Dancing Without a Drink in Hand
(This is the most deeply personal post I’ve shared with the world. Please be gentle. I’m not judging. I’m sharing my struggle in earnest transparency.)
I’ve attempted to write this blog post a dozen times over the course of two years. I end up crying, doubting, cussing, defeated. I’m working through bitterness and self pity sitting at unspeakable levels in my body, mind, and spirit.
I didn’t ask for this genetic makeup.
I didn’t opt in for lifelong addiction.
I didn’t foresee my twenties spent in and out of AA meetings, trying to find the perfect essential oil to pair with my dependencies, or reading every self help book I could get my hands on, all while doing my best to not take another drink.
But here we are. I’m blessed, safe, learning, and addicted. These are the cards.
Hi, my name’s Bethany and I’m an alcoholic.
In my experience, there wasn’t a singular “a ha!” moment before donning the loaded badge that is “alcoholic.” There were several instances of booze-laden whoopsies that inspired pause in my lifestyle and habits. Some damaging texts I don’t remember sending, public embarrassments that reappeared in my brain in hazy pieces days after, and the general feeling of yuck that greeted me with my daily pot of coffee every morning. My bones ached in a way a 24-year-old’s bones shouldn’t ache.
One particularly profound awakening snuck up on me while watching a Netflix series called “Love” by Judd Apatow. I didn’t realize until many months down the road that the unsuspecting, underwhelming show shaped much of my time as a newly sober human. The main character, Mickey, is volatile and snarky. She dresses like indie rock sounds and she’s driven by sweet, delicious urge. Spoiler alert: pretty early on in the series, Mickey begins to identify as an alcoholic and addict. She treads those uncertain waters that emerge at the beginning of that kind of epiphany like a little calf getting a grip on gravity. I saw much of myself in her. Too much.
I laid on my roommate’s cozy red couch in our condo in Austin. I nursed a hangover with a glass of red wine. You know, the kind of beverage Jesus created with a flick of his wrist. Wine’s just fruit juice with a little more street smarts - no harm in that. My head rang, my feet throbbed, my mouth watered. Those fragmented memories that reeked of beer and bad decisions flooded back as Mickey filled the screen with regret. “Damn it. I think I’m an alcoholic.”
The screen morphed from reflecting light fragments to a crystal clear mirror. Mickey drinking. Me drinking. Mickey crying. Me crying. Mickey pissed. Me, broken. Talk about an unsolicited wake up call. I sat on that couch for hours on end, engulfed in this show (that isn’t particularly remarkable, by the way), and by the end of the night, I knew I had to make some hefty changes. And I knew it would hurt worse than my nastiest, head-pounding, stomach-churning hangover ever did.
When I moved to Austin after graduating from college, a whole new world of debauchery and freedom awaited. I knew one person in the whole city. I was a lonely, impressionable, young lass with a spirit ready to take risks, be adventurous, and truly find myself after spending nearly two decades in school. I had no idea how fervently that city of weird would swallow me whole.
Austin is many things. A gentrifying mess, a beautiful haven, a lovely slice of kitsch, and a place for which I’m endlessly grateful. Without Austin, I’m not sure where I’d be as an artist, writer, friend or human. But Austin has an overwhelming alcohol and drug abuse problem that continues to encourage itself and remain unchecked.
Every outside activity includes a refreshing, cold beer or wine cooler. Every corporate event I attended was sponsored by some local alcohol brand, forever fusing booze and work in my mind. When I was employed in the tech startup world, I’d sneak out to the common areas and join whoever was throwing a happy hour, grab a free drink or four, then continue on with my professional business, buzzed and in need of a nap. Every brunch, weekend night, karaoke session, movie outing, museum opening, live show, game night, friendly gathering, work party, or casual shopping trip included a moderate or immense amount of alcohol.
My favorite activities were soaked in booze and, for a few years, I didn’t find anything wrong with a little liquid courage. It wasn’t a problem. I was safe. I used ride share apps and didn’t put myself in dangerous situations. I stayed with friends while downtown, never walking alone and inebriated. I didn’t drink more than most in my circle. It just made sense to order a drink while going on about one’s business. Plus, isn’t this what being in one’s twenties is all about? Aren’t we supposed to let loose and live it up while our bodies allow us to stay out until three in the morning and wake up in time for work the next day?
I was living my best life. Meeting new people, filling up my calendar with fun, social events, exploring new career avenues, and becoming a total pro at all things Austin, TX. And, let me take a moment to make myself abundantly clear: I don’t blame Austin for my drinking problem. I take full ownership of things I did, habits I created, problems I ignored. That place didn’t mold me into an alcoholic, but it sure was a great drinking buddy.
When I found myself questioning my daily routine (I didn’t drink daily, but just about), it was only natural that questioning the place I called home, the place that so easily incorporated alcohol into my life, came with it. Will this gorgeous city permit me the space to explore sobriety without casting me aside?
Here’s one thing they don’t tell you about getting sober: some of your relationships will break into a million little pieces. And no one will admit that brokenness is a direct result of your sobriety, but friends will stop responding to texts, you won’t get as many invites out on the weekend for fear of tempting you (or of being a total wet blanket and ruining everyone’s fun), and the people you’ve built relationships with on a foundation of whiskey and nights out won’t look at you the same ever again.
I get it. While at the peak of my drinking days, I was skeptical and annoyed at folks around me who were sober. They were lovely, open people. I was a self-deprecating fool who resented their willpower. Their lack of red solo cup in hand forced me to take a long, hard look at my own habits. What’s their problem, anyway? Why would they come to a house party if they’re not going to partake? What’s the big deal about drinking in the safety of one’s own home? Who wants to stay sober on a Friday night in a dance club in downtown Austin?
I was the queen of peer pressure and it makes me sick to think about to this day. I had to mask the chaos bubbling up in my belly, so I made sure everyone around me played along and got just as hammered as I was, so none of us stuck out. If we all lost our minds and couldn’t remember it the next day, did it even happen?
The first few weeks of my sobriety were spent laying in bed in the dark. I got out only to work. I was miserable and felt alone, though I know I always have a support system in family and close friends. I was petrified, after reasoning with myself and coming to terms with this newly recognized problem. It was the worst kind of awakening - I was a stranger to myself. But after doing research, reading sobriety books, and letting a few close friends know what was happening, my conviction and doubt morphed into purpose. I was ready to create this new life and set myself free.
There was so much about drinking that pissed me off. I was out of control emotionally and physically, I knew I acted like a wildly different person while drunk, and I couldn’t get enough of it. After the first few weeks of agony and misery that accompanied sobriety subsided (I was built for day-time TV), I focused in on the benefits of quitting: I’d be happier, healthier, sharper, wiser, and better. I’d save money, get creative with how to spend my time, and maybe even win an Oscar by the time I was 25.
I thought getting sober, removing poison from my body, would change my life, my self, my soul dramatically. I had big dreams of pulling a Marie Kondo on my entire life. I’d finally shrink into my dream body. I’d land my wildest fantasy job. I’d get the guy, rule my city, and have to ward off paparazzi from peeping in on the wonder that is Bethany. I’m literally laughing out loud while writing this.
I’ve never identified as a hopeless romantic, but something about that naive want - the idea that sobriety meant human perfection - is hopeless. A few months after quitting, I was still sad, isolated, broken. I thought sobriety would be a catch-all elixir for the bottomless pit that was my self worth and wellness. I thought purging the booze would bring prosperity, peace of mind, and passion to my front door. I thought sobriety would fix me. It only got worse before slowly getting better.
I’m over 500 days sober. It feels like day one in many ways. A lot of the time, alcohol doesn’t cross my mind - I just live. Then there are days when I try to imagine what my favorite drinks tasted like. Old Fashion. Long Island Ice Tea. Screwdriver. Guinness.
I’ve truly messed up since quitting. I’ve lapsed, been in over my head, made huge, costly mistakes, and doubted every part of my being that said, “Just stay sober. Whatever you do - stay sober.” I’m an anxious mess some days and can’t escape the confine that is my own brain. I have moments of utter despair that permeate my body with every step I take. I’m bitter when I see cutesy wine puns stamped across dish towels, tshirts, mugs, and magnets. I can’t help but to think, “This is how they keep us complicit, numb.”
But I don’t wake up hungover anymore. I remember every text I send. I have faith in my ability to self-reflect and adapt. I don’t know if I’ll lapse again. I hope I don’t, but I’m aware enough of this disease by now to understand it will always be a possibility.
My hope, for myself and other folks trying to be sober or wondering if they’re addicted, is that we will continue to nourish and nurture community, show up for one another, and dismantle the systems that keep addicts and alcoholics locked in a cycle of harm. I don’t know what my future holds, or what sobriety will look like in ten or so years, but if it means I feel as good as I do right now, letting this all out into the universe, I’ll take it.
Hi, my name’s Bethany and I’m an alcoholic. I’m also an artist, poet, sister, daughter, Bobo, lover of all things baking, cat mom, perpetual wanderer, advocate for the marginalized, and newly enlightened human being. I’m surviving, thriving, questioning, loving, learning, moving, and dancing without a drink in hand.
I’m dancing without a drink in hand. It’s harder than it looks. It takes focus and patience. I’m vulnerable and open and scared and joyful in ways I never expected. And it feels like I’ve never seen the color blue as richly as I am now. I was living with a film over my eyes and missed out on what it means to be authentically present for most of the past five years. I’ve been given a marvelous opportunity to begin again. And I’m doing just that.
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This post is for my sober friends, my struggling friends, my doubting friends. For those who encouraged me when I admitted I had a problem. For those who gave me love freely when I didn’t think I deserved it. For those who were experiencing their own journeys through addiction and stood by me. You’ve inspired me to be authentic, take it day by day, and love myself enough to quit drinking. I love you all.
Bethany Swoveland is a poet and digital artist in Texas. She’s available for freelance work and can be reached at bethanyswoveland@gmail.com. Sign up for Bethany’s monthly email newsletter here.