The first week of sobriety is hard. The first Friday night out is harder. If you're imagining what life without alcohol looks like, how to handle social situations when you stop drinking, or whether you'll still be funny, confident, or "yourself" without a drink in your hand, this blog (from a therapist who’s been there) is for you.
After spending seven days in detox for alcohol addiction, it was time for me to go home and get out into the wild. This ride home was different from the previous two. My wife wasn’t picking me up. I didn’t have the comfort of seeing her face. I was alone…sober. During that ride, I remember preparing myself. Detox had stabilized my body and mind. It had gotten me to the starting line. But the work of recovery was waiting for me at home.
After the long, lonely ride home, I walked in the door and looked at my wife. Her look appeared different from the previous two times I had come home from rehab. The first two were full of hope and positivity. This one, I felt, was filled with doubt and skepticism. And she wasn't wrong to think that after ripping her heart out with my two relapses. As I cautiously approached her for a well-needed hug, I looked into her eyes and told her, “I’m not going to say anything. I’m not going to promise anything. I’m just going to have to do it.” That was when the clock started. I couldn’t announce a new life to her—or anyone. I had to practice one.
After 7 days of marginal food and no booze, I was ready for a delicious meal, so we went to our favorite neighborhood Tex-Mex place. I hadn't realized it was Friday night, and everyone else in the neighborhood was there too… waiting for tables with margaritas in hand. I really should have thought this out more. I just threw myself to the wolves, and now I had to survive. As soon as we walked in and my eyes went wide, my wife asked if I was ok and if I wanted to leave. In hindsight, I should have left, but I was hungry, and I figured I'd have to do this eventually. I had so many questions, though, as I stepped into life without alcohol. Questions like: Am I even funny? Who am I?
As I made my way to the waiting area, my heart jumped when I locked eyes with the bartender. We knew each other well. When I said no to my usual margarita, he cocked his head like a dog hearing a whistle. He looked confused. I was confused. I felt like I was in foreign territory.
We got seated, and I started to panic. There was no margarita or Modelo beside the full water glass I usually never touched. So now I drink water? Is that lame? Am I still cool?
I felt like a spotlight was on me, like people were about to point giant foam fingers at me and laugh. Everyone drinks. Who doesn’t drink? I was embarrassed that I wasn’t drinking. I thought the entire restaurant was staring at me.
But as we ate, the feeling of being watched faded, and my anxiety eased. I finished dinner without drinking alcohol—and emptied my water glass for the first time I could remember. I felt good.
Crisis averted, belly full, and fully hydrated, we headed home. I was ready to sleep in my own bed.
I woke up the next day refreshed, but with nothing to do. I wasn’t going to pull out a bottle, and I didn’t want to drive past the liquor stores. But I still needed groceries. I wanted to work out. I had to start doing ordinary things on my own again.
So I started putting things on my calendar to fill the time I used to spend drinking—about sixteen hours a day. Workouts? On the calendar. Dog grooming appointments? On the calendar. Therapy, family functions, dry cleaning runs, chores around the house? On the calendar.
Some of it was ordinary stuff I might never have bothered scheduling before. Now it gave my day some shape.
Over the next few weeks, as I settled into my new normal, I noticed something during conversations with my wife and friends. I. Am. A Barrel of Laughs.
I had people laughing at jokes I was making up on the fly. My mind felt sharper. The zingers came quickly, with little effort. I felt more like Robin Williams than Randy Williams.
I’d always loved making people laugh. But as I got older and drank more, my jokes became mean, and people weren’t laughing with me anymore. I’d even tried stand-up comedy, getting my ass handed to me at open mics just for the chance to make people laugh.
Now, clear and sober, my humor was landing again. That gave me a feather in my cap—a reason to keep going. I was starting to like something about myself. After so much self-hatred, that mattered. I had something worth sharing. Me.
I still had plenty to figure out, but I was beginning to like the person I was getting to know. I didn’t have to answer “Who am I without alcohol?” all at once. I was discovering the answer through ordinary days, conversations, and a few good jokes.
If you’re wondering what life without alcohol could look like, maybe it’s time to start a conversation about support with a professional therapist. In Texas, you can reach out to request a consult with me at Lifeologie Counseling Dallas Uptown at (214) 357-4001. Or, search our Lifeologie directory for therapists who specialize in alcohol and addiction recovery to find one near you. We can talk about where you are now without judgment, and look ahead to what comes next.