A Queer in Recovery: The Brewing Storm That Led to a Return Home

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

When I started this column, I had every intention of imparting my wisdom in sobriety; I wanted to inspire and give hope to those who are still suffering from addiction and to educate those who may have questions or curiosities of a sober life. I come back to writing this edition of A Queer in Recovery with humility, honesty, and vulnerability. 

I experienced a relapse recently—I made the conscious decision to drink again even though I was days away from attaining a year of sobriety. I was desperate for relief from my depression; I was seeking comfort during a time when I had severely withdrawn from life and isolated myself, and I was running away from all responsibility. 

However, all it took was that first drink, and the cravings, mental obsession, hiding, lying, sneaking, and recklessness returned as though I had never stopped. I would surely kill myself this time, either by self-harm or drinking myself to death, if I didn’t immediately ask for help. So, again, I had to return to step one: “We admitted we are powerless over alcohol, and our lives have become unmanageable.”

While my drinking only lasted 72 hours, it was the most painful experience that I’ve faced through my entire recovery process. While I admit I was ashamed and embarrassed as I confessed to those who have been rooting for me that I drank again, a large part of me is thankful for picking up the bottle again. I needed that blow to my ego; I needed to be reminded that I am a true alcoholic and that I cannot do recovery on my own. My relapse didn’t begin once I took that first drink; it had been months of backing away from everything recovery-related.

As I worked through the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous with my sponsor (a trusted friend who is also in recovery and is active in AA), I became resentful of what was being asked of me and started questioning the suggestions that they were giving me. 

I was nine months sober; why did I still need to go to multiple meetings a week? I was doing fine at work and with friends; why did I need to spend time with other alcoholics who were working the steps? I didn’t believe in God; why did I need to find a Higher Power? I was fine; why did I need to keep taking my bipolar medication?

I stopped going to AA meetings; I stopped talking to my sponsor; I stopped trying to connect to a Power greater than myself, and I stopped taking my meds. The perfect storm for a relapse, and yet I couldn’t see the forest through the trees. It was one day at a time, and I was struggling to get through the day. 

I found myself in the deepest, darkest depression of my life. I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning; I couldn’t stop using my eating disorder as a source of comfort and distraction; I couldn’t reach out to anyone and admit that I was suffering. I needed to be strong; I needed to do it on my own; I had to prove that I was capable, and I would crawl out of the cave of self-pity, isolation, and despair. 

Who did I need to prove all of this to? Myself. And I was failing miserably.

I blamed myself for my troubles because I knew that I had done it to myself. I didn’t do the work; I didn’t stay connected to AA or anyone else in recovery, and I didn’t put my recovery first. I was too proud to ask for help, too scared to be vulnerable, and unwilling to admit that I was powerless over my mental health struggles and alcoholism. The easiest solution for me was to drink, get out the bottle and numb out from the feelings, and there was no one who was going to talk me out of it. 

I am one of the lucky ones who survived my relapse; many of us don’t. I am lucky that I have a community that cares about me and people offering forgiveness rather than judgment. I am lucky that I have been called out in the kindest of ways, and I’m lucky to be able to have brutally honest conversations with those I love most. While I admit that it sucks to say that I’m three days sober rather than one year sober, I’m trying again because I want a better life than one consumed with hoping for relief at the bottom of a bottle. 

Relapse isn’t necessary, but it is part of my story, and all I know is that recovery is possible if you work for it. My mind will always try to convince me that I can drink again, and some days, those thoughts will be louder than others, but I don’t have to believe everything I think, and the more often I can return to step one and admit my powerlessness, the longer I can stay a queer in recovery.

Thank you for allowing me the space to make mistakes, take responsibility, and continue life, one day at a time. With so much gratitude, I couldn’t do it without having a reason to tell my story, and every person who reads this gives me hope, strength, and encouragement that my life is worth saving. I’m back home in the safety of my sobriety, and damn, it feels good.

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