Quarantine Diary Day 103: Peaches in the Summertime

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From the looks of it, things are getting better in Illinois. Testing for coronavirus is up. Case counts are dropping. The entire state is on track to move into phase four of the plan to restore Illinois, which is the final phase until we have a vaccine. We are cautiously optimistic. We are running errands but wearing masks, we are going to restaurants but sitting on the patio at tables six feet apart, we are letting the kids play but only outside. We are resigned to a summer without festivals, concerts, or sports. God willing, my daughter will go to day camp next month. I don’t want to overstate the positive. We have lost almost 7,000 people, and people are still dying every day. But the deaths are slowing and it feels like we’re turning a corner.

I’m not resting easy, though. With the recent surge in the southwest, I feel like the virus is getting closer to hitting where it hurts. I came to the midwest by way of the desert and the desert is where most of my family still lives. Most saliently, it’s where all of my older relatives live, including and especially the ones who will not appreciate being called “older relatives.” My grandma and my great uncle live in Phoenix. My parents live in Mesa. My in-laws live in Houston. They are all high risk.

My worry for my family isn’t unusual or new. We’re all worried about our older relatives. Since March, I’ve been troubled that state and local leaders in less densely packed states were apparently unwilling to make the same politically unpopular decisions that ours have in Illinois. Since March, I’ve been handling my daughter’s recurring nightmares about death by lying to her, reassuring her that her grandparents aren’t leaving the house unless they have to, aren’t seeing people outside their immediate families, and are religious about wearing masks, even though I have no basis for thinking that they are taking the same precautions on an individual level that we are taking in Illinois.

The rise in cases out west isn’t all that surprising. From my admittedly distant perspective, Arizona has basically been wide open since memorial day. From my admittedly biased perspective, it’s incredibly frustrating to hear about folks going to restaurants and churches and showers and parties and parties and bars. Make no mistake: I’m not frustrated because I want to do these things and can’t. I’m frustrated because other people don’t seem to get that they don’t have to do these things. There is a third way, a path between total lockdown and business as usual and we’re doing it in Illinois, which is what makes it hard to watch folks in other states throw up their hands and say, “Well, we tried!” As one science reporter put it: “There are ways to be responsible and socialize, but people don’t seem to be able to draw the line between what’s OK and what is not. For too many people, it seems to be binary — they are either on lockdown or taking no precautions.”

And look, I get it. As an ex-binge drinker, believe me, I get it. Moderation is a mindfuck. When I enjoyed my drinking I couldn’t control it and when I controlled my drinking I couldn’t enjoy it. What even is the point of two drinks? The aphorism isn’t limited to alcohol, either. I’m like this with everything! Food, shopping, television, the internet, cigarettes, sex, drugs, art, religion, other people. If it’s possible to derive pleasure from a thing, I want as much of it as I can get away with taking. This is how a 5k becomes a marathon, how a twenty-minute TV show becomes a Netflix binge, how a new acquaintance becomes an internet obsession, how a new single becomes a band’s entire back catalogue, how two squares of dark chocolate become a bag of Haribo and ice cream, how one Instagram post becomes three hours of scrolling. And you know changing the way I engage with the world feels impossible. It’s easier to just swear things off.

Peaches in the summertime, apples in the fall; if I can’t have you all the time, I don’t want none at all.

Here’s the thing, though. I can’t whittle my life down to one thin, virtuous core. Nobody can. It’s unsustainable. I had to cut my losses with the things that were killing me quickest in the order that I realized they were doing me in (drugs, cigarettes, booze) and figure out how to take a balanced, reasoned approach to the rest. It’s still a work in progress! But also–and this is key–completely doable. I can change the way I live. Life doesn’t have to be a series of wild swings between ego and id. I can suspend my personal desires, whatever they are–to eat at a restaurant, go to a friend’s house, hang around in a crowd of people sharing air without a mask on–to listen to somebody who might know more than me to help somebody who might need it more than me.

If a want monster (HT to my sister for that turn of phrase) can do these things, then you can too. You too can stay home for 103 days and not drink/eat/TV yourself to death. You can mask up at the grocery store. You can see your friends and your kids’ friends outside. You can do it even if your government isn’t forcing you to and when you see the death toll exploding you too can numb your despair with the smug satisfaction that comes with knowing at least you gave a damn.

Quarantine Diary Day 80: Every Black Life Matters

Last week, like a lot of white people I know, I dipped my toes into the murky pools of clicktavism, posting content and engaging people on social media as a means of showing that I support the Black Lives Matter movement and am anti-racist. Back in my progressive Mormon days, the internet was the primary locus of my activism, at least in regards to the church. As a woman, I didn’t have any real power to change the church, and as a feminist living far outside the Mormon corridor, the internet was critical to finding like-minded people. After leaving the church and especially after getting sober, I largely stopped acting like an activist online. I didn’t know how to engage political causes on social media without triggering a cascade of character defects–self-centeredness, self-importance, insincerity, intolerance, and anger–so I stopped, stayed silent, and told myself I was protecting my sobriety. Of course, my silence was ego-driven, too, insofar as it shielded me from guilt and criticism over saying the wrong thing, and served to calcify my perfectionism apathy.

Last week, like a lot of white people I know, I cracked. That’s when I did all the things I’d sworn off in sobriety. I shared articles on Facebook and got all lit up when I saw my notification count go up. I talked about race and politics with family. I debated and disagreed. It didn’t feel like an emotional relapse. It felt like freedom from the bondage of self, that thing I plead for every morning with the third-step prayer. I didn’t get sober that I could languish in the land of self-help and healing and surface-level spirituality. I got sober so I could suit up and show up and live life on life’s terms.

Living life on life’s terms is a messy business it turns out. The demonstration in Evanston this weekend wasn’t messy–it was as impressively-organized an event as I’ve ever been too–but the world is. When I was in law school, I participated in a clinic that represented juveniles–kids–facing criminal charges. Our first client was young–fifteen I think, with a bag of skittles in his pocket–and facing charges of assault and attempted homicide of a police officer, though nobody was hurt. It was a hard case, with no witnesses except the police, and no evidence except the gun that the police claimed to have recovered while chasing our client down. The charges were trumped up and there was heaps of reasonable doubt but I remember hating that there had been a gun. It would just be so much easier if there wasn’t a gun. My client went on to get a sentence that would see him turning sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one in detention. I went on to graduate from law school and accept an offer from a prestigious law firm, where I learned that all the cases–civil, criminal, family, immigration–are hard. The easy cases settle out, often before lawyers even get involved.

The reason I want my cases to be easy is not because I can’t handle the legal issues. I like the challenge of a complicated set of facts and a nuanced body of law. I want my cases to be straightforward because it’s easier to defend people that are above reproach. I don’t mean it’s easier to sleep at night; I sleep fine. I mean, literally, it’s easier to tell stories about perfect people than it is to tell stories about people who are flawed. It’s harder to talk about people who are real.

But we are not saints. I’ve been writing publicly about my mess for a decade and it only makes people love me more. Maybe that’s because I write about it in a way that makes me seem reformed. I’m not. I scream at my daughter. I seethe with jealousy at my neighbors and friends. The other white people I got sober with have been liars, cheats, thieves, abusers, manipulators, and criminals. Rapists and racists. White people did those things and no one thinks we deserve to die. Our lives matter, flawed and fucked up as they are.

Black lives matter, too. I’m talking about real Black lives and Black lives as they really are. Black people deserve to be as complicated and complicit and bad as your favorite white anti-hero and still be fundamentally worthy, valued, and good. They deserve to be seen as mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, children, friends, neighbors, artists, leaders, business owners, enthusiasts, gardners, comedians, smart alecks, intellectuals, church goers, strivers, do-gooders, and change-makers. I believe, and some of the people who read by writing probably believe that Black people are children of God.

As the eminent Roxane Gay pleaded on Sunday, white people “demand perfection as the price for black existence while harboring no such standards for anyone else.”

Perfection doesn’t exist. Black people are flawed and fully human, just like you. Stop demanding perfection before they deserve your empathy and regard.

Quarantine Diary Day 77: How To Stay Sober In A Pandemic (Part 2)

Bandanna Mask

I had all kinds of contingency plans when I first started trying to get sober. I’d drink if my husband left me. I’d drink of he cheated. I’d drink if my daughter became gravely ill. I’d drink if I lost my parents. I’d drink if I lost my job. I’d drink if my sponsor drank. I never planned for what’s happening now. I had no “I’d drink if the entire world turns upside down and the schools shut down and I can’t go to work or church or meetings and I have no idea when I’ll see my grandma, parents, siblings, nieces, nephews, or in-laws again” loophole, though if I’d known what was coming I certainly would have considered it bad enough to drink over.

Well, now it’s happening and, yes, a drink sounds better to me today than it did three months ago, but I know that even if I want to drink, I don’t have to. I’m one of the lucky ones. When society shut down to contain the killer disease, I might have done the same thing if I didn’t have my own killer disease. The thing about alcoholism is that I already know how to treat it, and when I do what I’m supposed to, I not only don’t drink, but I’m also relieved of the fear that might otherwise take me down.

I went 1,504 days without alcohol in the free world and another 77 under lockdown. Here’s what worked for me:

Maintain Your Routines

The first thing I did when I started working with a therapist was institute an evening routine with a strict bedtime and good sleep hygiene (no screens!). The first thing I did when I started working with a sponsor was adopt a morning routine with an early wake-up call and practices that are good for my body, mind, soul. The first thing I did when the pandemic hit was throw both routines out the window! For a week, I stayed up late eating ice cream and watching TV and scrolling scrolling scrolling and for a week I slept in skipping morning prayer, meditation, writing, and workouts. I thought I deserved the break to compensate for everything else I was losing in the moment, but I felt terrible, physically, mentally, and spiritually. It took talking it over with my therapist to understand how beneficial maintaining routines can be in times of crisis, but once I brought them back (albeit with a little more time to sleep built in) I felt a lot better. I still eat ice cream a lot of nights but I’m not having panic attacks anymore.

Try Something New 

During the first week of quarantine I didn’t have access to AA meetings. If groups were meeting in-person or online, I didn’t know about it. So I took what I could find. I saw an advertisement for an online sobriety support group hosted by a sober influencer and I signed up for it, even though I’m wildly skeptical of most influencers. The meeting was totally unlike any other I’d ever been to. The host read poems and led us in meditation. The invited speaker shared a wild yet totally relatable story about getting off opiates with physical fitness and without working the steps or going to meetings. After an hour, I felt at peace, connected, and hopeful about the prospect of staying sober in a strange new world.

Ditch What Doesn’t Work

During that first week of quarantine I also signed up for two email-based AA groups, which are essentially listservs that members can use to read and share messages relating to sobriety at their convenience. I was overjoyed when I was admitted to the groups quickly and thought the format would be perfect for me since, at that time, I was spending most of my days at work and all of my free time battling lice and reading live news updates. Within days I received dozens of welcome emails from other sober women and I felt instantly buoyed by their support. One message took me by surprise, though. The woman said she hoped I’d stick around long enough to see what a great group it was. I scratched my head, and not just because of the lice. I’d mentioned in my intro email that I’m not new to the program. Why wouldn’t I stick around? A few days later, I understood. There were just too many emails. I couldn’t keep up with all the new women coming in and the old women sharing out. I couldn’t follow a thread of conversation or an individual email address long enough to feel connected to either the message or another person. I tried filtering all the emails into separate folders to check later but ended up feeling guilty for ignoring them. As soon as I realized the groups were making me feel worse instead of better. Within a few weeks I found myself asking to be removed from both groups. I made amends to the administrators for taking up their time, but felt no guilt upon leaving. If I didn’t find a meeting, it wouldn’t be because I didn’t try.

Go To A Zoom Meeting

It took a minute, but the alcoholics finally got on Zoom. It took another minute for me to find them, but I finally did. Now I have access to meetings every day of the week any time of day. I can go to meetings anywhere in the world! Apparently this is a terrific feature for sober alcoholics who are well-traveled, which I am not. I am meeting virtually with the group that was my first home group, where I got my first phone numbers, met my sponsor, made my first friends, first stuck my hand up, first shared my story, and celebrated by first, second, and third sober anniversaries. They only meet ten or so miles away in downtown Chicago, but I haven’t seen them since I moved my law practice up to Evanston and seeing them again was like stepping out into a spring day after a long, miserable midwestern winter. Folks who were shipping off to rehab and struggling to string more than ten days together a few years ago are celebrating anniversaries now. Folks with decades of sobriety are still around. Virtual meetings are one of the greatest pleasures of quarantine, and I hope they stick around even when the restrictions lift. Message me if you need help finding one.

Reach Out

In quarantine, I’ve mourned the loss of my support networks–my group of mom friends, my church community, folks from my twelve-step meetings. I’ve thrown myself many pity parties over the fact that most of my friendships haven’t transcended past the level of hanging out in an organized group setting. I wondered why nobody from the neighborhood or church or AA was calling me. I didn’t have to wonder too long before I realized that lots of people had called (and texted and emailed) in the months before the pandemic and, er, I hadn’t called them back. Shit. I needed to make some tenth step amends. I called one friend who I’d blown off and then another and then I started texting anybody I hadn’t heard from in awhile on the theory that they might be as lonely and freaked out as I was. I apologized when it was called for and didn’t when it wasn’t. Nobody held a grudge or acted like it was weird that I was reaching out after so long. Instead, I had a bunch of great conversations. I also started taking evening walks and calling a different family member every night. I’m close with my family but, with the exception of my mom, don’t call any of them unless it’s a special occasion. In the last few months I’ve spoken to my grandma, my brothers, my sister, and my mom more than I did in the entire preceding year. I still feel lonely, and I still hate that I can’t see anyone, but I know I’m not alone, not really.

Be of Service

In my old life, I found plenty of ways to be useful in my community. I made sack lunches with my daughter at church. I volunteered in the soup kitchen. I chaired AA meetings. In my new life, it’s almost impossible for me to be physically of service to anyone except my immediate family and I’m not spiritually mature enough to find peace in picking up my daughters toys or unloading the dishwasher or folding the laundry for the millionth goddamn time. Of course, the greatest act of service I can perform now is to stay at home and reduce the chances that I will be a vector for this disease. You don’t need me to tell you that. But I will say that reminding myself that none of this is to protect myself and my family and all of it is for the greater does make staying home a hell of a lot less depressing. I wish I had a long list of examples of other ways I’ve found to be of service over the last few months but I don’t. I can count them on one hand. I shared information about meetings with other alcoholics. I donated money to a few organizations. I gave away toilet paper (that I had HOARDED). These things are so insignificant they wouldn’t be worth mentioning except that in each instance they shifted something in me enough to pull me out of some of the darkest places I’ve ever been. If something as small as donating $5 to a mental health organization for a friend’s birthday fundraiser can ward off suicidal thoughts for me, imagine what a little service could do for you.

Remember You Are More Than Your Addiction

In my case, I am also my anxiety and depression and trauma! I wish this wasn’t the case, but one positive aspect of quarantine is that I’ve had time and opportunity to explore and heal other aspects of my mental health. With the time saved from not commuting and fewer AA meetings and a bit of a slowdown at work, I am able to attend weekly therapy sessions for the first time in my life, and thanks to changes in the healthcare system in response to the pandemic, I can access my sessions via telemedicine and they are covered by my insurance. It’s not fun work by any means, but it’s productive, and if I stick with it I stand to come out of this quagmire healthier than I went in.

Start A Gratitude Practice

I write a list of five things every day. I do it in the morning before I start work. Here is a list of five things I am grateful for about quarantine:

  1. Listening to windchimes while I work from home.
  2. Wearing housecoats and slippers.
  3. Watching birds (and actually learning the names of the birds of the state I’ve lived in for a decade).
  4. Masking with bandanas and feeling like a badass old-timey train robber.
  5. Eating homemade food for every meal.

Writing things down helps me see my life is good, which means I am less apt to throw it away.

Get A Hobby

When I tell my story at AA meetings, I usually say that the first thing I did when I decided to quit drinking for good was get my ass to a meeting. That’s only sort of true. I went to an AA meeting on my second full day of sobriety, not my first. The first day, I went to an art museum, and I made or looked at art as often as possible for the first year of my sobriety while I was still working out how I felt about AA. Getting sober was like waking up, and art gave me something worth waking up for.

Art saved me again a year later. When all my friends were losing their minds after the 2016 election and after Trump took office, I unsubscribed from all the lefty political podcasts and lost myself in words. I had always been a reader as a kid but I lost the capacity to concentrate on a novel when I became a drinker. In sobriety, I recovered the love of reading and books gave me a way to escape the world for a little while without losing myself.

Art is saving me again now. There is so much time and only so much TV to watch. I pass the hours listening to music, dancing, playing guitar. I’m learning to watercolor. Art is opening up a whole world inside my own house.

Know This Won’t Last Forever

As the world is reshaping itself around me and I am resituating myself in response, my relationship with my sobriety is changing. Sobriety was once the solid center that held my life together. It doesn’t feel that way anymore. It feels less important, less inspired, more fragile. But I know that won’t always be the case. In this time we have lost so much, individually and collectively. I don’t know what the world will look like when we come out of this, and I don’t know what I will have lost, but I know I will regret it if I lose this thing I’ve worked so hard for. Let’s not lose more than we have to.

***

Many of the last 77 days have been difficult and all of them have been long. But one of these days we won’t have to count days anymore. In the meantime, counting days is only torture when you’re doing it alone. Together, it’s a triumph.

Quarantine Diary Day 76: What If I Did Drink?

Why does an alcoholic drink? I don’t know, why does a fish swim? Because booze is like water? Like air? After four years of sobriety, I mostly don’t think about drinking but the want resurfaces from time to time for reasons that are myriad and varied. Sometimes I’m anxious and want to relax. Sometimes I’m lonely and want to fit in. Sometimes I’m bored and want to be a little wild. Sometimes I want to drink for no reason at all. 

During the pandemic, I’m finding all new reasons to want to drink. They aren’t the ones you might think. It’s not the other moms raising a glass at wine o’clock on Facebook or the New York Times reminding me in every goddamn morning briefing that good wine is my birthright, or something, that make me antsy. It’s not the promise of delivery to my door in an hour or less. I know what it’s like to get drunk at home by myself and it’s not pretty or fun. 

The reasons, like a good drink, are more subtle, nuanced, and complex. The reasons, like a good drink, are strong enough to drag me under. 

The world is so different now. I’m so different now. Can’t I just have a glass of wine? Can’t this one thing go back to normal? I know normal is an illusion. Normal was never on the list of words I’d use to describe my drinking. It’s never happened before, but I guess I’m wishing I could drink and get a different outcome.

At the same time, in this great unmooring from the way things were, I want the same outcome. I want to drink and I want it to end badly. I know what to do when I hit rock bottom. I know exactly where to go, and I know what I will find when I get there. Open arms. Healing. Answers. Quitting drinking, asking for help, it all made me feel so much better. Can’t I just do it all over again? Maybe do it better this time? Can’t I take a break from standing on my own two feet and lean on the group for awhile? Can’t I take a break from worrying about my family and the world and take care of myself? I guess I’m wishing I could fall off the wagon and climb right back on again. 

I shouldn’t be writing this post. Talking about relapse makes people uneasy, the people I love, and the people in my program of recovery. It scares me too. When I think about the options–I take a drink and everything’s fine or a take a drink and everything goes to shit–I’m not sure what scares me more. If I’m cured, I lose a big piece of my identity. If everything’s not fine, and the relapse stories are to be believed, I might not be lucky enough to hit bottom on this side of the ground. I might lose it all. 

The outcome that actually scares me the most is the one that lands somewhere in the middle of these two scenarios. I have three or four drinks and get pissy at my husband. I scroll too much on my phone, send a few sketchy texts. I go to bed and wake up sick with shame, with anxiety, with myself. I make myself a promise it’s done. And then I do it all over again and it’s Groundhog Day for the next ten years. This, of course, is the most likely result. This is the real nightmare. 

Quarantine Diary Day 62: Yes, Still

As other states start to open up while Illinois residents remain under a stay-at-home order through the end of May, I’m starting to field questions from my friends and family in less densely populated areas.

  • “You’re still working from home?”
  • “You’re still getting your groceries delivered?”
  • “You’re still homeschooling?”
  • “You don’t think you’ll want to travel this summer?”

The questions are new, but the sentiment–“Is this all really still necessary?” & “Don’t you think you’re taking things a little too far?”–is not. It’s the same tone people take when they find out that I still go to AA meetings after years of sobriety.

  • “You’re still doing that AA thing?”
  • “You still go to how many meetings a week?”
  • “Exactly how long does it take to work the steps?”
  • “You haven’t had a drink in how long?”

Though the questions are different, the answer is the same.

  • Yes, I’m still sheltering-in-place/going to meetings. We’re talking about a deadly disease. As long as it’s still out there, I’m going to do what it takes to keep people safe, and I’m not just talking about myself.

Speaking of deadly diseases, some of the questions people are asking about coronavirus are the same questions I reckoned with when I first started trying to get sober:

  • How bad is this really?
  • How long is this going to last?
  • Will things ever go back to normal?

As it turns out, the answers are the same whether we’re talking about the coronavirus or alcoholism:

  • It’s bad.
  • It’s going to last a long time.
  • Your life will never be the same again.

It’s not all bad news, though. If tearing down and rebuilding my whole life taught me anything it’s that we’re going to come out of this better than we were before.

Quarantine Diary Day 41

Pre-pre-pre-quarantine, I lived in a prison of my own making. As is always the case with prisons of our own making, I had the keys, two sets in fact, to two different doors. One door had a sign on it that said “Keep drinking.” I really wanted to open that door. It was sleek and shiny and papered in notes that said, “Get it, girl!” and “You’ve got this!” and “Everybody else is doing it!” I knew exactly what was on the other side of that door. First a warm and fuzzy welcome home party, then a black tunnel, then death (“then prison/then the madhouse/then the grave“). The other door said “Stop now,” and looked like it would open into a house in the suburbs in the desert of my youth. It looked like my parents’ front door. In other words, worse than death. I wanted nothing to do with it. I had no idea what was on the other side.
Some four and a quarter years ago, I opened the boring door. Counterintuitively, I started counting days when I left the prison. I guess it took me a long time to realize I was free.
There are a lot of people to worry about right now: the dying, the grieving, the at-risk, the sick, the starving, the stretched, and the scared. Right up at the very top of my list are the people who are counting days. The people who were trying like hell to get sober when the rug of their lives was ripped out from under them. The people who are trying like hell to stay sober without support. The people who are bottoming out right now or who will in the coming months. The people for whom sobriety still looks like a black cloud on the horizon, a fate worse than death. These are my people–the ones who are now living in prisons inside of of prisons, who are isolated in isolation, who are trying to shelter inside the storm.
The good news: I’m pretty sure we still have all the keys. We just need some help finding them, and each other. You don’t have to leave your house or your prison to find a sober alcoholic who will help you. We’re everywhere.

…And I appreciate that winter

long pointless drives, late at night
talk of better lives, light and physics.
My favorite friend always seemed to see
the particles like I did
and we hoped their patterns wouldn’t change.
I hoped that sobriety would last.

And I appreciate that winter
maybe for its lack of gray
colder air blew clear and crisp between
bars of light, far beneath a pristine sky.
Daytime drives with my dad and
talk of school plans, and John Prine’s guitar.
I hoped my playing would impress him.

And I appreciate that winter
in a final sort of way.
Elliott Smith kept time for me
those days I liked staring at the ceiling
watching shadows and the fan
vaguely spin and move my things around.
I hoped their images would not fade.

Day 1,460

FOUR YEARS sober today. Not drinking isn’t hard anymore. That wasn’t always the case. For years, not drinking was impossible. Then, for many long months, it was excruciatingly difficult. Now it’s easy. Life isn’t easy, but not drinking is. Here’s the thing I didn’t know, though. Life is better now. I thought a sober life would be the most boring. But it’s not! Quitting the thing I thought I loved the most opened the door to having all the things I actually love the most. Peace of mind. A happy family. Solid friendships. A job I love. Hobbies! I don’t think not drinking makes you a better person. (Though if you’re anything like me it might. Booze/drugs had a way of making me lie/cheat/fight/steal/hurt/generally annoy everyone around me.) I didn’t quit drinking to become a better person. I quit because I wanted a better life. And I got it! I’m not here to convert you though. I’m here because for years and years I thought I was the only Mormon girl who couldn’t stop drinking and the only party girl who hated herself in the morning and my whole world opened up when I realized I wasn’t alone. If the last four years have taught me anything it’s that neither are you, whatever your thing is.

Girl Paces In Front Of A Dispensary

Legal weed finally made its way to Illinois. It’s not cool to talk about this like it’s a big deal, to admit that it changes anything. Everybody I know who gets high was smoking or vaping or eating edibles in Illinois was doing it before January 1, 2020. Most everybody I know who doesn’t get high continues to have little interest in doing so in the new year, notwithstanding the change in legal status. In my life, over the last year or so, the subject of the impending legalization came up reliably, in tones of anticipation both eager and afraid, in only two places. The first was the local news articles I obsessively searched out on the internet, covering politicians eager for tax dollars and other politicians afraid of slippery slopes. The second was the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, where people insisted in hushed tones that the new law didn’t change anything in terms of their sobriety while simultaneously admitting that it just might test their commitment because while the traditions tell us to limit our comments in meetings to our problems with alcohol, the truth is that a lot of us also really liked pot.

For almost a year, as long as J.B. Pritzker has been governor and recreational weed has been on the horizon, I’ve assumed I would get high. Before that, I occasionally looked into the requirements to get a permit to use it medicinally for, I dunno, my near-constant TMJD pain? My occasionally crippling anxiety? But alas, the list of qualifying medical conditions in Illinois is short and restrictive and I (blessedly, truly, because the conditions are severe) didn’t have any of them. Once the January 1 deadline was locked in, I stopped trolling the internet in the name of research because there was no longer any question about it: I was definitely going to partake.

I have not shared this with anyone. How can I, after almost four years of complete sobriety? Fine, almost complete. I ate one useless cannabis gummy on vacation in Colorado in 2018, but I haven’t had a sip of alcohol or swallowed a pill since January 30, 2016. Getting high, even legally, would be a big deal for me. Even before I quit drinking, it had been almost a decade since I smoked pot. The last time was in 2007, I think, in Tucson, under circumstances that I am both embarrassed and afraid to put in print (some things are better left for my fifth step or, let’s be real, my memoir). Even before that, I hadn’t been smoking regularly for awhile. I quit when I started dating the man who is now my husband in 2005. He is not a fan of pot, or drugs in general, or maybe he just wasn’t a fan of me on drugs. We only got high together once, or rather, I got high in front of him at Coachella and that trip culminated in me seeing barely any bands, missing the headliners to hang out in the medical tent, and, on the last day, smoking a joint that I picked up off the ground in the EDM tent and freaking out in full-blown paranoia the likes of which I’d never experienced before. Pot, for me, had always been just fun.

When I quit daily smoking and got a little distance from the drug, my life changed in such a dramatic way that it became hard for me to see pot like I used to, as harmless. In the course of less than a year, I transformed from being severely depressed–wholly unmotivated and lethargic on my best days and suicidal on my worst–to happy more days than not and, weirdly, ambitious. I applied for internships and part-time jobs and scholarships and eventually law school. I built a career, and a family with the man I quit for. Would I have done these things if I hadn’t quit? Maybe, eventually, though it’s hard to picture how that would have happened when the only thing I cared about was getting stoned. It’s even harder to picture how my life would have come together when the harder I chased feeling good the more my life unraveled.

So, why I am thinking about picking up now, after all these years, knowing how good I have it, and how lucky I am to have it? That one’s easy. I loved getting high. Specifically, I loved a marijuana high. After opiate addiction, drinking never satisfied me, but weed did. Or, I think it did? As I sit here, writing this out, I am transported to my last night in my dorm room freshman year, where I holed up for 12? 18? 24? hours smoking bowl after bowl, trying to pack my suitcases and clean my room and watching Magnolia on repeat, getting nowhere close to where I wanted to go. Cut to the house on Elm Street, where I hit the pipe before bed every night and still had to chase it down with half a bottle of NyQuil. Flash forward and back to all the nights I planned to just smoke a little weed and ended up out of my mind drunk and high careening around the house pissing off my roommates, falling down in the neighborhood, scaring men away, driving down major roads with no lights, getting pulled over with a stash and a cloud of smoke in my car and jumping out and charging the cop and only walking away with my life and no record because of the color of my skin.

Can I honestly say that marijuana was fine for me? That it mellowed me out? That it was anything but blood in the water for the hungry beast in my brain?

So, why do I still want to get high, knowing what it does to me, knowing what it could do to my life. Part of it is that, unlike with alcohol, I never got to the point that I wanted to stop. I “quit” when I fell in love with a man who was not compatible with my drug habit. I quit for real when I moved across the country for law school. I quit, but I never wanted to.

So, recreational weed has been legal in Illinois for seven days, and I’ve been back in town after traveling over the holidays for four, and there is a dispensary that is mere blocks from my home, steps from my office. I know the hours (they are annoying, 10:00 am to 2:00 pm), I know what they sell and I know what I’d buy. So why haven’t I done it yet, when I want to so badly.

I’m afraid.

I’m not afraid of losing my sobriety. I’m not afraid of jeopardizing my marriage or my job. I’m not afraid I will like the drug way too much and go overboard like I did back then or of not liking it enough and feeling like I threw away my four years for nothing.

I’m afraid of losing my sanity, my grip on this life. I’m afraid of psychosis. I know, that sounds so over-the-top, so uncool. When I was working the steps with a sponsor, she liked to point out that I might not have had gotten into trouble every time I drank, but every time I got in trouble I was drunk. Apply that to drugs and it goes something like, I might not have lost my mind every time I got high, but every time I lost my damn mind, I was pretty damn high. The last handful of times I smoked, after I knew it wasn’t good for me or my relationships, I was a mess. Back in 2015, when I was trying to quit drinking and doing weird things like huffing household chemicals, I inhaled my way into a dissociative panic attack that lasted a week and feared would last forever and I never want to feel that way again. Then there’s that anxiety and depression, which I manage for the most part pretty well, but are with me always and can still spin out of control. I’ve heard it said that the fears about cannabis-induced psychosis are overblown, that it’s only a concern for people who are predisposed to schizophrenia or who are mentally fragile. I may not be the former, but I don’t know, and I may not seem like the latter, but I do know that my mental health is a finicky finely-tuned thing, and my experience with alcoholism tells me that my body is one of those that cannot use certain substances safely, even when it seems like everyone else can.

I value my sanity, my mind, my health over everything. Will I do what I know it takes to protect myself from myself?