day 13 observations from the weekend…disclaimer—feel free to skip over this one y’all, it’s ridiculously long and not particularly insightful or anything, more for my own purpose, to document some observations from the weekend…

I’ve been hesitant to tell my significant other (quick aside—can someone pleeeeease come up with a better term than that??!! For the love of God and all things holy, humans been together since God was a kid, but “significant other” is the best we modern humans can do??!! I utterly despise the term—so sterile and cold—but at 52, “boyfriend” is equally repelling, “partner” sounds like we’re in business together…we joke that we’re going to start introducing each other as “my lover,” making everyone awkwardly uncomfortable while we gaze ravenously at each other and say, “This is Joe, my loooovaaaahhh”…😅 I tease Joe that he’s my PMC—preferred male companion, and he says, “I’m thrilled and honored to be your preferred anything!” STILL. Any and all suggestions are welcomed and will be considered!) anyhow, I digress…

I’ve been hesitant to tell my loooovaaaaah about my AF experiment right now for a number of reasons: 1. because this state of being is still so fresh for me. I’m still learning the language, getting used to the customs, wanting to feel a little less awkward and unsure in this new home before I invite others in…

2. We don’t live in the same city (Relationship Success Tip of the Day. You’re welcome!), and I wanted to discuss this in person with him, not over the phone or in an email or text, because this state of being, day by day, is becoming nearer and dearer to me. I entertain the idea of it being my default mode, my first nature, not just a “30 day challenge” kind of deal after which I can wipe my brow in relief and walk away from at the end of the month, only to resume old behaviors. Still, I don’t want to come out, guns a-blazin’, spewing my new AF-AF!!! status like some kind of nutso-buttso zealot hell-bent on converting/hazing/brain-washing/strong-arming/guilt-tripping others to my new religion, because let’s be real, these early days are still tenuous, at best. I’m still growing my AF legs, I still feel very unsteady and vulnerable. I’ve not been more than 30 days w/o alcohol in years; day by day is all I can manage right now…living in the present is pretty damned mind-blowing, I’m discovering…but still.

3. I have no track record to go by as far as the AF lifestyle choice goes, and am fearful of putting myself out there, only to have everyone scrutinizing and judging my every move—is that really club soda and a lime in that glass or did she cave/fail/fallofthewagon/slip/fall/fail…who cares< i *know*, but knowing and feeling ar two different things; feeling confident enough to confront or not care about ol’ skool AA/12-step language/concepts and adopting the “progress, not perfect” is going to take time.

3. My looooovaaahhhh (cringing yet?😬) is a musician and writer and lives the life—late nights, lots of drinking (lots and lots and LOTS of drinking…) whether or not its a weekend; more nights than not revolve around booze in his world—playing gigs, going to watch friends play, meeting fellow musicians/other artists out all call for drinks, lots of ’em. He lives in a small city, is well-known in the area and is everyone’s favorite drinking buddy, even the mayor’s! I’m envious of him—he’s a “lucky” one—his personality doesn’t change dramatically when he’s drinking; instead of demonic personalities showing up uninvited, his good qualities only seem to become enhanced…As his PFC, I’ve gotten somewhat wrapped up in the lifestyle, and I’m not gonna lie—we’ve had tremendous fun in boozy states, and we are never “that couple” who ends the night in a knock-down-drag-out liquor-fueled frenzy capped off by something like me whipping a stilletto at his head (and missing), then stubbornly stumbling home on one shoe. We don’t even argue (unless you count that “one” time I got so pissed at him for making fun of how cold I keep my house in winter. His oh-so-hilarious, “Could you throw another log on the furnace,” comment just about ended it for us.) Still. We have fun when we’re together, it just happens to involve a lot of alcohol, not the other way around. While I don’t blame him for my increased intake in booze, it’s also kind of expected in his world and frankly, as an extroverted introvert (there really is such a thing!) in the past, I’ve believed I “need” booze to deal with the sensory overload of the bar scene, the seemingly overabundant divas and divos (<–ha, just made that word up) in his circle, to keep up with the ultra-talented people he knows… I no longer cling to those beliefs as gospel truth (honest to god, it’s the work here that’s helping me shift perspective), but I also still believe that my introverted tendencies are going to be significantly challenged in his world (because, I haven’t yet found myself back in that setting, since beginning this experiment)…how am I gonna deal besides avoid it, if I’m AF?

3. He’s also a kind, thoughtful, intelligent, funny and generous-hearted person and he has been and will be respectful of anything I do, I know this with all my heart. Still. My AF status means an enormous shift in the dynamics/foundation of our relationship—literally everything we do together involves booze. Fear of the unknown can be quite powerful. I mean, *I* know I’m far funnier, smarter, sexier, more relaxed, and basically a better person (AND a wildcat in the sack when I’m not fucked up—just ask me! 😅), but maybe my fucked up persona is what he’s come to know as “normal” and he’ll decide he wants someone like HER as a drinking/partner, not some sanctimonious, envious AF-AF effer evil-eyeing that whisky moving closer to his lips, no matter how good in bed she now thinks she is (jesus…thanks for just letting me roll a while here, y’all…let’s call it therapy).

SO. This past weekend was my weekend of reckoning. Up to this point, I’ve been gratefully, safely, unrealistically (let’s be real), ensconced in my own home, my own life, without the typical alcohol triggers confronting me (kind of ironic, now that I think about it, as much of my drinking of late has been done alone…and, for the record, being alone hasn’t triggered anything—I’ve not been even so much as tempted or experienced cravings, yet). Funny, thought, how I’ve avoided going down to visit Joe because of the lifestyle we’d become accustomed to…but, I can’t avoid it forever.

SO. I took a road trip down to where he lives this weekend (just an hour and a half from me; a lot of my family lives near him, too). Often, if he’s not playing, our time together begin with dinner at his place, finishing a bottle of wine together, then proceeding to a bar where a friend’s band is playing, or some variation on that theme, with our drinking continuing. Eventually, we make our way home (yes, often driving after drinking; the thought sickens me, we’ve been sooooo goddamned lucky—the v.e.r.y fine line between us and someone else’s “rock-bottom”), collapse into bed, wake up (first time, around 3 am in a detoxing anxiety-attack, then never really falling back to sleep after that), make breakfast, try to eat something, feel nauseous and anxious all day, maybe watch a movie, maybe try to nap, all of it, hung over, just trying to get through the day until I can go to bed for real). In other words, essentially, spend an entire day wasted, then waste another day recovering from being wasted…I’m beyond tired of that scene, as “fun” as it’s been (and yes, i’ve done the accompanying work that addresses this, and I no longer—have I actually ever?—believe this to be true) but it has become such a norm, and what do I have to offer as an alternative?

When I arrived, I had a can of sparkling water in my hand, a preemptive strike to the typical greeting, “Hey, wanna beer/glass of wine/Jameson?” Curiously, Joe was drinking a sparking Bubly, too. “hmm,” I thought. Highly unusual, as by this time of day—mid afternoon on a Saturday, he very likely would have a beer cracked (maybe would had already downed a couple before I arrived). We haven’t seen each other in a few weeks, so we began catching up, talking as comfortably and easily as we would while drinking. Again, “hmmm…” Inevitably, eventually, the dreaded question arose, “Hey, wanna beer or anything?” I took a deep breath and said, “Nooooo…” then, the floodgates opened, I couldn’t stop myself as I launched headlong into my TAE experience of the past 11 days. He sat, listening intently. Almost too intently, it seemed. When I stopped to catch my breath, Joe said, “you know, it’s such funny timing that you’ve brought this up,” and begins to tell me how many people he knows in his world who are either doing Dry January, or some variation on a self-exploration with alcohol, and how he himself has been concerned about his own increased drinking, and how unsettling it’s been for him, and that he thinks he should do something about it.

“I really like this idea of experimenting for 30 days,” he said. “What’s the name of the program you said?” He wrote it down on a scrap of paper from his wallet (I know he’ll see it again—it’s his tried’n’true filing “system”—works for him!) and we continued to talk about TAE, for a good couple of hours, sans alcohol, most of it him asking so many thoughtful questions, me not at all proselytizing. Again, “hmmm…”

We were planning to go downtown to hear a few bands playing at a local joint after dinner. We still made it downtown, missed the first act because we’d talked so long, but stayed through the last one. Funny—the lead singer of the last band announced that they were doing Dry January, so “have a drink for us,” he said before launching into their last song. another “hmmm….” I didn’t drink; Joe had one Jameson on the rocks. I actually listened to the music, curiously observed the people around us, didn’t compete the band with inane shouting-matches thinly disguised as “conversation,” as would often happen in such a setting. In other words, actually enjoyed the night, didn’t feel particularly anxious at any point. After the music, we chatted with a few people, bid our adieus, drove home (sober), climbed into bed (true fact: AF people DO stay up after midnight!), woke up the next day (only once, at 7 am) and the first thing Joe said when he opened his eyes was, “My GOD does it feel good to wake up not hungover!” We proceeded to have such a fun rest of our day…I was going to cross the inappropriate line and and say that I earned my “wildcat” badge this weekend, but didn’t want to offend, then I saw what today’s video topic is, and dammit, I’m gonna wear that badge proudly. THAT is as important to our health and well-being as our Day 13 pics, as our good sleep, as our better eating, water intake….I’m not saying he’s 100% on board, but damned, our weekend couldn’t have been much sweeter. More evidence, that I can literally do every. damned. thing. I did while drinking, even better, when I’m not drinking. EVERYthing. Me-OOW.

Day 10 AF/AF reflections…after a gung-ho, fiery start to this experiment, the flames have fizzled momentarily, dimmed but not out…kinda quiet over here the past few days, still checking in, watching the vids, reading a lot of your posts, marveling at the lovely side-by-side Day 1/Day 10 pics being shared (oh, the sparks back in your eyes! and softness of the mouths! Your day 10 faces so reveal the weight of this secret easing up, finally giving you respite and hope—I love them all! Please, keep sharing!). Even in this quiet phase, I draw strength and energy from all your stories, no matter where you are on this path. Thank you all for sharing your hearts, baring your souls, for being brave and vulnerable, angry and grace-filled, funny and heartbreaking, wise and thoughtful, tentative and questioning, and most of all, being on this journey with me.

I’ve been 30 days AF before (Whole 30 a few times, the non-live TAE last fall); but this time feels different, a strange shift seems to be happening and I don’t quite know what to make of it…I’m just letting it settle in my cells, see what curiosities bubble up; in the past, it was like, “whew (wipes the brow)! Alright! I made it through *that*—see! I’m NOT an alcoholic! Let’s pick up where we left off!” which, in time, meant back to old ways.

I’m 100% certain doing the work that accompanies this experiment—watching the videos, engaging in this group, reflecting, observing, digging in deep, feeling all the feels and writing it all down—has made the world of difference. Trouble is, when you dig down deep, you usually unearth a lot of stuff that alcohol so adeptly kept hidden, and it’s suddenly, crystal clear, why alcohol has been in the picture for so long. This shit is ugly and is the reason I can’t even attempt to post a side-by-side Day 1/Day 10, because all I’ve been doing is crying—my swollen, puffy eyes and blotchy skin and snotty nose would be an out-right deterrent to the program!

Tonight, my heart is heavy, for so many reasons. For coming to the realization that, other than a handful of 30 day AF challenges in the past few years, I’ve never been without alcohol longer than that, not since before I started drinking in earnest, back in the 80s, in college. An even heavier weight is added, when I think about how my drinking escalated when my husband was diagnosed with cancer in 2009 and I became full-time caregiver for my 40-year-old best friend, who went from being the healthiest person I ever knew to the sickest person I will likely ever know. How ill-prepared I was for what it truly meant when we signed on the “fight cancer” dotted line; how the drinking slipped into secrecy after he died two years later. I recall talking to another widow who had also lost her husband to cancer, who asked me, “How much Ambien does it take for you to fall asleep?” I looked at her, shocked; I took great pride in the “fact” that I never resorted to prescription drugs to “get through” that ordeal; just don’t look in my extra-large recycling bin…

I marvel that I’ve been able to do anything at all in the wake of that loss; when Bob was sick, I began a blog as a means to keep our friends and family informed about what was going on with his health because he became so critically ill so quickly and remained so for the duration of his ordeal; I didn’t anticipate the blog to be anything more than that, but when he died, I was encouraged to keep writing, so in a cloud of grief (you do some pretty bizarre things in that cloud—the motorcycle license probably wasn’t the best idea, in hindsight, but sometimes it’s not always for the worse), I gathered about 30 pages of loosely edited material from my blog, submitted to a graduate writing program and was accepted. I completed my MFA in 2018 (I took the long, wandering scenic path through the program, which is another way of saying, i questioned myself every step of the way, calling myself a fraud, feeling so out of my league—I’m not a writer, everyone else here knows what the hell they’re doing, all I have is this stupid blog about some guy who went and DIED on me, the fucker…kidding…we have the best relationship now—I can yell at Bob for ruining my life and leaving me with a big ol’ mess to clean up, and he just smiles at me in that heavenly way and lets me rant away. It’s pretty amazing, really, though I wouldn’t recommend it, if you do’t have to do it this way…)

I’ve been given a large grant to help turn my writing into a memoir; I’ve recently been selected as part of a prestigious writing fellowship in the Twin Cities to continue to develop my project with a team of established authors, some local, some coming in from around the country to work with us. Problem is, I’ve been stuck for the past few years with my story; I keep saying there’s a big piece missing and I don’t know what it is, and I need more time to figure it out. It’s funny, not funny, how I’ve not been able to see what’s keeping me back, what’s made me feel like a fraud, until these past 10 days parked their fat ass smack dab in front of me, arms folded across their chest, forcing me to take al long, hard look. See, for eight years, I’ve been telling all these lovely, heartbreaking stories about what I watched my husband go through, but all the while, I keep avoiding the main thread of my story: what *I* went through along side him. And how alcohol played a huge role in my story, and that my story would not be true if I left this huge truth out of it. And this is how cognitive dissonance finally came to a head in my life. but now, I don’t know how to write about all that, or if I can even do it…The end (for tonight…). xo

Day 6, morning clarity (or maybe just more mud 🙂…last night I posted day 5 reflections just before going to bed; pondering why people are posting things like “slipped tonight, back to Day 1” kind of thing, followed by a public self-lashing…I was tired, feeling irritable and as soon as I hit “post,” had a gut feeling that I didn’t clarify much of what I was trying to process (there’s that key word that I sometimes so despise, “process…” I want a magic switch, dammit! 😜), but was too tired to hop back on here and clear things up. Instead, I promptly fell asleep (which, ultimately, is far more important than social media…another good night of zzzz’s, more vivid, longer, weird, nonsensical yet entertaining dreams…subconscious awakening…)

That gut feeling was confirmed by some of the responses I received overnight, and I was tempted to delete the post and start over, to clean up and perfect what I was trying to say. Then, I had this novel idea: “Hey, chill out, Jen. It doesn’t have to be perfect.” Which is a monumental reaction in my world, just saying. In my past, I would not just want, but insist my “appearance” to be perfect, but the great irony of being a self-proclaimed perfectionist, is that I often do nothing, if I can’t do it perfectly the first time. Great strategy, huh?

I decided, this morning, that last night’s version of my thoughts matters as much as anything. They’re my messy, original, “knee jerk,” raw feelings, and they’re as legit as the pretty, edited, cleaned up ones. More so, even, because they’re authentic, and will hopefully be documentation of my journey here.

Even if I didn’t express myself “perfectly” last night, I’m starting to come face-to-face with things that I’ve long ignored, stuffed away, ran from, in the past, and THAT is ultimately the point, not others’ responses. Main issue being dredged up these days is the abusive self-talk that I’ve engaged in for a big chunk of my adult life. The kind that’s associated with the “perfectionist complex,” talk that reinforces false beliefs, prevents me from moving forward and fully embracing and engaging in my life, resulting in a downward spiral of poor choices in a desperate attempt to shut the voices up or to prove them right: disordered eating. Drinking. Dysfunctional relationships. the list goes on. Reading other people’s acute negative self-talk here is a trigger, to use that nauseatingly over-used buzz-word-du-jour, conjuring up a lot of really sad stuff, like a mirror that’s turned toward me, revealing this decades-long practice that I’ve engaged in, that I’m finally facing, but still grappling with and will take a lot of time to work through.

The truth is, I don’t know exactly what I was trying to say last night, and that doesn’t matter. The fact that I’m even coming face-to-face with some of this long-hidden stuff for the very first time, is huge. As I told someone in a post over the weekend, sometimes, in order to be great at something, we have to start out sucking. Right now, I really, really suck at addressing these deeply-rooted demons; I feel disoriented, inadequately armed, and scared. But also hopeful.

Even if I didn’t express myself clearly last night, even some of the response to my post missed the mark entirely, the very act of putting it out there to the world set off a chain reaction: caused me to pause, think about what I wrote, picked away at the scab, bringing oxygen in for healing…and each response offered a new little nibble of insight, a little more clarity, a little more reinforcement…just like every day we’re here is legit, no matter what happens—whether we drink or not while doing the experiment, every post shared is legit, no matter where we are in ours head along the way. All the words matter. Thanks again for reading and getting muddy with me this morning, and for being on this journey with me. May you all have an insightful Monday. xo