Illustration by Shu Yin (Kitty) Lai.
As a Midwestern child growing up in the ʼ90s, there was a little saying we threw around the playground whenever someone was especially fond of something: “Why donʼt you marry it?” If you donʼt get it, that’s okay, because it doesnʼt make a ton of sense. In essence, it was a sassy way to tease someone for … liking things? Anyhoo, Iʼve been thinking a lot lately about making commitments to things we like. (Or donʼt.) As a master’s student in art therapy, Iʼm required to take a Substance Use class this semester, and historically my relationship status with substances has been “itʼs complicated.”
I drank alcohol for the first time when I was 14. My friend had cajoled a senior boy to persuade his older brother to buy us Malibu, as one does. We took turns passing the clear bottle back and forth, cradling it with the delicacy one might reserve for a newborn baby or a ticking bomb. It was a pretty uneventful experience. Mostly, it tasted like bleach and burned unpleasantly in my throat. Within two years, alcohol became a weekly fixture for me. In high school, I had a lot more drinking-related firsts: The first time I got drunk. My first hangover. The first time I got sick. The first time I blacked out. Whether my experiences were positive or negative, I never questioned if I actually liked drinking: I just did it. Honestly, drinking was fun. As an impulsive and uninhibited person, I loved how drinking made my big personality even bigger. I savored staying up all night, and I relished how young and free it made me feel.
In college, drinking became my entire personality. Do you remember Kendrick Lamar’s first big hit, “Swimming Pools?” It was like that. Wake up, drink. Sit down, drink. Thursday night? Drink. Friday after class? Drink. Game day? Drink. Any excuse would suffice, from sports games to charity events or frat socials. When I entered the real world, I kept up my partying momentum. On Friday night, I had a drink in my hand by 6 p.m. I’d start with a few drinks at happy hour, and most nights ended around 2 or 3 a.m. On Saturdays I went to boozy brunch, and the evening would include four or five more drinks, bringing my average weekend total to a minimum of 12 alcoholic beverages in three days. My Sundays were reserved for hangovers: Tired, moody, and anxious, I would languish on the couch with my roommates or binge Netflix in bed with the shades drawn, procrastinating adult things like grocery shopping and cleaning. This pattern persisted for most of my twenties.
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) defines binge drinking as four or more drinks an occasion for women. Along with 25% of Americans who answer surveys honestly, I was hitting those numbers weekly. What’s bananas is, my alcohol consumption always fell within the “normal” range: I wasn’t drinking more than anybody else. I was actually drinking less. Drinking is such a habitual part of American life that we don’t even think about not doing it — it’s just what you do. At weddings, parties, book club meetings, bar mitzvahs, and even baby showers, you’re expected to have a drink in your hand. (Or five.)
As I got older, drinking became less fun. The parties became redundant. My hangovers got increasingly more debilitating. Have you heard of the butterfly effect? It’s this theory that seemingly small occurrences can have profound effects on larger systems, named after the notion that a butterfly flapping its wings could possibly start a typhoon. The philosophy behind the book “Atomic Habits” by James Clear is similar: Little choices we make everyday build up until they become huge changes. Gradually, as I spent my mid-twenties ferally teetering around the streets of Chicago in booties, I began to question if this was the life I wanted. I made small alterations until they morphed into big transitions. My new habits made me feel amazing. Drinking, in contrast, mostly made me feel terrible.
By December of 2019, I was ready to break up with drinking: I was officially “Sober Curious.” Sober curiosity is a phrase coined by Ruby Warrington, a memoirist who publicly chronicled her own on-again, off-again relationship with booze. Warrington argued that you don’t have to identify as an addict to have a problematic relationship with alcohol or desire to stop drinking. After reading her book, I devoured Quit Lit by other authors who questioned drinking culture, like Holly Whitaker and Laura McKowen.
On Dec. 31, 2019, I chugged multiple glasses of champagne at my cousin’s New Years Eve party. The next day, I woke upwith a headache and the resolve to swear off booze for an entire year.2020 ended up being a wild year to give up drinking, but it also ended up being one of the best years of my life. You know when you’re driving, and you realize you’ve taken a wrong turn, so you lower the aux volume to focus on figuring out where you’re going? That’s what alcohol was for me: Loud noise distracting me from the fact that I was really lost.
Drinking was like the annoyingly catchy pop song playing for the millionth time, drowning out how deeply unhappy I was. The best way I can describe sobriety is to reference a TikTok meme, inspired by Papa John’s advertising: Better ingredients, better pizza. Better sleep, less anxiety, better workouts, better productivity, better everything. Mostly, I feel not hungover. I have more gratitude for simple things like white fluffy snowflakes or hot coffee or an amazing night of sleep. I’m also more wholly present. I’m not numbing myself anymore, so I’m more intimate with the hard feelings too, like fear, shame, and loneliness. It’s worth it, though, because the lower lows make space for higher highs.
I will admit there are social consequences to not drinking. Because American culture is built around alcohol, I have spent a lot of time watching other people drink. Even though I’m comfortable with being sober in social situations, I don’t always get invited anymore. Some of my friendships have changed. Even after three years, people still ask me to drink with them. I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss it occasionally.
I want a crisp glass of rosé on a patio. I want a cold beer at a sports bar. When I see a Bloody Mary, my mouth starts to salivate. Mostly, I want the instant escape; the getaway car; the miracle cure for anxiety or self-consciousness. The activity to do in Chicago in February. The elixir that gets you out on the dance floor at a wedding. But I wouldn’t trade any of those things for the life I have now.
I recently presented about alcohol for my Substance Use class. I scoured the internet for neutral information, trying to subvert my own biases, but literature about alcohol is mostly negative. Here’s the “Spark Notes” version: Alcohol is bad for you. And yet, elective sobriety is still considered a radical choice. Strangers often assume I’m either pregnant, Mormon, an alcoholic, or boring. I am definitely not the former(s) and I like to think I’m not the latter, either. Personally, I consider it pretty brave to admit your relationship with alcohol isn’t healthy. For another assignment, I recently attended an Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meeting. As I listened, I thought about how thirst for alcohol is deeply intertwined with the desire for companionship.
Humans are inherently social creatures, but our society keeps us pretty separate. We work on screens all day and live in small units, in contrast to the communal or intergenerational model of cohabitating prevalent for the majority of human history. I am an extroverted extrovert, so for many years, drinking was the price I paid to socialize. Incidentally, AA’s success rate relies heavily on its community care and mutual support model. In Johann Hari’s Ted Talk, “Everything You Think You Know About Addiction is Wrong,” he argues that the opposite of addiction is not willpower, or sobriety, or strength: It’s connection. When we feel connected to other people, our emotional cups are full, and we don’t need to spike them with alcohol.
I have consumed alcohol a handful of times since January 2020. Every time I do, it reminds me why I don’t. Today, I’ve been mostly sober for a little over three years, and I barely recognize the person I was before. Sometimes I miss her, but most of the time, I like this new me infinitely better. Six months after I got sober, I quit my job. One year after I stopped drinking, I got into graduate school. Currently, I’m living a life I previously only dreamed of, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence.
Not to sound like a puppet on “Sesame Street,” but you don’t have to do something just because everyone else does. You can make the choice to not drink if it doesn’t feel good to you. Choosing to drink (whether sometimes or all the time) is also a valid choice. Either way, alcohol is not the only ticket to friendship. Even though there have been awkward bumps along the way, I haven’t lost any friends in sobriety. Many of my relationships have become stronger, closer, and more secure. Please don’t roll your eyes at me for the next thing I’m about to say, because it’s more cheesy than the queso at Chipotle, but the relationship I have healed most through sobriety is with myself. To me, sobriety means being fully awake, alive, and present. It’s getting to know myself better. Sobriety is greeting uncomfortable feelings like an old friend, rather than trying to escape from them. It’s living every second in gratitude, even the shitty, awkward, or boring ones, but especially the beautiful, magical, and effervescent ones. So if you’ve been flirting with sobriety, or considered breaking up with alcohol, I’m here to tell you that it’s not so bad. You may even like it. (Although I won’t make you marry it.)
Jamisen Paustian (MAATC 2024) colors more than most adults, but she rarely stays inside the lines.
