Two-million six-hundred twenty-eight thousand minutes

Five days shy of five years sober I locked myself in the bathroom. My house is 70 years old and the twisting lock mechanism on the bathroom snapped off. The knob was old, so the inner workings weren’t accessible with needle-nose pliers, and efforts to force the coffer pin to create enough give to twist went nowhere. My son J was on the other side of the door because he needed to go “number two really bad”, and he was growing concerned. He pounded on the door a couple times and asked if I needed him to call 911. The bathroom has a window, but it’s original, multi-paneled and doesn’t open.

I kept him calm - and felt plenty calm myself, oddly, despite being kind of a dipshit when it comes to tools - and ultimately took the pins out of the hinges to pull the door off. The knob’s screws were on the outside of the door so I disassembled it, re-hung the door and now, to my son’s delight, you can peep into the bathroom.

The rest of the weekend, every time I used the bathroom he asked if I was going to get trapped in there, in a joking-not-joking way that I didn’t think six-year-olds were capable of. Later he said, as a non sequitur on another matter, “I hope I never go to jail.” Thankfully he didn’t ask if I’d been.

Two days shy of five years sober my A/C died. My friend M was over with her daughter and we were celebrating her daughter L’s birthday, which happens to be my sobriety date. We had cupcakes to celebrate both of us turning five, then went out to a late lunch. This is pretty anodyne stuff, but J and I have very few playdates in our past, since it’s only been since March 2024 that we get the whole weekend together.

My house was getting warm, but I didn’t discover the blower motor was out until that evening when my house edged its way up to 86 degrees. It’s 97 now, because I live in Texas. The HVAC company owes me a call on when the motor will be available.

My son was under two when I got sober, and our relationship is great, despite several years where I only saw him for a few hours at a time, a few times per month. My ex-wife and I have had exactly one in-person conversation outside of a pick-up or drop-off, but it went fine. My parents were in Austin for a couple of years, then moved away; we visited them in Arizona recently. The friends I had while married belonged to my wife, and I’ve made a few since 2019. I’ve gained and lost the same 10 pounds at least six times. I look a little younger now, but only if I don’t smile.

Fancy coin - a gift to myself from J.L. Lawson

When I got sober, where did I expect to be at five years? On my first day at a Sober Living house, I wrote:

“Move-in was easy enough and my room is sad, but I have it to myself. I attended no meetings. I assume I ate something.”

I don’t remember experiencing the anhedonia that often comes with early sobriety, but it’s all over those early journal entries, even as I went through some interpersonal conversations with my ex that, years later, became EMDR targets. I also notice that I didn’t think about the future at all. I was more like an animal, chronicling each meeting in flat prose:

Went to my new home group. During the responsibility circle a big guy with a heart condition fainted. He’s fine, but an ambulance was called. The meeting scattered. No sponsor yet.

This is all to say, sobriety both has and has not been a life-changer for me. I have yet to meet a member of my work cohort who knew I drank all day or noticed any difference about me besides growing out my hair. I used to fantasize that someone would notice a change, tell me it seemed like I’d had a personality transplant, but instead I’m as awkward and anxious as ever.

It took a few years to cry again, and now I cry easily. When M was over, her daughter and my son stood at my desk, J excitedly showing L all the levels he’s built on Geometry Dash. M and I were talking, but I felt a gutteral flash in my chest and my eyes welled up over the simple visual of the two of them, side by side. I felt some perspiration, but that was probably my AC dying.

I don’t think M noticed. I’m a world-class hider.

I’ve been writing this Substack for about 9 months and I’m thankful for all of you who’ve subscribed, liked, commented and followed me on Notes. The act of translating my brain into words others can understand is a big part of my ongoing recovery, and you’ve all helped me, much the way you feel heard in a good AA meeting.

Here are a few of my posts from the early days if you’re interested. It’s OK if you’re not. But it’s also OK if you are.

And I’d be remiss if I didn’t share this one again, on the musician and poet David Berman, his suicide and my relationship with his work. Included in the post below.

The Alcoholic's Playlist Is Full of David Berman