Last night, I went to a bar. I ordered a diet coke and the bartender said “One of those nights?” and I said “Yeah,” with a sigh, even though I didn’t really know what he meant. Even though it had been one of those years.
It’s not a good sign, going to a bar, in month 11, after my last post, after a very rough conversation with my boyfriend, after deciding not to go to a meeting.
I went to a place where I knew I wouldn’t see anyone I know. I drank my diet coke in the back and watched 2 guys play pool for about 5 minutes and I left. I stood outside for a long time, texting myself so I didn’t look too sketchy, or too open to anything. Then I went home. It’s what I would call a dark night. It’s not something I’m looking to repeat.
I’ve been thinking a lot about going out. I went to a meeting at a place I had never been before and a young guy who had two weeks raised his hand. He said he keeps getting two weeks and relapsing. Because all of his friends drink. Because he wants to feel normal. Wants to go out with them.
When I had trouble getting past two weeks, my therapist suggested healthy alternatives to going out. I made lists of them. Go to a meeting. Read. Call a friend and ask them to hang out with me sober. See a movie. I didn’t do any of those things. I lay on my bed and thought about how lonely my life would be.
Tonight, St. Patrick’s day, a man talked about what happened. He said “I knew it was over, but I didn’t know what was next.” Another said last year St. Patrick’s day took him out. People talk about events that took them out. They mean out of sobriety, out of the present moment, out of the program. It’s somewhere very far away. I thought about when St. Patrick’s day took me out 2 years ago, in Dublin, when I knew it was over but I was nowhere close to done.