We are all walking each other home

This month marks 12 years of sobriety.

I still have dreams that catapult me into the cycle of drinking too much: the bleary next day, full of anxiety, shame, and regret.  Disorientation steeped in a sinking feeling about the previous night. I wake from these experiences humbled and grateful. My subconscious fascinates me with these dreadful reminders of that dreadful time. 

I’ll never know for sure, but perhaps this is a way of permanently keeping the shine off glimmering glasses poured to the brim. There are times that I peek over the edge of sobriety, picturing the downward trajectory toward what my life could look like. Without a doubt, catastrophe awaited. The beautiful and precious relationships I have couldn’t exist with that reality. I can taste how close I came. It makes me shiver with gratitude. 

Stripping away the very substance that once gave me false freedom forced growth in unexpected places and spaces. By the same token, other things I once valued have completely lost their luster.

Not impressed by money.     I have nothing more than a passing interest in what someone does for a living, what their background is, or what kind of cars and homes filled with treasures that await. I am not impressed with money. I’d much rather know what makes someone light up, what their favorite childhood memory is, what their family dynamic is and how they fit into that.

And laughter. Always laughter, about the absurd and the ridiculous. Blended with dark humor because my family tree is lit up with mental health challenges like a 1980’s suburban Christmas. I want to be with those who seek the same authentic connection. I adore my community who are living testimony to that.

Inconveniently and wonderfully, authenticity and confidence have become the backbone of my life. If something involves curation, strategic networking, or status, I want no part of it. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I just don’t care. I was a Social Anthropology major at Harvard, and when I attend events that drip with social climbing and posturing, I sometimes amuse myself by imagining myself as a researcher conducting fieldwork. 

In late-stage capitalism, not prioritizing money and status can mean a quieter existence. And that’s perfectly fine with me.  I’m not interested in succeeding in a race I never wanted to run.

A race I never wanted to run       I have all I need and am not bought into the idea that more is better. I am content with pursuing hobbies and interests without monetizing them. (I love yoga! No, I don’t want to teach someday. I love to write! No, I don’t want to pursue more than what I am doing here with you. I am sure I could pursue a career with more financial incentives, but I love working on behalf of Rhode Island’s children and families as an advocate.)

Listening is a totally different experience now. It fascinates me that so many say so much without realizing it. The number of people — men in particular — who blather on about their accomplishments and priorities without any shred of reciprocity is an exhausting experience. It says so much. Their value system isn’t compatible with mine. And I wish everyone well, but when billionaires are standing on the necks of most of the planet, I don’t understand how money and status can possibly be more compelling than what’s right in front of us and within our hearts.

Pursuing authenticity has shown just how much this resonates with the right people. The clarity and beauty that’s infused throughout my world without alcohol has created a life I barely knew was possible in 2013.

After all, we’re all just walking each other home.