Sober Tears Hit Hard

I wasn’t prepared for this level of clarity.

It happened again.

Right in the middle of the workday.

One minute, I’m typing away at documents that are supposedly urgent. And then.

Tears.

Hard tears. The kind of crying that makes your whole body shake. The kind you can’t stop so you just let them go.

This type of thing happens about once a week now. A somewhat short-lived but incredibly intense bout of sadness, of crying, of making deep blue sounds.

This time, my mind shifted from work to a day five years ago. A day when I went upstairs to talk to my 14-year-old daughter. To tell her that I was leaving. That I didn’t know where I was going or how long I’d be gone, but I was leaving. That night. Right then. I’d already packed.

Her mom and I had agreed that I couldn’t stay there anymore. That it was unfair to “figure out” my drinking issue while she and my daughter were around. That it was not right to put them at risk.

And so my daughter was mad and then she cried and then we hugged and then I got in my car and went to a group recovery therapy meeting and then found a hotel room and booked two nights.

---

2020

2020 was the year I finally decided to do something about my drinking. Finally admitted that alcohol really wasn’t “working” anymore.

I even started the year off with a bang of sorts—six weeks of not drinking.

But I always went back.

Just before that September conversation with my daughter about me moving out, I’d spent 30 days in a residential treatment facility.

Before that, I’d attended several different recovery groups.

And before that, I’d met with an addiction specialist who had been sober for 20 years and spent a career helping other people get and stay sober.

So, even though I knew my drinking was a problem and even though I’d sort of tried some things, I didn’t really stop drinking.

I was asking for help, but not accepting the help. Not buying in. Not taking suggestions. Not following the path of another person who had been through the struggle.

It wasn’t until early 2021, after a year that was quite possibly the most challenging in my life—one that saw me leave my home and my child, lose multiple jobs, live in a hotel, and even sleep in my car—after all of that, I finally asked someone who had gotten and stayed sober to help me.

And he did. And still does.

---

The Sober Present

So, I live an alcohol-free life now. I open my days with prayer and meditation. I attend recovery group meetings. I talk with others who have struggled with addiction.

I have a steady job and a good relationship with my now college-attending daughter.

And. I have days where I have the most vivid recall of things that happened during my active alcohol abuse.

And, on those days, I cry. Hard.

I thought I’d cried a lot while I was drinking—but I didn’t really feel that pain, just the anxiety from being “in trouble” again and the knowledge that another drink would take it away.

I thought I’d cried even more in early recovery and in therapy sessions. But my recall wasn’t as sharp as it is now.

I actually like having feelings—and really feeling them. But during these moments— these weekly episodes—I hurt. Deep and hard. And I cry out and say these things could not have happened and I didn’t do them and how did I get here and when will the pain stop?

What I don’t do is drink.

I feel the feelings. But I don’t live there the rest of the day.

In a way, I think this level of pain is a good reminder of where I don’t want to be.

An encouragement that I’m a long way away from the life of an active alcoholic.

And a reminder that alcohol has no place in my life. That a simple after work drink or a cocktail to begin a weekend could very well lead me back to a way of life I never wanted.

After one of these episodes—which last between 5 and 15 minutes—I tell myself: “I’m not living that life anymore, that’s not me today.”

And I go on.

I wasn’t prepared for this level of clarity. For this level of feeling. But I don’t run from pain—or joy—anymore.

Asking for help and accepting the help and staying on the path laid out by others who traveled this journey before me—that has made all the difference.

Image by Marcel Ardivan, Unsplash

How about you?

We’d love for you to share in the comments:

• How do you make space in your life to sit with your feelings, even the hard ones?

• When was the last time you let yourself really feel—and really cry—without trying to fix it or push it away?

And if you found this article helpful, please tap the little heart. It lets others know there’s something useful here and will help us grow this community.

We know that sharing about recovery and sobriety can feel vulnerable. Like in recovery groups, we ask that commenters in this space refrain from giving unsolicited advice or spreading hate and division. Thank you for helping us foster a kind and inclusive community!

---

Andy Spears is a writer and policy advocate living in Nashville, Tennessee. He holds a Ph.D. in Public Policy with an emphasis in school funding. Andy writes about his experience with alcohol and his now alcohol-free life on Medium. You can also find him on Threads at: @andyadvocate1

---

Want to be published on Sober.com? If you’re sober and interested in contributing, we’d love to hear from you. Reach out to our newsletter manager here for submission guidelines.