You don’t need to hit rock bottom in order to get sober.
But I did.
Here’s my story.
It was July 2015. My boyfriend of three years finally broke up with me for the last time. I was heartbroken, devastated. All I could do was drink and smoke and cry. Day after day after day. One weekend, I drank more than usual, got extremely drunk and then put myself in a situation of great danger. The details I will save for another story. The important thing is that I had finally reached a point where I had no control. My life was rolling on a downward slope and I knew what awaited me at the end of the line—death.
But, I made it out. I survived the night. I lived to see another day.
The next morning, a Monday, I woke up with a hangover so severe that I couldn’t bring myself to go to work. I called in sick. Again. I spent that morning trying to keep myself from throwing up, hydrating to get the alcohol out of my system, and remembering what had happened the night before. I could’ve died. I had finally hit rock bottom.
Who would’ve thought it could happen to me?
How I reached that point
I had been struggling with bipolar disorder for the past three years, cycling between crises of mania and of depression. The drinking became progressively worse, as did the smoking. I was diagnosed with Alcohol Use Disorder (AUD). My health was going down the drain. I gained weight, my asthma got worse, my job was on the hook. I spent most of my days contemplating the possibility of death.
One night, I called my shrink around 11 pm and I told him that I needed to be hospitalized. He asked me why. “Because I think I’m a danger to myself,” I said. He didn’t believe me. Told me to wait a bit more, to be patient. Everything was going to be all right.
What my doctor didn’t understand was that the danger needn’t come just from me; it could come from anyone or anywhere. I was an alcoholic depressive woman roaming around the city, drunk-driving, looking for fun (or fleeing from desperation). Cigarette on one hand; a beer bottle on the other. God must have taken the wheel.
At that point, I had lost all sense of right and wrong. I repeatedly missed work. Or arrived late with my breath smelling like alcohol. I could barely take care of my son. I constantly drove while under the influence. I was smoking an entire pack of cigarettes a day. I was on the brink of destruction.
I had a doctor, I was on meds, I was doing therapy. None of it was working. I just kept sinking further and further into this well of desperation. No one knew what to do with me. My parents took care of my son for many days, when I was incapable of even taking care of myself. My doctor was out of options. My therapist had tried all of her strategies. Nothing worked.
Until that day, when I let danger inside my house. That day, everything changed.
What rock bottom feels like
You could say I had hit rock bottom long before that night, given the life I was leading. However, it hadn’t been clear to me. I couldn’t see the signs. It was obvious, apparently, to everyone but me. I was fine and dandy. But that night, my eyes were finally opened. I could realize the situation I had put myself in. I could understand the risks I had taken and the danger I had been in. I could fathom numerous paths in front of me. They were all grim.
I don’t remember when I started drinking on a daily basis, but it had been a while. There was always alcohol in my fridge. Every weekend, I had to go out drinking. If I stayed at home, I would become anxious. I drank for every reason—to remember something or to forget it, to celebrate or to mourn, in sadness and in happiness, in anger and in pain. I lost the ability to simply be with my emotions, to self-regulate. I needed alcohol to numb me from the wrath of the real world.
My boyfriend left me several times during our relationship. My depression worsened; he broke up. I got better; he came back. He didn’t want to deal with whatever was going on with me. But, honestly, no one really knew what to do. My friends didn’t understand what I was going through, my parents didn’t know how they could help. Not even my doctor and my therapist knew what else they could do.
I was at a point where I was lost and in pain. Surrounded by people, yet completely alone. It was me, the beer, the cigarette and Netflix. That was it. And I just kept plunging deeper and deeper.
That day after the “big night”, I woke up physically and morally hungover. I was finally able to see what I had become—a depressive alcoholic on her way to the bottom, now stuck at a crossroads. On one road was the path of alcoholism and mental illness that would ultimately lead to death—or worse. On the other was the path of sobriety, which felt alien, nearly impossible.
It was time to make a choice.
How I made the decision to quit drinking
I had already tried almost everything to quit drinking—doctors, meds, therapy. I only hadn’t tried one thing: support groups. They freaked me out. Were the stuff of movies and TV series. Sad groups of people, sitting around in a circle, sharing their horrible experiences. I couldn’t see how that could be helpful. But I knew they existed for a reason.
On that same day, I drove to the pharmacy to buy Advil for my headache. As I was driving, I thought about AA. Should I go to a meeting? Is this the way? I parked in the middle of the road, searched for the number to my local AA office and called. A woman picked up. She asked me if I was all right. I said I was. I asked if there were any meetings that same day. She gave me a list of places that had meetings that Monday. I wrote them down, thanked her, and drove back home.
It was now or never. Either I made a drastic change in my life or next time I wouldn’t be so lucky. I wish I could say that I made a mature, responsible decision to quit drinking. The truth is that I didn’t really have a choice. Sometimes, that’s what it takes.
That evening, I went to my first AA meeting.
My experience with a support group
All I knew about AA I had learned from movies. I didn’t know what to expect when I pulled up to the small office where that group met. It was a small room, with a ceiling fan that didn’t really work, several white plastic chairs laid out in rows, a table against the wall with water and coffee. All around me there were older men happily chatting with each other. Only two women were present that night. I stood out as the youngest person at that meeting. I was terrified.
A sweet elderly man greeted me and explained to me how the meeting worked. He showed me to a seat and told me he’d stay close to me in case I needed him. The meeting started with the recitation of the Serenity Prayer. I wasn’t religious so this felt a bit off, but I let it go. Afterwards, people took turns talking about their experiences. When they finally got to me, I agreed to talk.
I started to tell my story and immediately started crying. There was a mixture of relief at being accepted, relief for finally doing something to help myself, relief that I wasn’t at home having one more beer. I could see many others crying along with me. I felt understood. I felt like a person once again; not a freak.
After the meeting, everybody came to talk to me. Many shared their stories. Others told me how brave I was. Others congratulated me on my first day sober. They invited me to come back on Wednesday and Friday. And so I did.
I ended up going to AA for four months and it helped me finally break away from my compulsive drinking. After four months, the religious and rigid aspects of AA started to really show up and I became uncomfortable in the meetings. So I left.
What my first day sober felt like
When I came home from my first AA meeting, I felt like a massive weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I felt light, clearheaded, relieved. I was finally quitting. I was going to make it. On one hand, I was proud of myself for having gone to the meeting. On the other, I was terrified that I would just start drinking again at any moment. That I wouldn’t be strong enough to stay sober. It is a normal fear to have at that point.
The day I decided to quit drinking, my entire perspective changed. I had never been a very consistent person. I started projects and abandoned them all the time. I went back on my word. I was flaky, untrustworthy. I had never reached a goal in my life. How would I be able to stay committed to sobriety?
I had no idea. But I was going to try.
The day after my first meeting, I woke up bright and early. No headaches, no nausea, no blurry vision, no alcohol breath. I got to work on time and had a productive day. I played with my son at home, after work. I made dinner for us and watched TV together until he fell asleep.
Before I headed to bed, I smoked a cigarette. As I inhaled, bringing the smoke into my lungs, I looked at the cigarette and thought: you’re next, asshole.
Yes, I had finally set my recovery in motion. I was going to get better. I was going to get clean.
The rest of my recovery
Recovery certainly wasn’t easy. I had tried quitting drinking several times before and none worked for very long. Nothing like the vision of your early demise to make you take action. But quitting was just the first step. I had a long way to go.
That first week, I went back to my doctor and told him I wanted to do a holistic approach to sobriety. I wanted the meds again, I wanted to see him regularly, I was going to go back to my therapist. I was going to go to meetings three times a week until I felt like I was out of dangerous waters.
Recovery never ends. It’s been eleven years and I’m still treading that same path. Mostly, it’s easy to stay sober. I no longer get tempted all the time. I don’t need alcohol to help me manage my feelings. I can deal with my problems on my own. I like having a clear head.
Every once in a while, someone will insist on offering me alcohol and I have to take a stand and say No, but it’s not often. Most of the time, I live a normal life, full of ups and downs, failures and victories. All of which I’m grateful for and which I receive with humility.
Like I said, I’m not religious, but there is a verse in the Serenity Prayer that has stuck with me since my AA days. It has helped me come to terms with my past as an addict and it gives me hope for my future:
“Hardship is the pathway to peace”.