A personal story of recovery, self-discovery, and connection
Before
When I first began attending sobriety meetings, I had just separated from my husband of ten years. It is hard to say if I had postpartum depression back then or just the usual circumstantial and chemical depression, but I wasn’t myself for some time. We were in the suburbs, living a life with our three young sons that we maybe hadn’t quite been built for.
The external consequences of my drinking, as I recall, were minimal. Perhaps my ex-husband would have another story. But I had no DUIs, no lost jobs, no financial strife. I fed our children fruit and took them to story hour at the library and we watched Daniel Tiger.
Toward the end of our marriage, though, I was resentful. I would sometimes be the fun Kristen I normally was. But other times, I was angry. I would tantrum. I would scream and shout. There were stressors in our lives that we hadn’t prepared for with our three small children (twins and a baby). The mental lists of diapers, wipes, doctor’s appointments, and my awful, ever-increasing anxiety about whether they were meeting their milestones, eating enough, if I was reading to them enough, or brushing their single tooth enough were overwhelming.
And he didn’t know which version of Kristen he would get. He became resentful, too. We fought in ways we had never fought before. A chasm grew between us, pushing us onto our individual islands, from which we said cruel things to one another. And so, we separated.
Single
A therapist I sought out to help cure my alcoholism—or, at that time, to help me figure out how to become a moderate drinker—suggested that I might have been engaging in codependent behavior during my first marriage.
Four things culminated that I believe helped me maintain sobriety: my first husband and I separated; I took a boundaries course from Molly Davis Carlson; I began the shamanic medicine wheel and embraced a spiritual life, releasing old patterns and healing during my shamanic sessions (real or imagined—it worked); and, because I was more open to spirituality than ever before, I began attending AA meetings with an open mind.
And so, I was able to get sober when, for the first time in my life, I put myself first—my sobriety first. If I were to live, I realized, I had to get sober.
My mantra was, “My sons will recover from eating McDonald’s Happy Meals and watching Toy Story 1-4, but they will never recover if their mom dies of alcoholism.”
“I am building a life I don’t want to escape,” I said to myself. With every decision, I asked, “Am I moving toward a drink or away from it?”
My sober days looked like this: I took my sons to daycare (as a single mother, I had assistance from a childcare subsidy). I came home, showered, and went to work, where I spent most of my time in the car driving and meeting with residential homeowners to sell tree work. I listened to meetings and sobriety podcasts all day, every day.
Love, Again
I had built a full life in sobriety. I spoke with maybe 5 to 10 sober women every day. I listened to my meetings, my podcasts, my literature (AA and otherwise), and my recovery memoirs.
But I was lonely.
Maybe, I thought, I am healthy enough to put myself out there again. I will be wholly and unapologetically Kristen, and if the right person is out there, they’ll find me. On dating apps, I began to lead with my sobriety (as shared in my post, Swiping Right on Sobriety).
The first time I met him, my now-husband arrived at my house wearing a pearl-button-up shirt, Wranglers, boots, and carrying a copy of John Gottman’s 8 Dates.
I was smitten (I still am. It’s gross. I wouldn’t have liked me when I was single, or before I began believing all the cliché stuff in the world that I’ve found actually works for me, like “one day at a time” or “keep coming back, it works if you work it”).
I was fairly certain I would marry my husband after we had been talking for about three days. It wasn’t love-bombing, as some friends thought it might be, because it’s still this way almost two years later. We just started talking, and we never stopped. Our souls have known each other before, I said (the synastry of our astrological charts confirmed this).
They say AA will give you a life that takes you away from AA.
When this relationship began, I stopped going to so many meetings. I had spent two or three (sometimes more) hours a day listening to meetings while I cleaned, drove, or worked. Now, I wanted to be with my husband. I wanted to be on the phone with him. And it was good for me. For us.
I had a good foundation in sobriety that has allowed me to maintain it. But I’ve had to shift to actually live my life. My sobriety comes first, yes, but there is a whole wide world out there that I am welcome to—and that I ought to be able to enjoy in my sobriety.
My sober life is not something inside a glass box that cannot be touched—I have built this life so it can be enjoyed. And in this marriage, I’ve had to find that balance (a word I’ve never been good at): a few meetings a week, listening to my internal dialogue, and taking more when I need them.
This might be the first healthy relationship I’ve ever been in, only made possible by the fact that I am sober. We are always on the hunt for the ever-elusive interdependency. And we have it, most of the time, I think.
But I am so fucking difficult sometimes. It has to do with my not drinking, I say to my husband. It just does. We have what I believe to be the most beautiful and pure love anyone has ever found. And yet, sometimes, I just can’t get out of my own fucking way. I am impatient. I am unkind. I am not a soft touch. I am rough around the edges.
In sobriety, I have nowhere to hide—including from myself. I actually have to feel my feelings, all of them. And my feelings are sometimes so bright, so big, and so loud that it feels like it’s just too much.
My husband is patient and kind.
I am always grateful I met my husband as a sober person. I often say to him, “I would have run your ass over if I had still been drinking.”
And not even maliciously, honestly. “I had a hard day,” I can see myself saying. “I just want a glass of wine.” And I would have sent him to the store. “Please,” I would have said. And he would have asked me to stop. But I wouldn’t have been able to.
He wants to give me whatever it is I want. And I would have taken advantage of that. I know I would have. I have endless gratitude that the universe sent him to me once I had healed the parts of myself that kept me trapped in addiction.
But now, in this marriage, in sobriety, my healing continues. We both work toward an emotionally healthy relationship. We are healing these deep soul wounds in each other, always. And my god, it is a lot of work. A LOT of work. Like, ffs, universe. But it is work only made possible because I am staying sober, one day at a time, with the love and support of a good man.
We are ever-evolving, together. I am learning to be a healthier wife and partner, to be a healthier mother.
Today
We sit on the couch in the morning. My husband makes my coffee before he makes his own. “Is there anything I can get for you?” he asks.
Our baby coos. Our daughter will only know a sober mother. My stepkids will only know a sober stepmom. My sons have a good stepdad, teaching them to be good men.
I am able to enjoy this life—fully enjoy it—without the haze of a hangover or the fuzziness of a few drinks. I start each day with a grateful heart. I am still unapologetically Kristen. We are moving together through this universe, healing each other as we can.
We’d love for you to share in the comments:
- In what ways has sobriety changed your understanding of love and partnership?
- What advice would you give to someone who is sober and looking for love?
And if you found this article helpful, please comment and share it. It lets others know there’s something useful here and will help us grow this community.
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