Ask a Former Drunk: Will I Be One of Those Annoying Sober People?

None of us should be defined by one part of our identity, whether it’s how we drink, how we vote, or who we love

by Sarah Hepola

Illustration by Angelica Alzona

“Ask a Former Drunk” was a five-part advice series that ran on Jezebel and then disappeared down the memory hole. We’re bringing it back. Read last week’s installment here.

Originally published June 14, 2016

I am worried (paranoid?) that becoming a non-drinker will become The Thing that defines me. That sobriety will be all I am, or all people associate with me. I don't want to be a person who talks about their sobriety all the time, like the worst kind of vegan or Crossfitter.

There's also the small issue that my husband still drinks and truly, genuinely doesn't think I have a problem, but that I just need to be better about moderating, that I just keep drinking without eating first or not pacing myself or not having waters in between etc etc etc. So I feel like if I told him I am quitting he'd try to convince me I am overreacting. Which maybe I am? But how can I be, when I just said I think I need to quit? If you think you need to quit, what does it matter what other people think, right? But again, I don't want it to be a Thing with him. Fuck The Thing. 

Signed,

Mary

Dear Mary,

You’ve certainly come to the right person for this. The woman who literally wrote a book about no longer drinking, who talks incessantly about sobriety, who recently bought a T-shirt that reads “Teetotaler” — SURE, let me help you figure out how this won’t define you. Haha, I love this gig.

But wait. Long before I became this person — a person so completely at home with her “former drunk” status that she suggested it for a column name — I was you. At the very least, I was a person terrified that “not drinking” would define me. I didn’t want to be one of those horrible sober people, spouting 12-step cliches and handing out their “sober wisdom” like gluten-free pancake recipes. I’m not sure where I got the idea that sobriety must look like this. Maybe from television, or that movie with Meg Ryan? But being the Sober Girl was hugely threatening to me — probably because I had been the Girl Who Drinks for a long, long time.

Being the Girl Who Drinks was fantastic. I had grown up on the sidelines, a shy and unfashionable child who loved books and music and movies and lived too much in her own head, imagining a life forever beyond her fingertips. Booze was like entry to the world’s coolest dance party — and thanks to alcohol, I might actually dance. Men liked women who drank. Women liked to drink with other women. How did life get so easy?

Because I loved this party so much, I disliked anything that threatened to bring it to an end. In college, I was the one blocking my friend at the door as she attempted a discreet exit. I would hold her hand, lather her up with praise and guilt, like she simply HAD to stay, because we couldn’t POSSIBLY keep this party going without her. Your letter mentions vegans and Crossfitters, but I’ve never met anyone with half the evangelical zeal of a drunk at 1am. Come awwwn, one more drink. Come awwwn, you don’t have to wake up THAT early. This strong-arming was partly selfish, because I didn’t want anyone else’s rational decision to call into relief my own questionable ones, and partly a well-meaning effort to spread joy and happiness. Alcohol was a 100-proof bottle of belonging. I wanted everyone to take a shot.