Happy Saint Patrick’s Day! Erin go bragh! We’re all Irish today!
After an adult lifetime of progressively heavier drinking, I quit cold turkey in mid-March, 2007. When I decided to start celebrating the anniversary, I settled on March 17th, St. Patrick’s Day, as the marker.
I didn’t start flogging my sobriety on the blog until March, 2010. Here’s what I wrote then:
I quit drinking on the 13th of March, 2007. So today’s my three-year anniversary. I don’t want to make a huge deal out of it. Plenty of others have been sober longer, plenty of others have overcome drinking problems far more serious than mine. And I don’t wish to tempt fate; plenty of others have fallen off the wagon after three years or even longer . . . not that I think I ever will. I love the way I feel. I love going to bed feeling good; I love waking up every morning feeling good. As for the booze itself, I don’t miss a single thing about it. I used to worry I’d be a different person without it, that certain activities I loved, things like hashing and motorcycling, had become so identified with drinking I wouldn’t want to do them any more . . . but not at all. I still love the same things, just without booze. Okay, I’m starting to sound preachy, so I’ll stop.
What do I have to say in 2025?
Well, for one thing, I’ve taught myself to use a single space between sentences and dots in an ellipse … see, old dogs can learn new tricks! I still, every single day, appreciate how good it feels to go to bed sober and wake up clear-headed and refreshed. I no longer worry about falling off the wagon. Sadly, I was wrong about loving the same things as before; I no longer enjoy hashing and see almost everything hashers do as an excuse to get drunk. For the first couple of years, I didn’t mind hanging around in bars with friends who were actively drinking; I do now. I’m a quieter person in public and at parties, no longer compelled to blurt out off-color jokes or burst into a chorus of Sally in the Alley. And I’m fine with that. I had become increasingly disgusted with myself during the last few years I drank; I don’t mind admitting I’m proud of myself for quitting.
Eighteen years sober. Yay, me! Thank you, Saint Patrick, for the strength to go the distance. Okay, I’m starting to sound preachy again, so I’ll stop.
But wait, what about those levels of craic?
Five years off the booze and I feel similar, happy to wake up refreshed every day instead of hungover, happy to remember my behavior of the night before. Looking better and feeling better and smelling better.
Like you, I don’t crave the booze any longer and I don’t expect to fall off the water wagon. But OTOH I did fall off several times before I was finally finished my best pal John Barlycorn so I don’t hang around bars (never drank much in bars anywhere, too expensive for the dedication boozer) and my few friends don’t drink so I’m not much tempted.
Booze is mentally and physically self disabling so I’m glad I don’t need it any longer. Cannabis is another story, an old buddy since age 17, the coughing and smoke following me through the years.
Unlike booze, half the people I know still smoke the very powerful California reefer, about 30% THC (30% of what?).
It works instantly for me, changing my mood to a better one every time and harder to quit than booze.
It is another self disabling drug but it fits my system like a key in a lock. However, my doctor tells me it is a stimulant and contraindicated if you suffer heart palpitations or high blood pressure.
So I quit it. Ha ha, I kid. I do smoke less and I did cut out the occasional experimental hashish (even worst coughing!) and edible gummies (never had a noticeable effect on me anyway).
But smoking the dried flowers is still stuck on me like mildew. OTOH if I can quit booze at at age 70 after 57 years of saucing, then I reckon I can get off pot eventually when I get around to it.
Today is my 74th birthday and I’m healthier and stronger than I’ve been in my life, and quitting alcohol (and the BP medicine Amlodipine) helped make it possible.
Now my short-time buddy the reefer is calling me so I’ll go smoke a bowl. 1968 is calling me: still no hope without dope, at least for now.
Congratulations on learning to type only one space after the period, old habits from high-school typing classes die hard.
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