In Which I Talk About the Drinking

sober joy.

I’ve talked pretty extensively about my sobriety on social media and in real life, but I haven’t talked much about the drinking that preceded it. I think that’s an important part of the story because if someone can see themselves in my drinking, maybe they can see themselves in my sobriety too. So in honor of my 31st birthday and recently hitting the 6-month milestone of sobriety, here’s how things began:

I’m pretty sure I had my first sip of alcohol when I was around 13. I remember sneaking some of my parent’s vodka into my ice cream (???) to make some kind of boozy milkshake while talking on AIM late into the night. Apparently, I didn’t hate it.

I’m 14 and sitting in the hot tub at J’s house, drunk on screwdrivers with him at his older brother’s party. It feels very cool to be hanging out with high schoolers.

I’m 15 and ripping shots of vodka on a school night at A’s apartment. I think I blackout. I’m hungover in biology class the next day and B can smell it on me.

I’m 16 and get my first car. I drive up to visit C and we sneak out to drink with a bunch of boys in a trailer park.

I’m 17 and at another party with C. We’re both wasted, far too drunk to attempt driving, so I let a stranger drive my car. I think I yell at her for something, while she’s driving.

I’m 18 and away at college. I’m always significantly more disappointed than is reasonable when us silly little freshmen can’t find a party to go to (read: can’t get drunk.)

I’m 19 and studying abroad in Australia. I get super drunk at a party and stumble home, alone, in the dark, when I’m ready to leave. I don’t tell anyone.

I’m 20 and back in Ithaca and drunk in the basement of the football house. I decide I’m done, so I walk back to campus alone in the dark. Again, not telling anyone I left.

I’m 21 and can finally (legally) go to bars. I blackout on Long Island Iced Teas within an hour on Halloween and spend the entire next day in bed, unable to move. To this day I can’t stand the smell of them.

I’m 22 and about to graduate. We stay drunk for the entire week after classes end.

I’m 23 and back in Middletown. D drives me home from Poor Bobby’s in the plow truck and makes me promise that I’ll stay home. I swear I will, then I promptly get in my car and drive, drunk, in the dark, in the snow, to B’s house.

I’m 24 and marathon training, finally taking a break from drinking. And it actually isn’t hard.

I’m 25 and brand new to Austin, going on dates (and drinking) and to brunch after CrossFit (and drinking).

I’m 26 and I’m getting more into fitness, so drinking takes a back seat again, and it still isn’t very hard.

I’m 27 and barely drinking. I work out multiple days per week, eat well, sleep well, love my job, have great friends, and still can’t figure out why I feel generally pretty terrible almost all the time. (Spoiler alert: it’s depression.)

I’m 28 and in Marfa with a guy that I’ve known for a month. He’s an alcoholic but I don’t realize that until later. We drink every single day, well into the night, and then end up fighting and breaking up. We drive back to Austin hungover, in silence.

I’m 29 and drunk alone in my apartment on a Tuesday night. I’m finally on antidepressants and generally feeling better, but still can’t shake the feeling that things are pretty worthless (January 6th, anyone? I drank at that for sure.)

I’m almost 30 and drunk alone in my apartment, again. I’m scared that things have escalated beyond what I would consider “normal.” I can’t bring myself to ask for help when I’m sober, but when I’m one bottle of wine deep, I reach out to M, and G, and C and tell them I’m not sure I should be drinking. They respond with love and grace and help. One day I’ll look back at the messages I sent in desperation, but I don’t quite have the wherewithal to do it now.

I’m 30 and I’m two months sober and surrounded by sunshine and people who love me at Zilker Park for my birthday. Life is really good.

I’m 30 and I try moderation and I learn that it doesn’t work for me.

I’m 30 and I say goodbye to booze on a sunny fall day. It feels good to be a little drunk, (hopefully) one last time.

I’m 31 and I’m 6 months sober. Holy shit. I’m 31 and I’m 6 months sober. I’m 31 and I’m 6 months sober!

31-year-old Shayna has never had a sip of alcohol. That sentence gives me chills.

She’s never blacked out, never drove drunk, never been mean to her friends, never chased a mediocre man desperately at the end of the night, never thrown up in her bed, never drunk texted an ex, never said something embarrassing, never made an ass out of herself.

31-year-old Shayna lives in integrity. She keeps promises to herself. She sits in her feelings instead of trying to numb them or run away from them. She’s vulnerable and honest and confident in herself. She knows her worth. She’s present for her family and friends and pets.

If this journey looks somewhat tame compared to what you picture when someone tells you they don’t drink anymore, that’s because it kind of is. I never hit “rock bottom.” I never got arrested or spent time in the drunk tank or destroyed property or anything really terrible.

And to be clear, it would be disingenuous of me to say that it was all bad. It wasn’t even really mostly bad. I had FUN. A lot of fun.

But I always come back to a quote from Laura McKowen, author of We Are The Luckiest and founder of The Luckiest Club, my sobriety support community:

“The typical question is, ‘is this bad enough for me to have to change?’ The question we should be asking is, ‘is this good enough for me to stay the same?’ And the real question underneath it all is, ‘am I free?’”

Were things bad enough? Not necessarily. But they weren’t good enough either. And I certainly didn’t feel free.

Here’s the big takeaway for you, dear reader: you do not have to have a major problem with alcohol to question your relationship with it. You do not have to call yourself an alcoholic to stop drinking.

Sobriety is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder even than running a solo marathon during COVID. (Yep, I did that.) But it’s also the most worthwhile. 6 months of sobriety has brought me more joy and connection than 15+ years of drinking ever did.