What sobriety would mean for me:

Sobriety would mean facing my self-loathing head-on, tackling a flood of blackness, thick like tar.

Sobriety would mean cutting my losses before the ultimate physical effects become even more apparent than they already are, before my nose becomes a maze of veins, before my face betrays the number of years I have actually lived, before illness and decrepitude take the place of my healthy, wholesome (yet smoking) façade.

Sobriety would mean being obligated to feel and express anger, to be assertive, to ruffle some feathers, at worst to create real, full-blown conflicts with other human beings, to be less amiable, less likable. To be forced to change situations that hurt me.

Sobriety would mean confronting my anxiety, clutching my nails into my own flesh, crying profusely at how disappointed I am with myself, accepting that I am the only one to blame for my failures and that I cannot go back and change anything. Nothing. What’s done is done.

Sobriety might mean that my creative process would run dry, that my words could no longer find an exit out of my head, that I would have nothing left to say, that I might pass from verbal waterfalls to a desert of mutism, locked securely inside myself. Trapped.

Sobriety might mean that I would have to put an end to my thrilling, dangerous sexual exploits, that I might have to reconsider (again) my true feelings about sex and love and what I really need to get out of physical relationships and human relationships in general.

Sobriety might mean attaining a higher level sexually, being 100% present, not watered down, in the fog where I feel safe and can offer myself recklessly because I am not really completely there. Absent. Ghost-fucking might become a thing of the past.

Sobriety might free my time. I might be able to concentrate on essential things if I wasn’t always thinking of My Next Drink. The vast open space might be terrifying to me. I would be afraid of getting lost in the emptiness that I now fill with elaborate plans, scheming, making deals and ultimatums with myself.

I like to think sobriety might bring me peace, but I am not convinced. I am sure that without the calories of all the wine I drink, I would lose at least ten pounds effortlessly. That idea does make me smile. I know that my facial expression would be more engaging I would find the gleam that my eyes are often missing. There would be more available cash in my household if I didn’t drink. I wouldn’t feel afraid of having rather hideous physical manifestations of withdrawal in situations where drinking is impossible.

I would just be afraid of everything else.