volume forty-eight

it’s 5 o’clock somewhere

CW: this volume is in regards to sobriety so there may be themes of alcohol some would prefer to avoid reading.

It’s been fourteen months since my last drink. A lot can happen in fourteen months. New habits can be formed in place of the older ones. Newer, lovelier, kinder-to-self habits. Fourteen months and while I currently sit knowing I have no desire to pick up a drink, the part of my brain that says this should happen now, is there. All the more strongly as the weather warms.

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My alarm clangs and chimes, bolting me upright 30 minutes before 5am. The golden analog on my bedside with its bells brings me to consciousness. My blinds are open—they are always open—allowing whatever sunlight there may be to trickle in and coax me out of my slumber, assuring I drifted off with whatever moonlight I could the night before. 

My hands still feel lost, in search of what is next. The reflex of grabbing my phone, whose bird sounds alarm would trick me of my tranquillity, the days of my life before I invested in my new alarm clock. There to trick me of this relaxed state for me only to open social media within seconds of waking—eyes still crusty, barely open, hanging heavy, ready to consume.

My hands and eyes still in the habit after fourteen months, of checking what I did that I had forgotten about. Check what I posted on social media, check who I texted and what I said, check my bank for what I spent, and check my photo album for evidence.

But my phone isn’t there. It is on the other side of the room, switched off. It goes to sleep when the sun does and stays that way as long as I can get away with it the next day. And yet, I am still searching for it in those waking moments.

I lay there a few minutes more, eyes still closed, but awake to my surroundings. Trying to be in the present that tells me this used to be the time I would often climb into bed, not that I would often recall it. This used to be the time I would have finished my second dinner of some kind of poutine or burger, laying in bed, watching some mind-numbing television, refreshing my feed over and over as my gravy-covered fingers streaked the screen. This is the time when I would decide if the drink I had next to me, as my eyelids hovered open and closed, was to be downed in a gulp or popped in the kitchen for tomorrow, maybe even as a pick-me-up with breakfast or lunch.

But now it is the time I greet the world. I stretch my arms and my legs and throw back the covers. Most days I remember to thank my higher power I am alive. What a gift to wake.

Instead of stumbling through my house towards the bed and making as much mess as I make noise, leaving a trail of clothes behind me, I am enjoying the sacredness of making my coffee, delicately and intentionally washing my face, and reading my morning affirmations that remind me I am so worth this love and care.

My mornings, quiet and still, are filled with joining my writing community to either bring you this love letter or work on one of my other pieces. They begin with a gentle meditation—three minutes or so— no kidding myself anymore. Meditation has changed my life even though I really don’t know if I am any good at it. I show up. One day I might get there and be able to sit for thirty minutes, but I no longer feel the urge to force that in order to somehow make myself feel better about the other ways I treat my mind. In the same way, I no longer work out heavily and for over an hour a day, kidding myself it was undoing last night’s damage.

Three minutes, give or take, of calm and peace. Then I write.

Before the day becomes work and emails and slack pings and phone calls, I don’t open my email. I don’t turn on my phone. I avoid outside distractions as we say in my writing group and I write. Then I step away, I take myself on a walk (shorter these days as I change directions constantly to avoid the crows), I go on a walk without music, without a podcast, just with the stillness of the day greeting me and another early riser or two, maybe with a dog companion. The day has given me so much, provided me with so much gratitude and grace and time carved out for me, and it is only 7am.

The last time I got drunk, in an event not out of the ordinary at all, I don’t remember my thirty-minute walk home. A walk that ended with a phone call to my grandparents I barely remember aside from my crying. A walk that ended in me realising that I had forgotten to take out the trash, so running it out only to bump into my neighbours on the stairwell and have them think someone died on account of the hysterical state I was in. I had, in a way, died a long time ago. I had given up on so much, allowing my drinking to fill the gaps and I had let myself slip away.

I never want to forget a walk again.

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I close my laptop with a soft click and push in my desk chair. I exit the room and shuffle through the house, enjoying one of my favourite activities—flicking on the lamps—this somewhat silly ritual that I must get just right every day at around 5pm. Getting the mood of the transition from day to night, making it as soft as can be. Making it gentle. Saying goodbye to the sun and hello to the evening is a delicate time for me.

Switching on the lights before the light outside disappears makes sure the night doesn’t creep up on me.

The night is hard.

Summer nights are harder.

As the days get longer, the summer sun takes me back to the sweet smell of beer gardens, stray bees trying to land in my drink poured into a giant plastic cup, snacking on nachos with friends, a band playing from the corner as we sing at the top of our lungs and tell ourselves this is our reward for a long day’s work. A long day that might not have been so long had it started at a reasonable hour.

An open window, with a warm summer breeze and some CCR playing, is enough to transport me back to a time when several beers every night were my summer of fun. I envision fairy lights lighting up the patio, dogs at my feet, barefoot dancing, picnic blankets, sunsets over the ocean…I have to shake myself out of the daydream and remember how far I have come.

I can do this. I can romanticise my summer without alcohol. I can think of bike rides and long walks and outdoor dinners and reading in the park and meeting neighbourhood dogs and blue slushies on hot days and dipping my toes in the ocean and markets and weddings and flowy dresses and sunkissed noses and my sunglasses collection and flowers in bloom and houseplants that thrive and the sun reflecting on a blank page of my journal as I pick up a pen.

I can plan ahead for every Friday. I can schedule in some play. I can make sure that I am prepared to enjoy the hardest sober day of my week as I go from work days to weekend days with a peaceful approach. I can ignore the urge that tells me this is the time we go to the bar. This is the time we wait in line for the perfect spot on the patio.

Instead, I can remind myself that this is the time I have claimed back. This is the time I will not blur out, lose, or forget. This is the time that is mine to enjoy. So what will I do with it?

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What are your favourite sober summer activities? Is it Sunday morning markets? Friday afternoon swims? Sunny walks on your lunch break?

I love you,

Lauren xoxo

Three things I struggled with this week:

• 🐝 I have said yes to too much.

• 🆘The guilt of stepping back, how that would mess up things for other people, and ultimately continuing to put the action that would produce that guilt aside, therefore ahead of myself and my desires in order to take care of others.

• 🩸 So I am just going to be in pain from cramps every month of my life until I am not, yeah? I am thirty-one years old and still every month it is like “ugh, you again?”. Come here hot water bottle and my own strong thumbs to massage my lower back.

Three blessings from this week:

• ✨ I was encouraged by a dear, dear, friend to take a step back from things where I can. The burnout is unnecessary and I am not wanting to slip back to where I was this time last year. Old habits die hard!

• ☀️ My (not so) baby sister submitted her final assignment this week for her degree. I am beyond proud to know her. She has worked so hard, and carved her way in this world, as she was always destined to do. I am in awe of her every day. She’s the first in as many generations that I know of in my family to go to university. That is a huge fucking deal and she did it all herself. Legendary. Love you Elmon.

• 🎤 I got back on stage! I did it! I wrote new material and performed five(ish) new minutes of comedy and I am so fucking proud of myself and grateful for the stage time.

the sasha haha show: cutie pies & comedy

Three goals for the coming week:

• ✍️ Book another show. Run this five minutes of comedy over and over until I couldn’t possibly improve on it anymore, then bring in some more of my new material gradually. Progress baby, there is no rush.

• 📸 Get my photo taken for my citizenship application—the next step!

• 🧡 Start looking at season four of my podcast. Are you interested in being a guest? Know someone who would be a great fit? Drop me a line! I am happy to answer any questions before you decide.

What I am enjoying this week: 

Possibly the best night of my life, when I attended Ladies Night, at the Netflix festival earlier this year—hosted by my heroes Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin—was released on Netflix this week. I cried and laughed all over again reliving the badassery of the line-up and the epicness of the hosts. Watch it! I would especially love to hear from any of my female-identifying readers—what does a show like that mean to you? What does it make you feel?

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hi, lauren deborah! is free for subscribers every week. feel I am not sharing enough? ask me a question and I will answer it in a future post.

if you would like to say thanks for this love letter, please like or comment (it means so much to me to hear from you 🧡), forward it to a friend who might enjoy it or you can show your support and buy me a slice 🍕