So I gave up alcohol for Lent.
And it’s been interesting.
I mean that in a both sarcastic and earnest tone.
On one hand, it’s, been, uh…interesting…meaning I’m already sick of it and very ready to be done. (I can feel my Ramadan-observing friends rolling their eyes at me)
Did you know that Lent—notoriously 40 days—is actually 46 days!? I don’t know what kind of Good Will Hunting math that is, but it wasn’t great news for my Lenten journey.
After all, I love alcohol. LOVE it.
Can you be addicted to something you love, I’ve wondered through the years?
If you find pleasure in all its forms: the first sip of a Chenin Blanc so cold and dry that you could snap it in half, a thick bottle of IPA on a dark winter afternoon, a good margarita that stings the back of your throat with smoldering tequila or woodsmoke mezcal, an elegant French 75 to begin an evening that tumbles out as smoothly as the unraveling of a red carpet, a spicy whiskey on a massive ice cube at a cramped pub in a cold city, a pour of hefty Barolo—chunky and toasty as a wool cardigan—in the back of a candlelit Italian restaurant on the night a blizzard is due…?
I don’t know.
All I know is that evenings have been harder without it.
Since I was a little tadpole dropped head-first into the murky pond of the world, I’ve always wondered how on earth I was going to get through the evenings.
Evening is the time when all my greatest fears tag-team with my overwhelming worries and they recruit any thought that makes me sad, and then all together they all form a dance troupe and perform a torturous vaudeville variety show in my mind until I’m able to sleep.
My discovery of wine felt like a blessing to those long dreaded hours.
And I also mean that giving up alcohol for Lent has been genuinely interesting, a curiosity-driven exploration into the concept of sobriety that I didn’t know much about (i.e. avoided), and into the brain that is mine.
What is it to be me, I’m asking during these 40 46 days? What is my brain like without my trusty distractions from my worries, my sadness, my own self?
Evening by evening, I’m discovering.
The one good thing about having an obsessive (addictive?) personality is that I can attain a goal pretty easily so long as I get obsessed with it. And you could say that in the past few weeks, I’ve been obsessed with the world of sobriety.
I’ve downloaded apps, read a few memoirs, started a couple guided journals, binged on podcasts, pored over Reddit threads, and, yes, burrowed my way into a rabbit hole of AA TikTok.
I have been humbled into a lowly earthworm by the personal stories I’ve consumed about people who display superhuman strength to become sober while remaining soft to a harsh world. I’ve learned that recovering addicts hold wisdom beyond what most people gather in half a lifetime.
I’ve also learned that the common theme between most stories of sobriety is a journey not so much away from substances, but toward self-love.
“Well that’s not me,” I thought as I walked around the grocery store plopping various nut milks into my basket, listening via my AirPods to yet another podcast episode about someone quitting alcohol by way of loving herself.
Good for her, but I’ve got that covered—I love myself a lot!
After all, my pastimes read like a joke roll-call of self-care speak: taking baths, cooking, resting, journaling, long walks, lighting candles, doing yoga!
The usual trajectory from substances to self-love didn’t resonate with me. I drink for the fun of it, and I already make gratitude lists! For me, alcohol is simply a beautiful part of a meal, and I accept every part of myself.
Or so I thought, until one dark evening of the soul, I found my wine-less self in a scared and lonely place.