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Five years ago I embarked on my first dry January.
Outside of my three pregnancies, it was the one and only intentional break I’d taken from my beloved IPAs and soulful red wines since I started drinking with regularity at 14-years-old. I tried to make my relationship with alcohol work many times, just like I did with my ex.
There was the “just two drinks” rule that I couldn’t stick to. There were the weekends I’d promise myself I wouldn’t drink and then would accidentally take down a bottle of wine while spilling my heart out to girlfriends. There was the “I know I don’t have a problem with drinking because I’m not as bad as my mom, best friend, or the stranger wobbling at the bar” rationalizing.
Because I wasn’t that bad, right?
I only imbibed on the weekends and it never stopped me from taking care of my daily to-dos. Although it was weird that after a night of taking it too far I’d wake up and brew extra strong French press, then either murder myself at the gym or go on a long run. It didn’t matter that my head was pounding or that I’d have to cover my mouth like I was coughing to cloak a dry heave; my after-drinking shame would not let me lazily hang on the couch—especially after becoming a mom.
My regret grew in size as I got older and yet it still took me an excruciatingly long time to finally get the message that my week-ending routine did not love me back, just like my college boyfriend didn’t.
During my first sober weekends, I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Ironically, at the same exact time I broke up with booze my lower back went with it. That meant no hours-long run to escape to and no beer park to look forward to either. I settled on manically cleaning my house, getting multiple drive through chais, doing guided visualizations while journaling with my shaky hands and taking my kids outside where we all belonged.
My daughter, Ukiah, was newly six and my son, Erik, was three so we’d head out to one of the unexplored trails within a 30-minute radius of our home. We’d bundle up and hike an average distance of their ages. My little guy could hang but he’d eventually tire out and the feelings of all my trapped up insideness that needed to be freed via hammering my quads and drinking induced time travel would fly at him, at first, in words of encouragement “let’s play tag!” and endless packs of fruit snacks. But then, both of us getting frustrated, I’d turn dark on him.
“Erik, you can do this.” I’d say in a tight tone that conveyed I was about to blow.
I’d storm ahead on the trail, away from his down turned bottom lip. My big girl would attempt to bridge us together. She’d tell her brother to “Keep putting one foot in front of the other buddy!” in a sing-song voice and then tell me how much fun she was having. Her attempts to please me made me feel cold with self-hatred. Having never faced the depth of my own undesirable emotions without a numbing device, I was just like a toddler having my own god damn fit.
Of course, I did not want to be an asshole to my kids and take them on these monster-for-them adventures in the dead of winter and yet I was an animal that needed to shake the stress off. Not having an outlet for all the smoldering shit inside made me squirm with anxiety because I was feeling everything now that I wasn’t numbing myself in regular five to six day intervals.
I knew that I had to keep off the spirits that were dampening my actual spirit after my initial commitment to dry January ended with the last day of the month. Let me be crystal clear: I did not continue not drinking because it felt good. I continued with it because something about it felt right.
Without alcohol my presence of mind was growing and I noticed how awful and mixed up I felt inside. Adding in a night of drinks would have left me feeling extra bad and taken away this new relationship that felt like the nice guy I’d been waiting for even if my body wasn’t ablaze in boundary-less chemistry.
Starting February I was heavier than I’ve ever been, more emotionally distraught than I’d ever admitted to being and my skin crawled with nerves. I itched with discomfort and yet I did not, for the first time in my life, try to move away from it. Since I had zero drive to drink and nowhere to be but home I started going to bed right after my kids and reading until I couldn’t keep my eyes open. My puffy body felt rested after sleeping through the night without those blood sugar wakings from consuming thousands of sugar calories. Working out was out of the question with my back problems but I could walk. During my lunch break I hit my neighborhood hard, walking loops on loops while consuming podcasts that encouraged my relationship with sobriety like it was a best friend saying “don’t mess this one up, Emily, he’s a good guy”. Enter Laura McKowen, Holly Whitaker, Rich Roll and many others.
Call it intuition, call it mind-body connection, call it woo-woo-whatever but for some reason I knew that staying in the February itch was mission critical. Even though I chafed from having to deal with life freshly sober; day by day I began to trust this new relationship, not with a guy who didn’t treat me right but with myself who treated me right.
If you just completed your first or tenth dry January then dap, claps and hugs to you!
If you now don’t know what to do next and still feel that something isn’t quite right feeling then double daps, claps and hugs to you!
This means you are exactly where you should be. Straddling the inbetween of leaving the old, comforting way and entering the new, nourishing way. In the absence of doing the old thing, sit with your itchiness and ask your sweet self how can I do right by you in this moment?
~
author: Emily Stukel
Image: Author's Own
Editor: Molly Murphy
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