Our only job is to not drink
Photograph ©2022 David Bivins
The hardest thing for me to do when I was actively trying to get sober was not drink. I was attending group calls almost daily, meditating, practicing self-care, journaling, changing my routines. I was doing all the things. I remember with bone-chilling clarity walking down the sidewalk toward the bodega around my corner, imagining Holly on my shoulder, telling me “your only job is to not drink.” Going to the cooler in the back and selecting two six-packs of craft beer and telling myself “you don’t have to do this, David. You can choose not to do this right now.” Paying for the alcohol on the thin margin of what was left on a credit card, my head clanging with cognitive dissonance. I was beyond any excuses. I was no longer saying “I can quit tomorrow.” I had become a zombie to my addiction. I just simply existed in this turmoil.
I was practicing sobriety, but I hadn’t yet unlocked and accessed the top level—not drinking. In every other part of our lives, we practice. I practice piano not expecting to play perfectly. People practice zen buddhism without expecting to attain any particular state of mind. We practice to get better at something. I was practicing sobriety to get better at being sober.
I’ve often tried to figure out what tipped me over the edge into not drinking at all. I don’t think it was any one thing, but dozens of big and little things that I worked at—practiced—diligently, even if I wasn’t attaining that last one, the ultimate habit, the ultimate goal.
This isn’t a checklist to hand to someone else who’s struggling to stop. This was my own list.
I made my bed every morning
I participated in group calls
I read the mantras
I was vulnerable
I loved myself
I drank water
I meditated
I flossed
I cried
And each one of the items in the list unfolds into many other micro-habits.
I made my bed every morning
I did all the family laundry and folded all the clothes
I participated in group calls
I made the time in my calendar and blocked it out, exercising my boundaries
I read the mantras
I took the time to focus on them with my full attention
Etc.
And after a while, with no fanfare, no “a-ha” moment, I didn’t drink.
I did my job.
I’m still doing my job, and I’m still doing almost everything on my list. I don’t have any group meetings right now, and my mantras have been replaced by other readings in zen buddhism and classical stoicism. But otherwise, I’ve cemented these habits into my life. I think they’re all good for me, and just as importantly, every one of them reminds me of the reason I took them up in the first place—to support my sobriety.
I find that habits are a good way to ground my daily life. When there is so much that is out of my control, both inside my home and outside these walls in the world of climate change and other rotten news, these habits are some of the control I can exert on my life. After the September 11, 2001 attacks, I read that New Yorkers' apartments were cleaner than they had ever been. In the uncertainty and confusion, we took control of our homes, doing what we could to maintain any kind of order.
Control is important to me, even if part of it is realizing what I can’t control. I can reflect now that I was imposing a kind of control on my drinking, too. I kept track of how much I drank in spreadsheets. I kept tight control of my budget, making sure that the requisite amount was available to support my habit, even if that meant scrupulously collecting quarters into old film canisters as a backup plan. But now I think I’ve shifted the habits of control into the positive realm. Nothing harmful is supported by a made bed, daily meditation, and clean teeth.
We all have this job, and we all have our practices. Let’s try to do them well.
I love you,
David
