The Glass Was Empty: What I Learned About Myself When I Quit Drinking
I quit alcohol in May 2021. I had one last night out to drink (and throw up) everything I wanted, and then I cut it out completely. But why such a drastic maneuver? Let’s rewind.
Since my first sip back in 2008, I knew it would be a problem. I always liked the taste, the act of sitting and drinking, the exchanges with different people.
In a few months, those moments became better than the ones when I was sober—in a concerning way. (Could it be the effect of alcohol on my depression?) Drinking was so good it made everything else bad. And I saw myself as someone a thousand times better when I drank. Who was there when I didn’t take any drinks?
I developed a really sick and abusive relationship with alcohol over the years. I started drinking at a very young age and couldn’t stop until I was inebriated. Every party, date, or event was a reason to drink. I was always the one my friends had to take care of, and many times, I ended up driving—only God knows how. If I didn’t wreck myself, it was only by pure luck.
Fast forward to 2020. The first months of social isolation were the period when I drank the least—aside from the year I was also sober, from 19 to 20, if I’m not mistaken. But in the second year of the pandemic, I moved out, then moved back in with my mother and brother, and found myself in a place where alcohol was easy to access and drinking wasn’t seen as a serious matter.
In just three months at this new house, while recovering from a depressive crisis, I was already opening a bottle by myself after work. It didn’t matter if I was going to watch a movie, do a puzzle, or really do nothing at all… I could barely wait for the workday to end so I could quench my thirst—vigorously—with beer or wine.
Then something new happened: I lost any embarrassment about drinking alone. At first, I just needed someone in the house, even if they weren’t drinking with me… until it got to the point where not even that was necessary.
My first problem with alcohol was simple: start = not being able to stop. Then it grew: start = not just with friends at parties, but also during the day, with my family, at any time someone offered me a sip. And then it got to this point: start = I could do it alone.
It reached a moment that made me worry.
Was I only going to feel happy when the bottles I ordered online arrived and I found myself alone—so I didn’t have to share with anyone? I asked myself: what was the reason for all of this?
The glass was completely empty.
I won’t go into the process of quitting or the struggles along the way. The fact is, since making the decision, I’ve managed to go months without drinking—even when I faced situations where I thought I wouldn’t make it.
Of all the fears I faced, the biggest headache (pun intended) was the holidays. (It’s worth noting that while my close family knew I had stopped drinking, I don’t think they truly understood why.)
There’s no denying it: every Christmas and New Year’s gathering revolves around drinking—at least in Brazil, where I’m from, and where we’re also celebrating the start of summer. In the final weeks of 2021, I survived a corporate party, the 24th and 25th of December, and then a beach trip with five friends who drank from midday until dawn. And I survived that, too.
On that trip—six months sober and surrounded by drunk people—here’s what sobriety was showing me:
I may have trouble sleeping, but I wake up fine.
Falling asleep drunk is great; waking up is unbearable. I’ve always had trouble falling asleep, and I loved how alcohol helped me numb out (except when the bed was spinning and I had to hold the wall with my hands). But the mornings killed me.
Now, I just hate mornings on a normal level.
It’s easier to lose weight—or at least to gain less.
If weight, cholesterol, or any other health issue is a concern, cutting alcohol might help. I lost a few kilos, and it became much easier to maintain my weight after I quit drinking.
It is expensive to get hammered.
Yes, it’s money that flows as fast as water—but it’s not water. And there’s always the fear that there won’t be enough booze, or that it won’t be cold enough, so: let’s just buy more. And having more within easy reach means opening another one…
Higher-quality alcohol—the more expensive kind—supposedly causes less of a hangover. I don’t know if that’s true, because with the amount I used to drink, it was impossible not to get a horrible hangover.
I don’t have to take so many pills.
Fewer tablets for headaches, heartburn, nausea, etc. I also take other medications daily, so without alcohol, I don’t have to worry about interactions.
It’s possible to drive.
And take the car out of the parking lot without the fear of hitting all the columns. And not forget where I parked. And go out smoothly, not being afraid of the police or that, if someone accidentally hits me, the insurance won’t cover it.
Do I want to shower? Go for a walk?
Unless I’m tired, lazy, or both, I can do anything without a problem—no worrying about whether I’ll end up asleep on the bathroom floor or completely lost.
Finally, I’m willing to do so many things without feeling like my energy is being drained by the pregnancy of an invasive alien.
It’s nice to be the one with full, working consciousness.
Even though my friends weren’t that drunk—I was always the one who drank too much and ended up in bad situations—it feels good to be able to make decisions and fully own my actions.
Because, yes, I used alcohol as an excuse for all the stupid things I used to do.
I don’t smoke, and I don’t want to.
On this trip with my friends, vaping was already trending. Honestly, I don’t find that little device very appealing—no flame, going from mouth to mouth with a watermelon flavor.
Before, when I drank heavily, it was normal for me to smoke whatever was available—cigarettes, tobacco, narghile—and if vaping were the only option, I’m sure I would have tried it, too. But now, being sober, the disgust is stronger, and I don’t even want to try. My soft lungs and asthma thank me for that.
It’s not so hard to be social.
Of course, it’s always easier holding a glass or a cup, or taking a bottle or a pack, or calling someone up to drink with. I had two close moments when part of me felt I deserved a drink—when I was just about to pour one or open a can. I took a deep breath, and it passed.
Sober, I’m able to engage. I manage to talk okay, even when I feel less cool than expected. And when I’m too embarrassed to strike up a conversation with someone, well—maybe it’s not worth it anyway.
My standards got a lot higher.
Previously, alcohol made anybody, any situation, any idea seem spectacular. And the mere feeling of not scoring a goal felt awful. If the plan didn’t seem good enough, I just needed another sip of courage.
Now, it’s so different. On that sober trip, I really had to focus and ask myself if I was actually interested in talking, going out, getting into trouble. Most of the time, I still was. But…
My pajamas, my books, and my dogs became my real sanctuary.
Before, I was never in any condition to enjoy those things. First, because I used to sleep naked and completely exhausted, not even bothering to shower. Second, because I couldn’t read anything—whether it was me or the book that was upside down, I don’t know. And last, because I didn’t even realize the dogs were at home.
Not drinking, those things started to mean a lot more. And beyond that, I had to learn how to live a sober life with less fear. It became clear to me that alcohol had been transforming me into someone else. And for that person to exist, I had to die little by little.
How about you?
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Cheering you on, Flávia! Thanks so much for sharing and inspiring. ❤️
Sober since 2016 and loving it. I resonate