The discomfort of not drinking
It’s been 45 days since I quit drinking.
I don’t live in the Bay Area, and I’m not a sober-curious Twitter influencer. Where I am, quitting alcohol is not yet cool. Then again, drinking isn’t either.
Growing up, we had mixed feelings around drinking. My dad drank an occasional drink or two, my mom hated the idea of alcohol, and I had an uncle who struggled with alcoholism till he died. Before a conversation could have been had about it at home, I found my way to my first drink in college.
Drinking
I drank more than I should have but I promptly confessed to my mum the next day. My parents were unimpressed, and my dad let it be known through a week long silent-treatment. But I enjoyed discovering there was a side of me that didn’t compulsively do as they expected. I also loved seeing the world distort itself out of shape when I was drunk.
College provided plenty of excuses to drink. We’d drink to celebrate, drink to unwind, drink because the term was over, and drink again because the term began. Drinking was fashionable, freeing and fun. Or so I let myself believe.
The only restraint on how much I drank was that it wasn’t easy to afford all this drinking as a student. When I began to work, the constraints of budget were now mine to decide. I didn’t drink every day or even every week. But I did drink at least a few drinks a month, most often at a night out with friends or colleagues. Eventually, even my dad surrendered to having company in my husband — and therefore also me — for his occasional beer.
After years of thoughtlessly putting back drinks like they were going out of style, at some point last year (a.k.a. when I read this essay by
), I hit pause and asked myself a question I had never asked.Why do I drink?
When I went out with colleagues, I drank because it felt like drinks could make even not-fun obligatory outings fun. When I showed up at parties, I drank because it felt the only way to stay sane in the noise and chaos. When I was out with friends, I drank because everyone did.
Not once did I check with myself if I needed to drink or if I even wanted to. I just did. On autopilot.
Why was it easier to lubricate my conversations or my dancing than to endure it all sober? Why did I need to simultaneously numb and loosen myself to make it through a party? What was I catalysing or mitigating by drinking even with friends and family? Did I even savour the drink in the drinking?
These questions were more like riddles. There was no single “I” in my multitudes. So there was no one-size-fits-all answer that was true to all the Malavikas over the years.
Fifteen years later, I had made enough of my own decisions that I didn’t need to drink to believe I was autonomous or free. I was no longer trying to rebel against the unspoken disapproval of drinking at home. I had years of therapy behind me that showed me that my true, centred self had no trouble being social and didn’t need alcohol. And I was comfortable with the person I was evolving into, enough to look at the parts of myself that I wasn’t proud of, but were ‘me’ anyway.
It struck me that maybe the only reason I drank was to take the edge off the discomfort of not drinking in a social situation.
Why was I fleeing from the discomfort of being a sober social being?
Discomfort was the source of all my growth. The discomfort of sucking at running. The discomfort of holding a stable-asana in my yoga practice. The discomfort of my dysregulated nervous system when I had to argue in court or present my work at conferences. I had learned to endure it, stay with it, observe it, and even storm through it.
Armed with this revelation, I decided to look my discomfort in the eye. I quit alcohol cold turkey.
Not drinking
At my first party with work colleagues some weeks ago, I declared to colleagues I no longer drink. Lucky for me, I didn't face many questions. But I did get cocked eyebrows and knowing looks — things I was confident were entirely in the territory of Not My Problem. The night was easy, conversations flowed, and I left feeling fresh as a daisy.
The real test was my college reunion a fortnight ago. I knew I’d be seeing friends I’d burnt bridges with, and a man that I’d had unpleasant experiences with, of the non-consensual variety. I briefly flirted with just picking up a beer to hold onto as a crutch, in case I got fidgety or anxious around them. I’d had long weeks of work, and I was proud of how well I’d delivered, so I began to make up a story of how one drink wouldn’t be so bad.
Yet, a voice in me said: just go in and say hi to the first person. I could always grab a beer if it became too much.
As I entered, I was struck by the beauty of the venue, with its golden serial lights draped on the trees and trailing off the branches against the inky-blue evening sky. My gorgeous surroundings had me captivated, as I noticed one of the organisers rushing to welcome me with an effusive hello.
Soon, I met the next person. And then, another. And then the next. Before I knew it, I had caught up with people for three-hours, a couple of whom I hadn’t met in ten years, most of whom I had never met in my life.
Half-way through, the questions came. ‘When did you quit?’ ‘The bar will close soon.’ ‘Not even one?!’
Politely, I declined. I was surprised to discover that I didn’t feel the need to explain (a.k.a I had this other essay by Michelle to thank for that.) When people prodded, I said I didn’t feel like it. If they continued to be interested, I gave them the only response that felt honest - I didn’t have good answers for ‘why drink’, I don’t have good answers for ‘why quit’ either.
Being sober in a crowd that only got more drunk over time was an unfamiliar experience, to say the least.
I was flummoxed when one person asked me why I was staring at them and smiling as they spoke. I didn’t love that more than one person apologised to me for being unable to keep up with the conversation, having had one too many drinks. And I didn’t enjoy knowing that everyone was on a wavelength that I could only ascend to if I were also inebriated.
Hello, discomfort.
The discomfort
I stayed with this feeling like a deer in headlights. And I let it teach me whatever I needed to learn.
I learned that in the absence of an anchor in alcohol, I have an anchor in real listening. To the song of the crickets amid the ambient music, to the inflections in people’s voices, and to the things that were said and the things left unsaid. I had traded in my drunken view of a world distorted out of shape, for a sharp view of reality in ultra high-definition.
I learned that I can be in the moment when someone introduces themselves, and that names stick and faces stick and conversations stick as long as I am mindful. I exchanged numbers with the new faces, and promises to catch up with the old ones. I made mental notes about interesting snippets of the evening, and I filed away interesting phrases from conversations in my cache memory. I learned that I can say hello and check in with genuine warmth on the friend who had cut me out.
I learned that I can bump into the man who assaulted me (story for another day about another college party overflowing with alcohol some years ago), look him in the eye and be cordial without combusting into flames. I discovered that I could observe him as more than my memory of his misdeeds. I saw that he made eye-contact, dropped his tone and volume, mumbled a hello, almost as if he sobered down at will. And I noticed that he almost seemed vulnerable, or at least conscious of the lingering impact of his actions, as the cool evening breeze brushed against my hot, flushed cheeks.
I also learned that I don’t listen to myself as well as I listen to others. After bumping into the man, the night went downhill. But it was only some time after that I even realised this fact. My body had turned stiff, my shoulders and upper back were now scrunched up, and I was feeling sore. When I did finally check in with myself, I saw that my body was speaking to me but I was stonewalling it. That moment, I decided it was time to call it a night. I gathered myself together and began to say my goodbyes.
As I began to leave, I observed in myself a tension. I was feeling suddenly sad and powerless from seeing this man in this way. I was also suddenly energised and hungry to see myself as more than the pain he had caused me….
Hello, presence.
It’s been 45 days since I quit drinking. And I have found at least one reason not to drink.
In the discomfort of not drinking is a rare opening to experience presence - the way to straddle the line of living as life happens to me.
Feedback is the greatest love language. And what a lotta love this essay got. Thank you , , , , and .
After all our conversations about drinking, I love this reflection you've written. You really capture and articulated so many feelings I've had both when I reflected on my drinking habits and also once I quit. Thank you for sharing your story, this was such a great essay!
Love your new beverage of choice. Thank you for sharing this story <3