Six Years

I woke up yesterday morning to a man down.

My closet rod had completely given up sometime in the middle of the night.

Clothes everywhere.

And somehow I slept through the entire thing.

Which honestly feels like growth in itself because there was a time in my life when a noise in the middle of the night meant I was definitely involved.

But whatever.

I had a full day ahead of me, so first thing in the morning I headed to Home Depot to replace the closet rod.

On September 14th.

My six-year sobriety date.

Not exactly how I pictured commemorating six years without a drink, but if recovery has taught me anything, it’s that life does not care about your milestones.

Sometimes you get a spiritual awakening.

Sometimes your closet collapses.

So there I am, wandering around Home Depot looking for a four-foot wooden closet rod when this handsome fella catches my eye.

And listen.

Is it weird that I find him mildly attractive?

I go in for a closer look.

He’s tall.

Great hair.

Full beard.

Flannel.

Sunglasses.

Apron.

Thin.

Maybe a little too thin.

But I’ve overlooked worse.

And apparently, he’s a mixologist.

Okay.

Now we’re talking.

So I walk up to him and, without even buying me coffee first, he says:

“What’s that?

You wanna try my famous witches brew
that gets you feelin’ so good
you want to howl at the moon?

Of course you do.

It’ll just cost you your soul.

But trust me...

it’s worth it.”

And then his eyes light up red.

He starts stirring this fancy little orange cocktail.

You can hear the glass clinking.

And then comes this completely unhinged Halloween laugh.

I stood there staring at him.

Six years sober.

In a Home Depot.

Being offered a drink by a skeleton.

On my sobriety birthday.

You cannot make this stuff up.

Also—

$179.

That’s it.

I don’t know what the going rate is for a seven-and-a-half-foot animated skeleton mixologist these days, but this seems like a steal.

I mean, look at him.

For $179, I get a man who is tall, thin, well dressed, makes his own cocktails, has fantastic hair, and only talks when I push a button.

Ladies.

I have spent considerably more for considerably less.

And if I bought him, obviously he would live in my living room year-round.

Putting this man outside for Halloween is simply out of the question.

We could have coffee together in the morning.

He could listen while I talk about real estate.

Maybe I’d put a little Santa hat on him at Christmas.

People would come over and ask why there is a giant skeleton bartender standing in my living room in February.

And I’d say,

That’s my boyfriend. He’s a little emotionally unavailable. But he’s consistent.

And somewhere in all of that ridiculousness, it hit me.

Six years.

Six whole years.

There was a time when the promise of something that would make me “feel so good” really could cost me my soul.

And for a long time,

I paid.

Not all at once.

That’s the tricky part.

A little dignity here.

A relationship there.

A morning I couldn’t remember.

A promise I meant when I made it.

Another piece of myself handed over so quietly I didn’t even realize how much of me was gone.

Until getting sober meant having to go looking for her again.

And that part wasn’t funny.

It wasn’t cute.

There wasn’t a spooky laugh at the end.

It was uncomfortable and humbling and sometimes incredibly lonely.

It was learning how to sit in a life I used to escape from.

Learning how to feel things all the way through.

Learning that gratitude isn’t pretending everything is wonderful.

Sometimes gratitude is being able to recognize that it isn’t—

and staying anyway.

It’s been six years of taking action.

Of showing up.

Of being of service.

Of getting things wrong.

Of making amends.

Of laughing.

Of grieving.

Of loving people.

Of losing people.

Of figuring out that life can be really beautiful and really painful at exactly the same time.

And I get to be here for all of it.

That’s the gift.

Not that life got easier.

I got present for it.

So yesterday morning, six years after I stopped drinking, alcohol showed up again.

Except this time it was being offered to me by a mildly attractive skeleton in the seasonal aisle at Home Depot.

And I laughed.

I took his picture.

I seriously considered bringing him home.

And then I went and bought my closet rod.

Because apparently this is what six years sober looks like for me.

No parade.

No dramatic music.

No finish line.

A broken closet.

A four-foot wooden rod.

A $179 skeleton I am still not entirely convinced I don’t need.

And one more ordinary day that I get to remember.

Turns out he was wrong about one thing.

Feeling this good did cost me something.

But it wasn’t my soul.

I think sobriety is how I got mine back.