Seriously Sober — Part 1

“First Things First”

“One Day At A Time”

“Take The Cotton From Your Ears And Put It In Your Mouth”

“Progress Not Perfection”

“Keep It Simple”

That last line has an alternate self-deprecating ending, depending on which room you are in. Power in simplicity is something I quickly learned from hearing the harrowing and heartfelt stories of my fellows traversing through the wonderful journey of sobriety. These phrases have become my manna in the lonely desert, providing a brief daily respite from the Hell that exists between my ears.

How am I sure that I am alcoholic?

Self Esteem is a character trait that has never come easily to me, and I imagine I am not alone. Worse yet, it is not quite out of reach yet never in my grasp. Like a greased watermelon at the bottom of a pool, I can see the glimmer of the dark green shape taunting me just a few feet under the surface. Time and time again I will dive through the water to collect what others so easily seem to hold, to no avail. In a sadly performative manner, I will gesture at the sunken fruit — “I am fine, I know it is there. I can see it and will return to its collection tomorrow”.

In these moments and always, guilt and shame lurk behind me like an insidious shadow yet are unable to grant me any real sense of responsibility for my wrongs.

Was I really that bad? Did I have any part to play in that hurt?

Self-Pity is a muddy field I have had season tickets for, fan of a doomed team that seems to fight and inevitably fold in the final minutes of each match. Doubt has always plagued my mind, both in the build up and the break down. Oblivious to the good and ignorant of the bad.

Back to my original question…

How am I sure that I am alcoholic?

This is something I had always wrestled with. Through broken relationships, financial despair and repeated nudges from the judges, I still had difficulty accepting this simple truth. That I am not like most, tragically unique; that I obsess and control, that I might have a problem.

That I might need help.

I will never forget one of the nights in this first (and last, God-willing) stay in the sober living bubble. After spending my first day at the substance treatment facility, learning what would soon become foundational principles in various group therapy sessions, my sober roommates and I relaxed playing a friendly game of Monopoly. Sitting at the long wooden dining table, in our wonderfully suburban sober living house’s dining room, someone decided it was time to get to know the new guy a little better.

“So Luke, what brought you to treatment?”

Fear of judgement seemed to briefly leave me and I replied honestly, “I got charged with a DUI and my lawyer suggested it would be helpful for my case”

“Was that your first one?”

I could feel for a fleeting moment that terrible fear of judgement coming back, leaping through the tall grass it had been hiding behind. All eyes were on me, wanting to know who I really was, my journey that brought me here. Should I be honest, or just keep it light? Feeling safe, I stated the facts as they were.

“No, my 5th!”

For a second, time seemed to stop, as we all made simultaneous surprised eye contact with each other. The fear reached out to grab onto me and smother me, as I imagined a million possibilities of what might be going through each persons' mind until finally another roommate broke through the silence like a welcomed gunshot.

“Oh, so you are definitely an alcoholic!”

Laughter rolled through the room like the thunder of a summer rainstorm, and everyone seemed to breathe relief knowing that another true addict has joined the ranks of their fellowship.

And the game moves on… “It’s your turn to roll, Luke”

How am I sure that I am alcoholic?

I am sure I am alcoholic because all it took was a stranger, at a dining table in a sober house I had lived at for 2 days, to ever seriously start to accept the fact that I am alcoholic. Not after 5 DUI arrests, or a dislocated thumb, or a broken engagement, a totaled car, warnings from employers, nor more blackouts than I care to count. A stranger that I believed was speaking objectively, that I had not yet known to build resentments towards, that spoke only with the facts presented.

How did it take me this long to realize?