Love has not Failed Me (an Alcoholic Celebrates 24 Years Drink-Free)

By: JANA GREENE

Every year, I am apt to say “well, that was a hard year to stay sober!” Some years I’d say it almost flippantly, because drinking didn’t seriously enter my mind.

Most times, I meant it though, because life is effing hard. Battling chronic pain and illness – all of it really difficult to raw-dog. But raw dog it I did and got to pick up a shiny token for my labors at the end of each year. Wheeee!

This year, staying sober has felt like having your bratty cousin hold your arm behind your back until you scream “UNCLE!” Now obviously, God is not a bratty cousin. But there have been days I’d have sworn he was just as bad.

How else to explain adding a cancer diagnosis to my already ridiculous list of health woes? How else to explain allowing the election results to carry consequences of harm to the most vulnerable among us? How else to explain THIS (*gestures wildly*.)

Even the” good” days felt like wearing wet socks with the seam all wonky, (emotionally.) Something was so off, all year.

On some of the bad days, I felt like drinking. And I thought about it way more than the usual amount, which is none.

“Humph,” said my internal narration.”Who in the heckin’ world would even blame me, if I were to pick up?”

“Nobody! Nobody would blame me! “I concluded, fist raised to the sky. “It’s TOO MUCH!”

I imagined people saying, “Bless her, it was the cancer that was the final straw.” Or “No wonder she fell off the wagon.” Or “At least it’s not hard drugs.” Or some such self-pitified bullshittery.

And then I laughed because silly alcoholic; mind games are for addicts! Of course, I recognized that voice from days of yore! It’s the one that kept me sick.

I’ve decided – for the sake of argument and a slightly fragmented faith – that God is not a fraud.

He is only love, and love has not failed me this year.

Love has shown up, hat-in-hand, smiling gently.

Love was with me during the bone biopsy, while they punctured my hip and sucked out the marrow, and hot, sad tears ran down my face, alone.

Love was with me when the biopsy confirmed that I have a form of leukemia, by lending me a calming essence not organic to my own understanding for comfort.

Love sat and listened to me primal scream in my car, when I’ve had unbearably painful days from Ehlers Danlos syndrome. When I couldn’t walk without agony or stay awake due to fatigue.

Love rocked out with me when I listened to purging metal music at full volume by myself, as if the genre could wick the anger out of me. (Thanks, AC/DC.)

Love was with me, rifling through my recovery toolbox, passing me whichever tool was the right one for the job. And I – much like the father in A Christmas Story trying to change a tire – cussing the whole way. “Again?!! Aw, blast it! Poop flirt rattletrap camel flirt! YOU BLONKER! Rattle feet sturcklefrat!” (Only not quite that wholesome. FUUUUDDDGGGGE.)

Love was with me when darkness enveloped me and hope was a little wisp in the ethers, so faint it barely had form.

Love manifested through my friends and family, who doggedly refuse to give up on me.

Love peeled off my wet, wonky socks, and then proceeded to wash my feet.

Love did all of those things, in the form of a God most compassionate.

My Higher Power provided everything alcohol would have withheld from me.

So this year, as I order a 24 Year sobriety chip, I say UNCLE, UNCLE, UNCLE!

I still say it’s TOO MUCH.

But I also say thank you, thank you, thank you. Because after the shitshow that was 2024, I will treasure that shiny 24 year chip. I earned it this year, homies. It was hard to stay sober.

But not impossible, you see. Because who in the heckin’ world would I be able to help, should I fall back into the drink? Surely not my family. Surely not myself. Surely not Love.

Bloodied and bruised, wild-minded and obstinate, and leaning into the Divine Love, I will pick up that shiny 24 Year chip and dance around with it on Friday.

And Love will dance with me too.