Ask Schmutzie: How I Deal With The Social Aspects Of Drinking

I asked you to ask me questions about my sobriety. This is my sixth response to your questions. Check out my first, second, third, fourth, and fifth sets of questions and answers.



What do you do while you're socializing with your friends now? Substitute food or coffee for alcohol? (I know you separated yourself from many of your drinking friends.) Has the Palinode stopped drinking as well?
— Mrs. Wilson

When you want a drink, how do you resist? Also, does the Palinode drink when you're out together? (I'm assuming he doesn't at home.)
— Sheryl

Do you attend functions where people will be drinking alcohol, or go to restaurants where they serve alcohol? Does it bother you to just be around it, or is it like quitting smoking, when you get used to not doing it, it doesn't bother you as much?
— abigail.road

The formula of behaviour I had created to assure myself that the amount I was drinking was alright is one of my biggest hurdles with regard to dealing with my alcoholism. I tend to behave obsessively, creating patterns and rules for behaviour that I must follow in order to feel at ease, and it is these patterns that I have spent the last more than eight months mostly working to undo. Being that my pattern meant I drank almost solely in public with the same people for over a decade with the idea that not drinking at home meant I was fine, breaking free means that I rarely go out anymore.

Of course, where my old pattern had my drunken butt planted firmly on a wooden bench in a pub most of the time, my new pattern has my sober butt planted firmly on a coffee-stained couch in my living room most of the time. The only real differences are that my living room isn't packed full of drunken revellers and I remember what I watched on tv the night before. Oh, and there's that part where I like being alive now.

I thought that not going out would be hard for me. I thought I would miss seeing people. It turns out that my being out had far more to do with alcohol and far less to do with the people, places, and events around which I was drinking. It wasn't until I removed all the other factors surrounding my alcohol consumption that I realized how far my priorities had slipped, how little I really cared for anything other than getting drunk.

Now that I have been away from most of the social triggers for over eight months, though, I mostly have to deal with the emotional impulse to get drunk. Everything is an emotional trigger to drink. My cat died! I bought a new pair of shoes! They're drinking in this movie I'm watching! I'm depressed! I'm constipated! It's sunny outside! Since most of my emotional reactions trigger the idea to have a drink, it can be harder some days than others to say no, and on the harder days, I stay home. I stay home a lot some weeks.

When it comes to socializing, I have to play each situation by ear. The Palinode has not quit drinking, and he does occasionally have a drink in front of me when we are out, but there are occasions on which I ask him not to, and he's okay with that. When we are invited out to where people will be drinking, I check up in my head to see if I am having a strong and confident kind of day or a weaker and needy kind of day, and if it's the latter, I stay home, or I arbitrarily schedule myself to leave the social situation after one or two hours so that I know psychologically I have an out.

So, I only go out where there will be alcohol when I feel absolutely strong and confident. When I don't, I don't. If I waver when I am out, I go home.

Really, though, the only way not to drink is not to drink, and in order to do that, I have to make sobriety the primary purpose in my life above all else, at least for a while. I have to decide that I will do anything not to drink, and I have to choose to believe in that purpose with as much power as I can muster, because it is the knowledge that I would do anything to serve my sobriety that makes the smaller steps toward it seem more doable.

Can I say no to the wine I am offered at a party? Yes, because when I know that I am willing to give up my cats, my wee baby flufferkins, to serve my sobriety, it's not the worst thing ever to wave the glass of wine away. Can I stop myself from walking to that old, familiar pub upon hearing that its beloved outdoor patio is open? Yes, because when I know that I would give up a couple of fingers if I had to in order to stay sober, it's not the worst thing ever to walk in the other direction. Can I walk by that can of beer sitting outside the neighbouring apartment without leaping on it like a [bullied minority] on a [something that the bullied minority is stereotyped to love]? Yes, because when I know that I am willing to give up all of my worldly possessions to become a nomadic yurt-dweller in Northern Mongolia, it's not the worst thing ever to look the other way.

I am often tempted if I see alcohol, whether it is on television or right in front of me, and while it's gotten a little easier over time, the urge is still there. That urge is so embedded in my history, in the entirety of my late teens and adult life really, that it feels more like an old friend than a threat to my happiness. This is why I have to embrace my sobriety so passionately and wholly. My present realization of myself as a happier, more hopeful, and more resilient person who is nearly free of suicidal ideation depends on those swift, decisive actions, and so I wilfully take those actions.

Also, I drink a lot of coffee. I have an addictive personality, so I'm letting it make love to coffee for now. My personality and coffee are presently mashed together in a passionate lip-lock that has me jittering through my days.

I know that I am not likely going to have to be a fingerless yurt-dweller in Norther Mongolia without the comfort of my sweet cuddlemuffins in order to defend my sobriety, but I know in my heart that I would do all of those things. I am married to it, I am committed to it, I am devoted to my sobriety as a spiritual soul lover. Sobriety sustains a me that I recognize, a me that loves more deeply, a me that hopes.

Not to put too fine a point on it: yes, I am tempted, and, yes, it can be difficult, but I can and I will do it, because I had a revelation last August: I'm some kind of pinko hippie who doesn't shave her legs, so I have an inner guru, and that inner guru said you can flow in the river, or you can be the river, and I believed it with my whole heart.

For reals. I smoked a lot of pot when I was younger.

I know that I have to defend my natural right — psychologically, spiritually, and physically — to be free, or the meaning I consciously seek in this one, unique life will be lost.

It is exactly that big.

Ask Schmutzie: When Is It Most Difficult?

I asked you to ask me questions about my sobriety. This is my fifth response to your questions. Check out my first, second, third, and fourth sets of questions and answers.



When is it most difficult?
     — cenobyte

Tonight. Tonight it is most difficult, and other nights like tonight.

If you read through all of my posts about sobriety, you'll see that I've said it before, but I'll say it again. I changed a major portion of my life to quit drinking. I summarily and without explanation quit going to the pub I went to most nights for almost ten years and stopped hanging out with 95% of the people I saw most often. I went from seeing lots of people most of the time to seeing almost no one most of the time.

Quitting drinking was such a remarkable life change that I rarely notice how much of a homebody I've become. Being sober feels busy after spending the last ten years forgetting most of what I did. There are nights, though, ones like tonight, when the Palinode goes out with friends and I happen to be feeling particularly vulnerable for no particular reason. I feel smacked upside the back of my head with grief.

I have a ton of things to keep me busy — design work, reading, phoneography, etc. — but I feel like I don't know what to do with myself. I feel wide open, vulnerable, and so very aware of my singularity, my separateness, my aloneness in the universe. I feel that hard reality that no one can feel this life with me, not truly.

I think being drunk with groups of people that I was drunk with a lot made me feel bonded to a whole, however falsely, for those hours that I was there in that state. Some days it can be an exceedingly lonely experience to make the decision, yet again, to say no to it all, to choose to sit with this sense of isolation rather than burrow into a fuzzy sense of togetherness.

There are sober people I can connect with if I need to, but it doesn't fix the truth of being locked into a body in a universe that demands this hard decision of me every day. I am happy to make this decision not to drink as many times as I need to make it, but on nights like tonight I get to feeling a little pathetic, a little tired, a little threadbare.

I may be happy to make this decision, but I don't want to make it, and I wonder when it will stop feeling like I am continually waving goodbye to so much of what I find familiar and comforting.

So, when is it most difficult? Tonight it is most difficult. I feel stretched thin and limp. I am tired. I feel existentially isolated. I am lost.

And I am reminding myself that it gets better, because it does. Every morning proves to me that it gets better than the hard night before, even if it is sometimes only a little bit.

Ask Schmutzie: Thrill-Seeking, Fun, And The Best And Worst Of Times

I asked you to ask me questions about my sobriety. This is my fourth response to your questions. Check out my first, second, and third sets of questions and answers.



A question that often gets brought up when talking to former addicts: were you ever addicted to the adrenaline rush that comes from knowing you quite literally can die in this moment, that a mere tip of the scales will decide on which side of the life line you will land?
     — Barbara@TheMiddleAges

There is apparently a gene identified with thrill-seeking behaviour, and I definitely do not have it. My father coerced me into going on a kiddie roller coaster once when I was ten, and I still hold it against him.

Sometimes I did want to die, but I was less attached to looking for an adrenaline rush and more attached to the then-chronic depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation I used alcohol, in part, to outrun.


I'll ask you the question I get asked the most from those contemplating sobriety: What do you do for fun?
     — Tricky

This question is surprisingly difficult to answer. I have spent the majority of my fall, winter, and early spring primarily engaged in not drinking and not running back to that pub where most of my social life happened, so what I do mostly looks like sitting at home. The relative quietude of my life since I quit drinking, though, belies the joy I am finding in living the full psychological/intellectual/emotional experience of my life without being anaesthetized against it.

It turns out that hanging out at non-drinking events like movies in theatres and podcast recordings are more than thieves of good drinking time.

So, what I do for fun these days is soak up whatever I do sober — whether it be writing, recording a podcast, or talking with the Palinode — and relish my ability not only to actively take part but also to recall it later. It's amazing how much more interesting life can seem when you are actually able to remember how you've been occupying your time.


What is your worst memory from your drinking days? What is your best one? What is your worst memory so far from your new sobriety days? What is your best one?
     — Bobbi

When I originally read this question, I thought it would be so easy to answer, but as soon as I tried to nail down a best time and a worst time, my entire twenty-some years of drinking came back to me.

The thing is, as a grand avoidance tactic, I think part of what I was looking for was the best of times every time I sat down with a beer. I wanted epic conversations, epic parties, epic play, and I got it a lot, or at least the self-induced rush of it, because alcohol made me feel energetic in between the first glass and the eventual glimmer of a blackout, indefatigable even. I was on.

And so I was on throughout most, if not all, of my major life events over the last more than twenty years. I was intoxicated both times I got engaged. I drank before I walked down the aisle at my wedding. I was drunk during most of my sexual encounters. I was good and tipsy whenever I met any of my blogging heros. And it is the same for my worst events. When being out and being social was pretty much synonymous with being drunk, almost all of my best and worst times were drunk best and worst times. Being drunk was no longer a special occasion separate from the rest of my life; it was my life outside my house.

What I'm saying is that it doesn't mean much to ask about best and worst drunk times when almost all of my life events were drunk times. Being drunk is barely a differentiating characteristic when talking about the events of my past.

When it comes to defining the best and worst times of my recent sobriety, I am doing my best not to cast my experiences since August into good or bad categories. I am too close to the now, to making it through one day at a time, to be able to look at the broader picture and pick out a best and worst.

Sober life has been hard, and, although I haven't liked most of it, I deeply value all of it. I am learning to live a daily life that doesn't involve the constant pursuit of anaesthetization and instead to live one that embraces and honours real movement both within and without.

My new sobriety has been both the best and the worst of times, and I don't think I can effectively pick one apart from the other right now without losing the integrity of the whole.