9.99 Years.

Today is the anniversary of my last drink: a double shot of Maker’s Mark bourbon in an airport bar in St. Louis, MO, as I waited to board a plane to go to an inpatient rehab in Malibu, CA. I also had a couple of beers, but that wasn’t nearly enough to get me drunk. Not then. I remember being angry that I didn’t have cash for another drink on the plane. And so that was the last one.

It’s late enough in the day now that my last drink was more than ten years ago. But I won’t really feel it until tomorrow. A decade. And unbelievably long time has passed. A decade of work and joy and fear and love and pain and all the things every normal person has in their lives.

I’m normal now, on the outside. To everyone else. People look at me and see a slightly pudgy 43 year old man with a job and a partner, a couple of hobbies. I do normal things like ride my bike to work, and cook dinner, and go on vacations, and argue on the internet. I’m normal on the outside.

On the inside, I’m better. But I’ll never be normal. I’m an alcoholic. Which means I obsess about myself, and feel aggrieved and entitled. I have to work especially hard at everything to achieve what normal people can do in their sleep. Like open all the mail, or get my car retitled, or ship a package, or get to work on time. All those things can be hugely laborious.

But I’m better than I was. And I’ve come to be glad I’m not normal. I know where I belong. I know who I am. What I do. Why I do it. I love what I’ve become. I’m grateful that I’m an alcoholic, because I’ve learned how to live. How to rise. How to fight, and when not to.

I am a sober member of Alcoholics Anonymous. And I have been for ten years. Well, 9 years, 364 days. I don’t think I’ll drink tonight. Tomorrow looks good. And Sunday can take care of itself.