How do you do maintain your sobriety through the tough parts? She asked me pointedly, with a drunken slur that cut quick and dirty; sharp, rusty razors rife with reminders of what I once succumbed to in similarly desperate moments.

I’m not totally sure, I answered. However, I believe I’ve transposed my desire to drink in what was a futile effort at maintaining a semblance of control into a fervid need to NOT drink, in an effort to preserve that very same control.

I’m not sure that’s the whole truth but it’s certainly part of it. I prefer to have control over myself, over my behavior, and over what is ultimately my life. When I discovered that drinking was simply a reflection of the contrary, it became clear to me that it had no place in the clutter.

But still, I struggle. Day by day sometimes. And at others the time stretches between the struggles are longer, depending on what is going on in my life.

These days it’s minute by minute.

I sat and listened to her after I’d answered the question, listened to the sadness and the questioning punctuated by genuinely heartfelt sentiments, all highlighted by the haze of booze. And I understood.

Being in our bodies can be challening, can’t it? Existing inside ourselves, sensing every single drop of blood as it runs screaming through our veins, threatening, it can seem, to stop abruptly before it decides willfully to carry on. I feel as if I am floating. Blood is my mode of transport, frothy bubbles that wash me to my next destination, toward all the places I am supposed to be present for, but can’t help but approach through myopic lenses – waking up in the morning, showering, making breakfast for my daughter, taking her to school, doing work, contending with school assignments I can’t concentrate on and and a cat who has decided that a litter box is superfluous.

But such is life inside our bodies.

I want to control my body when in fact what I need to do is listen to it. Listen to the wave of sensation it sends through the stream, listen when it tells me that drinking is a bad idea even though goddam it sure would take the fucking edge off, and most importantly, listen when it says, You’re okay.

Which is exactly what happened this afternoon. The conversation I participated in, with this sweet woman I’ve known since my birth, and for whom drinking has also been a struggle, reminds me that, really? I am okay. We are all okay, after all.

We just don’t always know it, do we?

I stood peering at myself in the mirror, wondering if I looked the same as I did the last time he saw me, three years ago.

Nah, I thought, I actually look better!

When I’d lived there in California I had been the quintessential party girl. He knew me as that free-spirited, unrestrained, kindafuckedup woman. Since then, getting sober has pulled me together – it helped me drop a considerable amount of weight, compelled me to stop smoking and allowed me the energy to get to the gym regularly. I am three years older, yes, but I definitely look better now than I did back then.

Plus, I’ve learned who I am which means that I am comfortable in my body. Grounded, rooted even, inside of it.

Well … usually, anyway.

He had seen me the day before. We’d had lunch and as he sat across the wide, black-laquered table from me, it was clear that he was appreciative of my appearance. But he hadn’t seen me unclothed, exposed, vulnerable, wanting. He had yet to unwrap the package of me, and relish gifts of comfort, diversion, satisfaction. And while we certainly had a past, what had once been between us had fallen, unnoticed, by the wayside; littered remnants of sweet but distant memories. The possibility that lie between us existed inside a quiet hotel room across town.

My phone lit up – Here, his text read.

I collected my purse and walked out the door towards his car. We made small talk on the way to the Hilton, about what I don’t remember, it is a bit of a blur. I do remember that the receptionist at the hotel didn’t blink when I asked for a day use room, maybe because I have reached a point in my life where the possibility that a hotel clerk might think I’m a slut has become wholly inconsequential to me, and so my confidence in asking for a room to fuck in for the day has reached its utmost peak.

Plus I was beyond horny.

Beyond.

We took our time getting to the room. Slowly we walked from the elevator down the hallway, he holding my hand behind his back in a gesture of temporary ownership. It is his style to go slow in the beginning, let the moments build upon each other in fevered anticipation of what might be next. It is also his style to lay temporary claim to me during the time that we are together, a practice to which I completely conform. Happily even. And it didn’t take long to recognize that we had come together completely empty-handed – no vibrators, no dildos, no booze, no weed, no ties, no blindfold, no lube. Condoms were our only accoutrement, and they, like sweet memories, went unnoticed.

Almost.

Inside that hotel room, the one across town, occurred a primal blur of bodies, steeped in longing so deep that it bordered upon compulsion.

You are absolutely perfect. With you I will fill my cup, he whisper-spit at me in one sweet breath, laden with greed, tinged white-hot with need. He took me then, made me his – in one motion flipped me violently onto my back and threw my legs with a grasp so tight my eyes stung, up towards the flat-white ceiling; thick, drenched tongue found my cunt after it ran primitively down the entire side of my body. My sigh, the sigh that wrote more than words could ever render, was audible. Palpable even.

I had returned.

The blur continued through to the afternoon. Cups were filled. Giving was taken, received, spit out like watermelon seeds seeking solace in the soil. And taking what was given? That was a given.

It was, after all was said and done, the most perfect afternoon – a splendid combination of worship and abuse.

What more could one ask for after a three year absence?

The fact is that I never did.

But I got exactly what I wanted anyway.

Changing our tried and true relationship dynamic, one that functioned well for many many years, is, I’m finding out, a bit like excavating a dying tree. The blighted tree might have served as a habitat or even a food source for birds, insects and other creatures (just as our dying relationship accommodated and fed our mutual enmeshment and enabling,) but the dead tree eventually decomposes, becoming part of the soil.

Scott and I were on our way to becoming part of the soil. Dirt. Ashes. Rot.

So here we are, trying desperately to pull the tree out from its roots so that we can plant a new one. A new tree with the capacity to flourish, given our equal attention, without the blighted contamination, and with the tender care that comes from respect and nurturing. Respect and nurturing of ourselves as well as each other.

Scott realized I had been stifling him, controlling his capacity for growth. It made him feel small. Let me go, he asked, let me be free to find out who I am and I will offer you the same. I obliged, although this didn’t initially sit well with me. He was asking for the space to live his life in a way he never had before, and he, in turn, would give me mine. But I have my freedom, you see? I am a tree that has been allowed to grow, and will continue to. My freedom was granted me the moment I pried my lips away from silver, glistening intoxicants, the ones that represented cheerful celebration, and as I bid goodbye to pungent burgundy elixir and dry, white contentment that had allowed me sweet repose.

I needed something different from Scott’s freedom. But I hadn’t identified it until just today. When, as it had for Scott, clarity descended upon me.

The conundrum of clarity is that, while it is eventually beneficial, if utilized properly, it is followed by the need to proceed in a different direction. Which means that there is then more work to do than what was required to arrive at the clarity in the first place.

This is us trying to see clearer.

What is important to me is respect and consideration -two things I am very often denied and which plays itself out in the area of our open relationship- as is a boundary, one that will give me security that his relationship with his other partner and my relationship with him are two separate entities. For example – text messages with her when he and I are out on a date, or holding arguments with her while he and I are meant to be taking part in a family holiday is, to me, grievously disrespectful of that boundary. It’s inconsiderate. I am happy to give him his freedom if I am afforded what is important to me – respect and consideration of how I feel, and respect and consideration of this very simple boundary.

We will see how it all unfolds. Like the tree that has died and is beginning to mold, to decay, creating fungus and bacteria, so too was our marriage. These agreements are hopefully, simple methods of replanting. This is our way of pulling the fucking tree out from its roots.

But like dynamics, root systems are deeply planted.

Which means we are going to have to work very hard to make sure we get our dying tree all cleaned, and cleared, up.

It’s been a challenging couple of weeks. Simply living is sometimes challenging, this I know. I mean, we all do, right? I also know that I can plug away, full fucking steam, at many projects at once, get all sorts of shit done in small spaces of time, and still have energy left over at the end of the day. But when an emotional component is added to that mix, hovering ominously over my long list of “to do’s,” my body and my mind threaten -desperately- to shift into complete and total shut down.

It’s why I drank. Because drinking allowed me the emotions without the weight of them. Booze coddled emotion’s effects, floated them like a shot of Grand Manier in a Top Shelf Margarita.

And that is why, when I am having difficulty managing my emotions -as has been the case in the last couple of weeks as Scott and I collectively sift through our relationship with the help of a therapist and a pair of hopeful, open minds- I sometimes can’t help but think,

Fuck, a drink sounds good right about now.

Really, it makes me emotional typing those words, even more so than actually considering them. Writing them gives The Thought credence in a way that I dislike, almost gives the statement a power that it was masking when they were simply words hidden in the shadows of my feeble mind. Having a drink does sound good, if I really think about it. If I purposefully conjure up the feeling I would get at the end of a long day and a drink assisted me in putting it to rest. That first sip? Serenity in my throat; the weightlessness that would descend as soon as the potent elixir hit my stomach, buoyantly taking it’s free pass through my unsuspecting blood brain barrier. Yeah, I could go for that feeling right about now.

But I won’t.

Instead I will allow The Thought to present itself, thank it for visiting and send it on its way. If it decides to stick around, I suppose it can. It probably will. The Thought is like an ambulance chaser, waiting at the collision’s scene before it’s even occurred. And since Scott and I will continue to collide, forevermore, I suspect The Thought will, at least occasionally, present itself for a long time to come.

So, I guess that learning how to navigate around The Thought is just another thing I will be adding to my list of things “to do”.

As I sat across from my new therapist this afternoon in a comfortable, oversized chair – two hands folded primly in my lap, lower lip held hostage by my teeth – I listened intently as she outlined the ways in which alcohol wreaks absolute havoc upon relationships. It creates a barrier to intimacy, she told me softly yet definitively, and as I nodded my head in agreement I felt that familiar sting behind my eyes.

I blinked.

I’m sure this is nothing I didn’t know on some level, but I’d never thought of it in those exact terms. As she spoke, twenty five years of drunken memories took the form of an animated flip-book in my mind, beginning with my first drink at age 15, flashing quickly forward through the pain of adolescence and the burdens of early adulthood, each phase of which I drifted through in heedless Bohemian fashion, drink in hand most of the way. But almost as soon as the theater in my mind had begun, it stopped… and on the one thing I’d actually worked very hard to get right, in fact fought tooth and fucking nail to bring to successful culmination, despite the fact that I’d had no positive modeling on which to go by – the raising of my daughter.

Because intimacy barriers pervaded the landscape of my childhood household – we were vast, emotionless shadows deftly disguised as contented souls – I have done my damnedest to keep from constructing that all-to-familiar framework of my childhood. Each time I have felt the pull to throw one of those barriers up, I have understood that the boundary it would create is nothing short of toxic and damaging. And so I have for the last ten years attempted to identify any obstructions that might exist (now or ever) between my daughter and me.

It looks as if I’d missed one.

And fuck if that doesn’t kill me to think about.

But… it gives me something to think about.

Yes, I am sure I have allowed alcohol be a barrier of some kind with respect to every single one of my relationships, including the ones whose basis were formed on drinking itself. We think that a drink brings people together, and in some ways it does. I know that there are things I’ve done and experiences I’ve had that were probably positively enhanced by a good stiff drink or two. For instance, I was a shy kid, but alcohol and it’s ability to disinhibit me helped me learn how to talk to just about anyone. But in retrospect, in the grand scheme of my particular life, the destructiveness pretty much outweighs the empowerment.

But I know it now. I suppose that’s what matters. As I move forward in my introspection, I hope I’ll be able to identify other barriers to intimacy, perhaps ones that I still have to overcome. In fact, there is this one other thing that my new therapist has identified as something she thinks is a barrier to intimacy, and while I am sure there are angles of her theory worth considering, I am fairly certain that it’s not quite as black and white as she thinks it is. The barrier to intimacy of which she speaks?

Open Marriage.

I think it’s going to be an interesting journey with her.

Once upon a time, not that long ago really, when Hubby would go away for any period of time, I would arrange for myself, and well in advance, a playdate or two… or seven. And if my sexytimes didn’t get scheduled in advance, I’d scramble to create something for myself to do – or rather someone for myself to do – an activity partner to fill the  abandoned space of Hubby’s absence; a personal void-filler with a cock.

Yes, in literal and figurative terms.

But I realized today that  I’ve been husband-less since Thursday night (and will continue to be for another seven days,) and that I have no one else in my life at the moment who could come over to absorb that void. Well, that’s not completely true. I did, in fact extend an invitation for someone I know to come over one night this week (in advance, even!) but he was unavailable.

But that’s not the point.

The point is that, after my invitation was turned down, I made the decision to spend the 10 days that Hubby is gone all on my own, without a person or a cock to bide my empty time… or fill me up. And this is okay.

And that’s the point.

It’s okay.

Because once upon a time it wasn’t okay. No, not long ago it wouldn’t have been okay. Not long ago I wouldn’t have been comfortable having my husband gone for 10 days without someone to help me pass the time. I would have begun morphing into slutty Sadie before Hubby’s foot hit the curb in front of baggage check, sexting potential playmates on my way to drop him off at the airport.

These last few weeks I have come to understand that I have used my open marriage in ways that I used alcohol, in fact, for a long time the two of them sort of went hand in hand; a dysfunctional pairing whose connection was confined to the limitation of my own potential. And that potential was extremely restricted. I see now that ALL of my relationships outside of my marriage have been influenced by my need to fill a void. Just like my relationship with alcohol. And that void doesn’t and didn’t have anything to do with what Hubby isn’t or wasn’t giving me. It doesn’t have to do with anything I’ve missed or desired or needed when it comes to him.

But it does have everything to do with that which I haven’t given myself. It is related to what I’ve needed to give myself.

And, honestly, I’m not sure what that is. Respect? Nurturing? Love? I don’t know, but I will figure it out. For now, I only know that I don’t feel that inexplicable need to fill that vast void right now. And so I think I’ll just ride that feeling of freedom out… and see what happens.

On my own. Yeah.

It is, really, okay.

I was reading some blog posts by this dude named Jonray who I discovered via Twitter. He has recently stopped drinking and the honesty with which he writes is imbued with such sincerity and his narrative is so relatable that I was wholly entranced by his story. I read all of his posts tagged “sober” and found myself utterly rapt by his words. I was reminded of my own story – the quintessential party girl gone straight.

As of tomorrow, Wednesday, January 12 (although this post will be up the whole of the day Wednesday so it may be that TODAY is January 12 – but whatthefuckever, the point is the date itself, 1/12) … as of January 12, I have been sober for two years.

Two. Whole. Sober. Years.

Yes, I am happy and proud and delighted and impressed and surprised and more than anything else – grateful and thankful. Not for god or to jezus or any other esoteric embodiment of that which people like to give thanks to and gratitude for when they’ve suffered and been granted reprieve from their suffering. But I am grateful for two important and quantifiable things: 1) the strength that I found (all myself, thankyouverymuch) to get my ass sober and 2) the people who helped me get there (my therapist and the treatment center I attended for 5 weeks).

Reading Jonray’s stories made me think about what it took for me to get to my own sobriety, how many times I quit in the 25 years I was an admittedly fun but sometimes obnoxious party girl, but wasn’t able to sustain the sobriety for very long. It’s hard to change one’s life for the better, isn’t it? Sometimes it takes ten or twelve or 137 tries before we get it right. I think about all the reasons I learned about why I drank and why I continued for so long despite the fact that I knew it was fucking up my body, my mind, my soul, my relationships… my life. I think about how close I came on more occasions than I could possibly count now, or was even remotely aware of at the time, to being harmed by someone I barely knew, to running my car off the highway, to going into a coma… to dying. And I think about all the shit I said, did, regretted, made excuses for, denied… FORGOT, all because I needed to get loaded in order to have a good time.

I have a lot of guardian angels. This I believe. Either that or I’ve got an extended supply of luck. Maybe both.

I also wonder who I would be today if I was still drinking? That is if I was still here. I question that possibility. In the last two years two of my very good friends have died as a direct result of alcoholism, two friends who knew they were in trouble, who understood unequivocally that their lives were at risk, and who were trying to get help but ultimately never found what it was they needed to get there. I can’t help but think that the ways in which I was operating prior to walking into the treatment center on January 12, 2009 were so destructive that had I continued along that course … well, I don’t really like to think about that. But I do anyway.

And I think that’s probably an okay thing to think. It helps to keep me sober.

(*raising my cup of tea*) So here’s to another two years of sobriety. Or at least two days.

Okay… two hours.

One day at a time.