dry january

an excerpt from something special i've been working on- on sobriety and alcohol as a social tool

this is a piece i’m still working on, a first draft of something i’m writing for an essay collection. i wanted to share it with you, because without the support of this community i’ve built, i wouldn’t even see a possibility to write an essay collection.

i’m going to be sharing excerpts and more deeply personal essays (like this one) in monthly posts for paid subscribers, as their support makes this project possible. since this is the first one, i wanted to leave it free for a few days so you can get a taste and decide if this is something you are interested in paying for. i also started a buy me a coffee page if paying subscriptions aren’t your jam and you’re still interested in supporting me. all support from that page goes toward the publication of any future projects.

Few names make as much sense as Dry January. I am dried up, devoid of life. I don’t crave alcohol by any means; I sit and sip my Diet Coke or whatever overpriced mocktail gets me through a social gathering, but I feel like a shell of a person. That joie de vivre that pulsed through me as I danced from bar to bar, teetering on the heels of my boots, plastic cup in my hands, has gone dormant. The first time I went to a bar during my sobriety, I spent the time sitting at a sticky table, fidgeting with the necklace I attached to the handle of my purse. I was quiet, overheating in my sweater, and feeling awkwardly out of place. I don’t miss alcohol but I miss who I was when I was drinking and somehow that feels worse.

I compare myself to versions of me that no longer feel real. The 18-year-old spending nights in a neon-lit basement, drinking vodka crans out of a red plastic cup, the 21-year-old covered in glitter, laughing slightly too loudly at a barely funny comment someone made near me on the dance floor. She was fun, sparkling through crowds, making effortless small talk; confidence oozed out of her like blood from an open wound. I want to slap myself in the face. Why am I jealous of myself?