Dealing With the Shame of Not Drinking

Processing the obvious and working through the lies

Ki in the “olden days.”

This month marks two years of sobriety.

I won’t lie—the journey hasn’t been without twists and turns. I slipped a time or two toward the beginning. Mostly to “fit in.” Or to calm down. Or whatever other excuse I had. But with time, and these experiences, it finally clicked with me that I feel—and am—infinitely better without it.

My depression has been amazingly under control and my writing is much better.

I’m proud of myself.

I was sober curious for a while, but my friend Chris inspired me to give it a go, pal. I knew that to give it that go, I needed to go all in. It hasn’t been easy. Not so much the not drinking part but some of the psychological baggage that has been part of this process.

Sometimes I have moments when I feel impatient. I start questioning why my changes don’t seem as impactful as they are for others. Yes, I’m losing weight—but I’m working on that. Why didn’t it just drop off quickly when I stopped? And, yes, I have more energy, but I’m still tired all the time. Yes, my writing is technically better, but I’m still often uninspired.

The worst thing I have to admit is that I’m still haunted by shame. But the shame feels misplaced. Even though it’s been two years, I’m still embarrassed to admit to others that I’m not drinking anymore. I find myself in a rough spot with coworkers who talk about future happy hours and parties—I go along with it smiling, but deep down feeling very conflicted. Why am I embarrassed to just say that I’m not drinking? Why do I feel shame for not drinking?

At our last work event, I ordered a glass of wine and pretended to drink it so I wouldn’t have to field any questions. Why? And why would I even put myself in that position?

Drinking used to make me feel socially alive. It shut those awkward feelings away in a closet and I felt like I could have lively conversations and be the center of attention when otherwise I’m painfully introverted.

Drinking was how I masked the pain of a traumatic relationship and its downfall.

Drinking was how I made friends.

Drinking was how I felt creative.

Drinking was the big lie of my life.

The truth is, it didn’t make anything better. It didn’t make me better. I lived in a state of depression for the better part of my life. It doesn’t take a genius to make the connection.

Two years in and I’m not having cravings. I’m healthier, just as I hoped I would be. I don’t have the desire to drink. But that shame stands strong.

Perhaps that’s the recovery work I haven’t done.

I just stopped. I didn’t really put much thought into it otherwise and didn’t do much thinking about why I felt better or why I believed in the lies alcohol told me for so long.

“Shame is the fear of disconnection.” —Brené Brown

I never expected to feel shame about not drinking. I know I should be empowering myself more. I should be proud to tell others about my accomplishment. Could it be that I’m judging myself more than I realized? Self-sober shaming because I feel like something is wrong with me? The reality is setting in that I haven’t fixed what drove me to drink to begin with.

Brené Brown once said, “Shame is the fear of disconnection.” This quote resonates with me because I believe there is a voice in my head that is still trying to convince me that I lack the ability to connect with others without a drink.

Julie Fontes

, author of Like a Normal Person, joined

Christopher Robin

and I on our podcast The Unfocused Writer (episode available October 16th). Julie’s new quit lit memoir just released and it’s amazing from both a “quit lit” and memoir perspective. I highly recommend it! As I read her book, I’m finding myself saying, “Yes! Yes!” out loud—somehow it is so comforting to read that others have felt some of the same things I have through this experience. Maybe that’s why many of us are drawn to reading quit lit at the beginning of our sober journeys. Just for the sake of saying—Julie’s book is much more than quit lit. It’s a proper memoir. Go get yourself a copy now and subscribe to her on Substack!

As we were recording the podcast yesterday, there we were—Julie, Chris, and I—and it did not escape me that of the three of us, I was the most reserved and quiet. Julie has this effervescent way about her and Chris—well, everyone knows and loves Chris. He’s well-spoken, funny, and super engaging. I felt like the dud. And I could not help but compare myself and think that I would have been effervescent and engaging had I had just one drink.

The lies drinking told me are still working. It’s like I was in an abusive relationship with alcohol.

I want very much to be the gregarious girl I once was. Who could laugh and command an audience with ease. A ball of energy who didn’t need to sleep 23 hours a day.

I’ve had trouble finishing my book of essays, or memoir, or whatever it’s supposed to be. I think that’s in part because I’m so hyperfocused on trying to figure out who I am now. The problem is, I’m trying to be someone that I’m not anymore. I’ve grown up, I’ve evolved, I’ve had experiences. So who is that person without the alcohol? Just a dud? Am I looking too hard? Should I not be looking at all?

In part, that’s the freedom I’ve found on Substack. On Medium, I mostly publish my memoirs—and not that often. Hell, I only have so many good stories to tell. On Substack, I’m just writing where my mind goes—even if it’s the same thing told in a different way several different times. But that’s the freedom I’ve found.

Maybe…just maybe, I’ll find myself here.

Using my words, in a community that feels safe, where I can continue to evolve without borders.