I had a baby three months ago. Four months ago, I got engaged to an absolutely wonderful man. I deserve neither. I’m too aware of it. When I said I was struggling, what I meant was this: I wish I were worthy of the life I have. Four years ago, I could have drank until I felt like the kind of person I wanted to be. Being blissfully happy is so daunting, ya know? It was actually easier to be miserable and sober than it is to be happy and sober.

Alone in the immaculate mountain home, with the patio he had just repaved with cobblestone, the panoramic view of monochromatic mountain crests, and the memories of cozying up with his family in front of a stone fireplace on the other side of frosty picture windows, Richard put a gun to his lips and swallowed the last drop of his predilection.

If sobriety is what you seek, it’s much more productive to blame yourself and your actions and to believe that there are no accidents than to think you are the one alcoholic who would absolutely be able to drink like a normal person if the universe would just quit attacking you. It’s probably not the universe’s fault that you feel attacked. It’s probably your fault for thinking that you could pour a bottle of Wild Irish Rose into your 7-Eleven cappuccino, get on your 10am conference call and live as if you were someone who rushes to make it home in time for Wheel of Fortune instead of someone who needs to sleep it off in a holding cell.

I have had the pleasure of trudging through the chaotic existence of being an alcoholic. I’ve also had the displeasure of battling through the chaotic existence of being a simple human woman. There are absolutely times when being sober just means being able to recall and list all of the reasons why life is a dumpster fire… but… that awareness goes both ways. When I look back on the years I spent in active addiction, I just see waste. Pure waste. Fallow hours. Grand experiences with deficit memories. Messageless fables—tales of what not to do with no corrective example. Worthless chaos, no bumpers. Moments that should have been beautiful, brilliant, apexes of happiness were crumbled like shortbread in my quaking fists. I’m not even talking about moments that belonged only to me—I’m talking about moments that I ruined for everyone else. Not just moments, but major milestones.

Grandpa and his gluttony for punishment may be right on this one—things that come to you easily, will leave with even more ease. I don’t think it’s always necessary to break your back just to break your bread, but hard work will teach you about who you are and what you want. Drinking to feel comfortable in your own skin is easy. Getting sober to feel comfortable in your own skin is hard. Cultivating a dream for your life is easy. Seeing it through every disappointment, setback, and failure is hard. Falling in love with someone is easy. Giving-up on someone you love, because it isn’t quite right, is hard. Watching them love someone else the way you wish they had loved you—impossible.

When addicts talk about the moments that gnaw at their hearts, the moments that make them desire drinking binges over consciousness, they talk about words. Words that destroyed them. Insults that ran them over. Rejections that poured concrete around their ankles and pushed them off a dock. Criticisms that entered through the ear then settled in the brain and grew like some Amazonian parasite.

The constant vacillating between permanent and impermanent is what keeps a lot of addicts from committing to sobriety.  It certainly had me on the ropes for a while.  There’s conjecture about a common stumbling block called, “fear of the last drink.”  In summation, when we get to the point in our addiction where we know we have to quit—and quit forever—we struggle to take the first step of having our last drink be our last drink.  Or our last bottle being our last bottle (see what I did there?)  It means it’s really over.  The best friend/buddy/companion/lover that we have grown accustomed to has to leave, we just don’t feel like we’re ready to say “goodbye.”  Especially if we can keep putting it off for just one more day…

I don’t feel like an alcoholic all of the time.

I don’t wake up in the morning with a hefty awareness that I come with a warning label. The word alcoholic isn’t tattooed anywhere on my tender flesh. There are no indicative black spots or “marks of the witch” that I hit with color corrector and a good concealer along with the gray bags under my eyes. I don’t worry that I will forget where I am and introduce myself at a department meeting with, “Hi, I’m Kara. I’m an alcoholic.”

When I’m lecturing, I feel like a lecturer. When I’m in class, I feel like a student. When I’m driving, I feel like a tax-paying resident of the State of North Carolina and when I am having a good day, I feel like a survivor, not an alcoholic.

You would think that our skill-level and portfolio would qualify former addicts to be human lie detector tests, and you would be right. And wrong. When it comes to other addicts, we can absolutely tell when they are lying. Its easy. Are they breathing? Then they’re lying.

However, we are terrible at sniffing-out lies and deceit when the person being deceitful has any other motive than getting drunk or high. Ironically, there is no one easier to gaslight than a former gaslighter.

For all the stereotypes that are untrue about addicts, we are all in agreement that, “I only had confidence when I was drunk,” and “I only liked myself when I was high,” are verified, authentic experiences.  Say what you will about Drunk Kara, but for all her faults, knee scrapes, collection of ruined parties, and tearful confessions—that bitch had unshakeable self-esteem.  I don’t miss being her and I don’t miss the taste of lukewarm tequila, but when I am suffocating under the heft of criticism, I sure miss being able to use a cocktail straw to draw in some friggin air.