, with very little room to breath and no reserve should anything drastic happen. Mental flogging for not pursuing my writing further, knowing it’s something I enjoy and I would like to see flourish. Even fretting about my exercise regimen and where the hell my discipline has gone to.
It should be a much more exuberant day and perhaps it’s winter doldrums as well, but I’m just struggling on my 90th day, and it’s unfortunate. Maybe part of it is that while I have learned how not to run from what burdens me, now I’m sitting with all of it. There has to be an in between that exists so as not to consistently be in the thick of challenges, feelings and lack of peace. I’ve seen it. Glimpsed it from time to time lately. I’m still determining what makes up the ideal of happiness so that I may claim my own particular definition of it.
Through all of this, I have not caved to the whispers of temporary freedom from these smothering thoughts in the form of a drink. I have stayed true to my drive to succeed at finding a better way. It’s definitely a challenge right now. While I’m excited to hit triple digits, I know that by the time I get there, I could be fatigued and begrudging my inability to moderate. There are times I get a little indignant about being in this position. Watching tv shows where characters drink with freedom, knowing I don’t have that luxury if I want to stay sane (and healthy). Attending my first social outing where I typically would have been plastered by the end of the night. I watched those around me take shots that I usually would have been the one to encourage partaking in and for a moment, I felt a little lost. Without tequila, who am I? Without the raucous laughter following the slamming of shot glasses, where do I fit?
But the moment passed and I embraced the opportunity to actually figure out who I am without inebriation. To know that the next morning wouldn’t be haunted by half-hearted texts about how awful I felt and attempts at piecing together missing pieces of the night. Because I’m not that girl who would have stopped at one. Or five. I never will be.
So here I am, at 90 days. Pieces of me reclaimed. Large parts of me uncertain. Anxiety ridden, at least for the time being. Understanding that even sometimes a day at a time will be too much and that’s okay. The next 90 will be worth it.