A Queer in Recovery: Sober, Sober Curious, and Sober Defiant

Hi, my name is ________, and I’m an alcoholic.

As I reflect on the last year of writing A Queer in Recovery, I am surprised to find a strong inner conflict rise within me. Will this be the last installment of a column that brought me simultaneous pain and healing? Am I feeling more fulfilled or exponentially drained by sharing my experiences with substance abuse, mental health issues, and disordered eating? Has the inner work and stark honesty helped or hindered my journey, and do I want to continue being so vulnerable? Do the words that I write matter to anyone, and if they do, are they helpful? Has the fact that I’ve kept this anonymous been a way of keeping people at an arm’s length instead of connecting me to you through the darkest days of my life?

I’m uncertain if I will continue to write about my journey through sobriety and recovery, and yet I also know that it’s through that vulnerability that I find that connection to others. Through hearing stories of people like me, I do find hope that life is better on the other side of addiction. 

So, here’s my truth today, at this moment, and perhaps someone else relates:

I am resentful of my need to be in recovery; I am still drawn to alcohol with a greater desire than any pull toward physical health and holistic wellbeing. After my relapse in October, I’ve had a hard time getting back on the wagon. It’s a daily struggle, and it’s a battle I’m losing more than I’m winning. I ponder and worry, I wonder when will this episode of self-destruction end, and can I make it out alive, or will I be another casualty to addiction? Do I believe that I can drink like other people one day, and will the boundaries and barriers I have set around my drinking be sustainable?

I’m a queer, but I’m not in recovery today, and so it feels like a lie to write any kind of tips and tricks that may help someone else get sober. However, I know them: go to meetings; get a sponsor; don’t surround yourself with people who are using; get a hobby; talk to those who care; seek medical assistance; take your meds, exercise, sleep, etc. … I continue to deny the guidance from those around me, and I’m unwavering in the notion that I can do this on my own. I may be a fool; I probably am.

Isn’t that strange? For someone to choose a life of substance misuse over a life free from addiction is pure insanity. Although I already knew I was a little left of sane, the knowing of something doesn’t always result in action. I have a strong desire to live a life where I can partake in alcohol occasionally, and I still live in the romance stage of how the buzz makes me feel. I am currently basking in a moderate amount of control over my drinking, and I clutch onto the notion that I will get stronger rather than weaker. However, no one knows how long this will last, and as many addicts know, it’s a progressive disease; it will get worse before it gets better.

As of this week that I’m writing to you, I will begin an Intensive Outpatient (IOP) treatment program for substance abuse. It’s not something that I want to do; I don’t want to sit in group therapy and talk about my feelings and the reasons why I drink. I don’t want to be told that I can never have another drink again. I don’t want someone to try and nudge me into taking action toward fighting this disease. However, I know I have an illness, and I know I’m sick, so if IOP will help get me well, I’m willing to listen.

I think that’s all we need is willingness, and that can be utilized toward so many areas of life. I became willing to find a medication regimen for my bipolar II disorder within the last month, and I have noticed a significant, positive impact in my daily life. I became willing to talk with a therapist about my disordered eating behaviors, and while I’m far from perfect when it comes to my relationship with food, it’s improving everyday. I became willing to talk about my trauma with friends, family, and clinicians, and while my complex PTSD will never be “cured,” the weight of what has happened to me is not as heavy.

With all of this evidence at my disposal, I’m taking a step toward trust, inching closer to understanding myself better and changing old habits that no longer serve me. Will I ever regain complete control of my drinking? Probably not. Will I ever fully let go of the desire to drink? Probably not. So, which road do I choose? Recovery, or not? Sobriety, or not? Abstinence, or not?

There remains a strong hesitation that makes me want to run from getting help for my alcoholism. I don’t doubt that I have a disease and an unhealthy relationship with alcohol, however, there is greater doubt that I will receive the tools, knowledge, and skills that will make the days I want to drink easier to ignore, the feelings of FOMO go away, and the romance of it all dissipate. The struggle is real, and yet I’m willing.

As I mentioned, this may in fact be the final edition of A Queer in Recovery depending on if I’m truly sober. I can’t encourage folks to do what I’m not capable of doing; however, I can promise that I’ll continue to be honest, rip off the bandaid, and expose the truth about living an imperfect life as a person struggling with addiction. 

If you ever need anything, reader, I am here. I will listen. I will not judge. I am forever your friend, in and out of sobriety.

Yours truly,

A Queer in Former Recovery

Email a.queer.in.recovery@gmail.com for additional support and resources.