Lamenting my old self, doubting my new.
These past days, I’ve been struck by a sadness, a sorrow for the old self.
A grief for my wine club, nights with great bottles and stories to share, discussions and reflections on challenges, hopes and ambitions in our work lives, love lives, family lives.
A grief for the evenings with my ex-girlfriend, great home-cooked food, a glass of white wine, soon turned into an intimate night of conversations, sharing worries and joys, melding our dreams together, trying to build a common future.
A grief for the concerts and festivals, bunched shoulder to shoulder with ten thousand others, laughing with strangers, feeling that palpable electric energy of a crowd, bathed in lights and sounds.
Was that it for me? Is it done? Will I forever be dependent on intoxication to connect with others? Will a different approach to togetherness tear me apart from my friends?
If only alcohol wasn’t such a ubiquitous glue in our culture, quitting would be a small task indeed. But I’ve never known anything else, and as such, I don’t know how to be without it. My mind is forever awake, analyzing, ruminating and second-guessing this life and my place in it. But a drink or two and those demons lose their grip on me – suddenly I’m more free and loving and curious and absorbed. I don’t know how to merge this part of my character with the quandary of my sober self. It feels like I’ve torn down the home I’ve spent my entire life building, now unsettled and uncertain, left in the dusty rubble.
These thoughts are weighing heavily on me this week, clouding my judgement, challenging my resolve. What am I actually leaving behind by giving up drinking? This venture is stretching my mind in new ways, and sometimes I snap completely. Overwhelmed by fear, the logical and emotional sides in me perpetually arguing, clawing and pulling me in opposite directions.
How do you root for any side in a match where both opponents are so crucial to your character and sense of self?