This pandemic has been the greatest test of my sobriety over the past 3 years and 8 months. At first, the novelty of the situation gave me energy and fueled my enthusiasm. It was a strange twist that my life of solitude and internalizing my feelings had, so I believed, prepared me for just such an event as this. I finished the semester at my university as one of the minimal population of students remaining on campus. There was an atmosphere of solidarity and comradery among those of us who remained. Still, I remained at a safe distance from my schoolmates due to the virus, for sure, but also because of my age and my carefully guarded sobriety.
Spring turned into summer and I have been effectively maintaining social distancing even as I moved from campus housing to my sister’s house in upstate NY before returning to suburban Massachusetts. My routine is not so much different now than it was last summer. I abide by mask rules and follow the arrows on the floor of the supermarket as I plot my course for the fall semester and beyond. Even if I wanted to drink, there are no bars open and it would be impossible to hide that behavior from my landlord. I have never divulged to her the full extent of my history with alcohol, but I know she would be understanding. Still, it hangs over me like a dark cloud.
The stress comes from the uncertainty about online classes, reduced hours working as a virtual tutor, applying to grad schools and the big one — student teaching in the spring. To cope with these various strains on my precarious psychological state, I have been running every morning — three-plus miles daily. I’ve also been reading more than before, fiction rather than science, and playing around with assorted python coding projects. Even though I know better, I find myself drawn into the politics of the moment. My anger and frustration over how Trump and his sycophants are spurning every value I believe in, from healthcare for everyone, basic minimum income, climate change, free trade, police reform, slashing the Pentagon’s budget and an end to racism (even unconsciously). Still, I try to find positive ways to vent like writing emails to my congressman and congresswoman (congresspeople?)
Even in this dark time, I am grateful for my sobriety and the people and institutions that enabled me to get there. I feel guilty complaining about my issues which are more personal internal conflicts than grand existential threats. My health is good, actually with daily running and an improved diet, I feel better than I have in years, decades even. Still, I worry about what’s around the next corner. Is there something lurking in the shadows that can destroy my practiced and methodical sober routines? The biggest danger is not some external menace like the coronavirus, but disbelief in myself and my ability to weather any storm despite having demonstrated that time and again.
Still, life is about more than just surviving one catastrophe after another. It was Elizabeth Bishop that wrote
“The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.”
We, I, get so accustomed to losing everything that gives me joy that I stop holding onto anything at all just to avoid the pain of loss. I worry that the pain of such a loss could be the thing that upsets my delicately balanced sobriety so I choose solitude. Thus, in the world of pandemic lockdowns, quarantine and social distancing I can pretend like I am happy because I don’t have to fear, but it’s just that — pretend. Still, I put another day between me and drinking because any other way is to lose the self, however flawed and neurotic, I have worked so hard to get back.
