I've been sober for three years.
To celebrate, here's 2,000 words on what that feels like and how it changed my life.
Cast your mind back, if you will, to February 5, 2020.
The world was a completely different place—and I truly don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that. Life in America was still
Pre-pandemic. Masking was something that only surgeons and people in smog-filled Asian cities did. (Wisconsin announced its first case of COVID-19 that same day.) Officials in Santa Clara County, California would later claim that the first US deaths from COVID occurred there in early February.
Pre-January 6 insurrection. (Still 11 months and one day away.)
Pre-Joe Biden and the 2020 election. Donald Trump was still in office and busy with such pressing presidential duties as turning the National Prayer Breakfast into a pity party for himself. Six weeks later, he would deny and downplay the dangers of COVID-19, fueling confusion and conspiracy theories about the virus that persist to this day.
The national average price for a gallon of gas was $2.45.
The median sales price for a single-family home was a modest $260,345, and less than a quarter (18%) sold for over asking price. Most homes spent approximately two months on the market.
93% of faculty had never used or heard of Zoom.1
Folk wisdom holds that the character or ethos of new decade doesn’t emerge for a couple of years. For example, the 1960s as they now exist in the cultural imagination didn’t really “begin” until 1964 with the passage of the Civic Rights Act (or with the Beatles’ first appearance on American television on February 9 of that same year); the first three years of any decade are usually a continuation of the previous one in terms of politics, culture, style, and overall feeling. I tend to think this is true of the 2020s, especially when you consider how radically the pandemic has upended how we live.
It’s just a dumb coincidence that one of the most significant changes of my life happened on the cusp between the world as it was pre-pandemic and the world as it is now. Though I thank my lucky stars that I did quit drinking before lockdown began—rates of alcoholism rose precipitously in the first year of the pandemic—I don’t have a “rock bottom” story. My big wake-up call was less trumpet-in-the-ear and more of a gentle snooze alarm.
I didn’t drive a car through a mall. I didn’t drop my pants at an office party. I didn’t get into a fight with a mascot. I didn’t throw a stadium beer at Ron Artest (regrettably). I didn’t get a DUI. I wasn’t in trouble with the law. My relationships were mostly sound (though they could have probably been better). I was in good shape. And as far as I could tell, my drinking didn’t have any negative impacts on my career.2 I was publishing regularly, getting excellent teaching evaluations, directing a writing program, and serving my first term as president of Faculty Senate.
And yet, by any objective or subjective measure, I had an alcohol problem.
I was drinking nearly every day of the week (at least 6 out of every 7 days). I was drinking to excess—or “binge drinking”—every time I drank (more than 4 or 5 drinks per person is the CDC’s rule of thumb). Scariest of all, I started forgetting things.
I wasn’t operating at peak performance. Alcohol wasn’t doing me any favors. I spent too much time and money on it, for one thing. I had become a Mug Club member and a “regular” at the Upland Tasting Room, which in those days was still dog friendly and a cool place to hang. It was just a few blocks from my apartment, so I could walk or bike there, and Joni (my dog) has always been a social butterfly—and something of a barfly, too, truth be told—so this habit of walking to Upland was dangerously convenient. Walking in the door of a bar and being greeted by name is itself a powerful drug. (Also, free dog-sitting.)
I turned 40 in 2020, and I had the crippling hangovers to show for it. I couldn’t bounce back the way I did when I was in my 30s. Occasionally I would have existential hangovers of the kind that made you question your very existence. (Not good.)
Alcohol was getting in the way of my running habit. I was using it as a way to sweat out a hangover (yes, it works—sort of), rather than getting out there fresh as a daisy and pushing myself further in my workouts.
I spent way too much money on it. People tend to think of only the money you spend on the drinks themselves, without thinking of the money you are spending on everything that surrounds alcohol—the Uber rides, the ill-considered Taco Bell at 1:00am, the dubious hangover rituals, the junk food, the weird drunken Amazon purchases (it’s a thing). In three years, I’ve saved nearly $25,000 from quitting—and that’s just from the alcohol alone.
Also, change was in the air. I had friends who participated in Dry January with positive results. In the last few years the alcohol-free lifestyle has become more acceptable—even trendy. There’s some evidence that sobriety is becoming not only acceptable but preferable, even on college campuses.
How it all went down
So, without giving it much thought, I went out for drinks on a frigid February night with a former colleague who was going through a rough patch. We went to Chatham Tap in Fishers, Indiana, a sort of bedroom community in the northeastern corner of the Indianapolis metro area (hipper than Carmel and Westfield, but the same basic suburban vibe). We talked about Indiana politics, we commiserated about The Cold, we swapped breakup stories, and we said goodbye. It was a nice time.
On the way home, for no apparent reason, I had a thought. What if I quit drinking? Really, there were two thoughts simultaneously: What if I quit drinking? and Am I really getting anything out of this expensive, dangerous, and health-damaging habit? I decided right then and there that I would quit drinking forever. And I did.
I wish I could say that the first couple of weeks were hard and that I struggled mightily with temptation, but honestly…I didn’t. My resolve was strong. And then when the pandemic did become an unavoidable reality in mid-March, I think it actually helped me because by that point I had nearly six weeks of sobriety under my belt.
Recovering alcoholics speak of something called “the pink cloud.” Basically, it’s the high you get from being clean, and it can last anywhere from a couple of weeks to several months and even longer. The danger of the pink cloud, they say, is that when it fades you have to deal with being sober—that is, no drugs or alcohol, no pink cloud endorphins, just you and the world.
Sobriety means that you are aware of everything all the time: there is no “escape.” When problems and conflicts arise—as they inevitably do—you just have to deal with them. There’s no back door of addiction that you can slip through for a few hours and escape the pressures of living. You have to figure out how to manage it on your own. This is what trips up a lot of addicts and alcoholics. The pink cloud can give you a feeling of endorphin-fueled invincibility, tricking you into thinking that you’ve made it. Then when Real Life Problems come tapping on the window of a newly-sober person, they crumble, because it isn’t supposed to be this way. Relapse is common in any addiction recovery, as anyone who watches TLC knows well.
In retrospect, there were two events that helped me stay the course on the path to recovery. One, the pandemic, strangely enough, gave me the freedom to leave the Midwest for a bit, and be back home with family in the South. Then, a couple of months later, I met my wife. I don’t know if I would have kept at it were it not for this bizarre confluence of circumstances. And of course, I fully realize that not everyone has to luxury of just picking up and relocating (even temporarily) so they can get their lives together. I was (and am) blessed with a good job, a strong support network, and health insurance—there’s no way around that. Many Americans who struggle with addiction simply don’t have these luxuries.3
There’s more that I could say about my own story, and perhaps one day I will get it all down on (digital) paper. My divorce in 2014, for one thing, looms large over this story even in its absence. I haven’t written about that episode yet. Still waiting on the right time and the right inspiration.
But for now, I would encourage anyone who has considered sobriety—I think the term is “sober curious”—to seriously give it a go. There are so many excellent resources available for free on the web that can help you start this journey. In particular, I have to give a shout out to the people at r/stopdrinking and r/dinosaursinrecovery for their invaluable support over the years, especially in the earliest weeks and months. I found a community here in anonymity that was absolutely essential to my recovery.
Giving up alcohol has been, without a doubt, one of the single best decisions I have ever made. It has taken my mental focus and acuity from a solid 6 to maybe as high as an 8.8; my overall health has never been better. My sleep is deep and restorative. I’m getting in runs nearly every day. My productivity is through the roof, and I am much more even-keeled mentally and emotionally.
Maybe the best benefit of all is just not being tethered to an expensive, dangerous substance. I don’t feel like I need anything extra to get me through the day, or that I need a supplement to have a good time and enjoy my surroundings.
It’s a good place to be.
Of course, if you have questions or comments, please feel free to reach out. You can leave a comment below or email me at paulcook@yahoo.com.
Thanks for reading.
I am completely making this up, but based on personal experience it has to be at least somewhat accurate.
Then again, higher education has a strangely permissive, even encouraging relationship with alcohol. I’ve discussed this at length in a previous podcast episode.
Of course, we shouldn’t be conditioned to think of things like decent healthcare and a good paying job as “luxuries” at all in this country, but that’s a topic for a different newsletter.