In recent years, the challenge has become a way of life. Abandoning alcohol no longer seems to be a one-month-long endeavor but, rather, a lifestyle that has increasingly been embraced by younger consumers.

A Gallup poll from August 2024 found that 65% of U.S. adults aged 18 to 34 said alcohol consumption negatively affects one’s health. In comparison, 37% of those aged 35 to 54 and 39% of those aged 55 and older expressed similar sentiments. According to data obtained from the July 1-21 Consumption Habits poll, an astounding 45% of Americans say drinking one or two alcoholic beverages per day is bad for one’s health. That statistic is a six-point increase from 2023 and a 17-point increase from 2018.

“Between 2001 and 2018, Americans were much more likely to believe moderate drinking does not affect overall health than to say it has a negative or positive effect,” the poll specified. “Despite a period from the 1990s through the early 2000s when medical research suggested drinking red wine can be beneficial, no more than 25% of U.S. adults have ever seen drinking as good for one’s health.”

In the poll, over 50% of Americans also said the best health advice for those who drink an average amount of alcohol is to reduce their consumption, while 22% said such drinkers should completely cut out alcohol. Only 17% of adults said continuing to drink an average amount is the best advice.

Indeed, fewer people are consuming alcohol and major booze companies have caught on. Major brewers, including Molson Coors and Anheuser-Busch InBev, and spirit companies, like Diageo and Pernod Ricard, have released new non-alcoholic drink options to lure a greater number of consumers who are going sober, CNN’s Jordan Valinsky reported.

“Beer will always be at the heart of what we do, but we know there’s an enormous opportunity with non-alc and that’s why we’ve committed to making it an important part of our business,” Kevin Nitz, vice president of non-alcohol products at Molson Coors Beverage Company said in a 2023 blog post.

The company has since launched zero-sugar energy drinks and non-alcoholic beers like Peroni 0.0. This year, it’s introducing a booze-free Australian canned cocktail alternative called Naked Life to the U.S. The “mocktails” will be available in five different flavors: Mojito, Negroni Spritz, Gin and Tonic, Cosmo and Margarita.

“Consumers want more than just an alternative. They want a sophisticated, great-tasting option that aligns with their lifestyle,” Nitz said in a statement. “Naked Life provides a high-quality non-alc cocktail, delivering an experience of the best alc based versions.”

Anheuser-Busch InBev has also dipped its toes into the non-alcoholic drinks sector with Budweiser Zero, Stella Artois 0.0, O’Doul’s, Corona Cero and Michelob Ultra Zero, which was introduced in September. As for spirits, Diageo purchased Ritual Zero Proof, the world’s top-selling non-alcoholic spirits brand, in September. And Pernod Ricard launched a non-alcoholic version of gin, along with Cinzano Spritz 0% and Ceder’s, a gin-like non-alcoholic beverage with botanical notes of juniper, rooibos and buchu.

The non-alcoholic beverage market is expected to grow considerably in the near future, per statistics. In 2023, the market size was valued at $1,077.35 billion and is slated to grow from $1,169.57 billion in 2024 to $2,040.83 billion by 2032, SkyQuest Technology, a market research firm, reported.

2025 could possibly be the year that more people abandon alcohol for good, especially after Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy called for a cancer risk warning label on alcoholic beverages on January 3. Key data from the U.S. Department of Health & Human Services has shown that consuming alcohol increases the risk of developing at least seven types of cancer. Alcohol-related cancer risk also differs between men and women. Approximately 22% of women would develop cancer due to consuming two drinks per day. For men, that percentage is 13.1%.

Although there’s a thirst for more non-alcoholic beverages, consumers are craving sophisticated and elevated drinks that push the boundaries of a simple juice-and-soda mixed drink. That’s according to Vanessa Royle and Mariah Hilton Wood, co-founders of Tilden, a social, non-alcoholic beverage company.

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“I think we're going to see bar and restaurant [non-alcoholic] menus get a lot better,” Royle told Salon. “Last year, it felt like everywhere I went had a non-alc menu. Many of them were still soda water, lemonade and Diet Coke. I feel like we're in the midst of this realization that [non-alc drinks] have to be thoughtful. And actually, if you create something thoughtful and charge more for it, people will pay for it because they want that.”

“We often talk about it in terms of occasion — instead of drinkers and non-drinkers,” Hilton Wood added. “This year, I foresee the share of drinking occasions that include alcohol shrinking and being replaced by non-alcoholic beverages."

“We want to drink. And I think in the past, more of those drinks would have just been alcoholic drinks, because that's what was available,” she added. “And people just didn't think that there was another option. But as we become more aware that non-alcohol options are great, I think a lot of those — like, not-quite-drinking-moments — are going to be filled in with the non-alc options.”

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That’s why one day in mid-November, she decided to stop drinking for a year.

“I was drinking with some friends and just felt like crap the next day,” Gemmell told Salon in a phone interview. “I was like, ‘I’m done with this.’”

Gemmell is part of a growing “sober curious” movement, which promotes a more conscientious approach to drinking where people set intentions about how much and when they drink, if at all. Although “Dry January," “Sober October,” and other temporary abstinence trends come and go each year, the sober curious movement continues to grow. The movement has been around for about a decade but has recently grown more popular on social media, with influencers featuring it in their videos and the titular character of “Emily in Paris” even highlighting it on the latest season.

“The sober curious movement, which is about individual empowerment, is the first grassroots cultural movement of its kind,” said Ruby Warrington, whose book “Sober Curious” is credited with bringing the idea to the mainstream. “This is the beginning of a cultural shift when it comes to the role alcohol plays in society, similar to what we have seen with smoking.”

Anyone can be sober curious, but some data suggests it is particularly popular among younger people. A 2020 study in JAMA Pediatrics found that the proportion of college students abstaining from alcohol rose from 20% to 28% between 2002 and 2018. In a 2023 Gallup poll, the portion of respondents under age 35 who drank declined 10% from the prior year and was lower than the national average.

“Gen Z has been fueling this movement toward a lot of things,” said Melise Panetta, a marketing lecturer at Wilfrid Laurier University in Canada. “One is being physically and mentally well — and not drinking is part of that for them.”

Research has found that the earlier people start drinking alcohol, the higher the odds of developing an alcohol use disorder later in life. Younger people may be drinking less alcohol because they have been exposed to so much information online at a young age and are more aware of its negative effects on health, Panetta said.

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“I liken it a little bit to the cigarette industry and how it evolved,” Panetta told Salon in a phone call. “You’re seeing similar trends with a lot of peer pressure back in the day, no networks for folks who really wanted to quit, and then that completely turned on its head … I think this is going to follow a similar path.”

Abstaining from alcohol even temporarily has shown to have health benefits. One 2016 study of participants who participated in “Dry January” said it improved their sleep. Another study in 2018 found people who abstained from alcohol had improved insulin sensitivity and blood pressure compared to a control group. And a study published earlier this year showed the brain could recover damage done to the cortex, the outer layer of the brain responsible for memory and problem solving, after about seven months of abstinence among people with alcohol use disorder.  

Alcohol abstinence may also reduce anxiety and depression, although many people drink alcohol as a way to cope with life’s stressors, said Dr. Marisa Silveri, the director of the Neurodevelopmental Laboratory on Addictions and Mental Health at McLean Hospital. Like any drug, it comes down to the dose and frequency of use. Light and moderate drinking may actually reduce stress, but the question remains if the positive benefits of booze are outweighed by the impacts it can have on the liver, gut and brain.

“Neurobiologically, if you drink, during the period of actually being intoxicated, there is some relief because there are changes in neurochemicals that relate to depression and anxiety,” Silveri told Salon in a phone interview. “But the moment alcohol goes out of your system, all of those things come right back, and they actually come back to a worse degree.”

Some evidence suggests an increasing number of people are substituting alcohol for cannabis — which is referred to as being “California sober.” In the federally funded Monitoring the Future survey, the proportion of respondents between ages 19 and 30 using cannabis has trended upward since it began in 1995, whereas alcohol use has trended downward. Among college students, the proportion who drank alcohol dropped by about 5% between 2023 and 2022, whereas cannabis use increased by about 5%.

“Many CBD and THC edibles are marketed as being alcohol replacements too,” Warrington said.

Some people who have alcohol use disorder might not be able to approach the substance with “curiosity,” and might prefer abstinence-only models or other treatment. But the sober curious movement is also growing alongside a deeper understanding of how drug and alcohol use works. After decades of touting abstinence-only initiatives that have failed to curb the overdose crisis and serve the 17 million U.S. adults who are alcohol dependent, drug policies are showing an increased acceptance of harm reduction strategies that meet people where they are and provide them with resources — understanding that complete abstinence might not be possible or desired.

Although there is still a long way to go to reduce the stigma around mental health and drug use, things have improved and those stigmas are at least now a part of the conversation, Silveri said. The drinking culture is experiencing a shift as well: Drinks are referred to as being “alcohol-free” instead of “nonalcoholic,” mocktails are becoming more commonplace on menus, and dry bars that don’t serve alcohol are popping up across the country.

“Mental health stigma is kind of a conversation now, where people can be outwardly talking about depression or anxiety,” Silveri said. “A lot of this has to do with social norms that reduce stigma around abstaining from alcohol.”

Gemmell has replaced nights out with friends with breakfast dates or lunches, and some of her closest friends are also abstaining from alcohol, which helps the social transition, she said. 

“I am also learning that maybe I have some friends who are just drinking buddies or maybe we just got along because we got drinks together,” Gemmell said. “I’m kind of seeing how those friendships are playing out through this process.”

For her, alcohol was getting in the way of the intentions she has for the year to come, like moving her body and working out consistently to feel better throughout the week.

“[The idea] that we need alcohol to have fun is really dated,” Gemmell said. “I’m glad we are having this shift toward being fully present and feeling good.”

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And in usual fashion, when pressed, very little else is discussed beyond “Oh, I don’t drink anymore” — which for the average civilian, I totally appreciate. Stigma is real and, as much as I wish it wasn’t so, there are consequences from coming out as sober.  

But Walz is not in an average place at all. He’s a person with lived experience who can help remove stigma with a few choice words. And why does the stigma around drugs matter? He can talk about it from a personal place.

Furthermore, an increasing amount of people are dying from drug overdoses in the U.S. today than at any point in modern history, and research has demonstrated that effective stigma reduction efforts normalize substance use disorder diagnosis, treatment and recovery while increasing outreach by those with substance use disorder to supportive services. 

So, the more people talk about it – especially those in power with lived experience — the more people realize it’s not so weird to get help. The more people live. 

24 million people live in recovery in the United States and we are (currently) not a organized voting block. We don’t buy music together, we don’t support movies together, etc., mainly because we lack public leadership. We have Robert Downey Jr. and he’s apparently now Dr. Doom and doing a Broadway show, so he’s busy.  

Not only are we not organized, we don’t often get mention. We didn’t get referenced in either candidates acceptance speech, even though addiction is the number one killer of people ages 18 to 45. The ultimate non-partisan issue, put on the back burner by both parties as approximately 108,000 people die a year.  

But the blame is also on us. Non-organized groups that don’t tap into their collective voting power typically don’t get what they want. Shocking, I know. Because addiction affects everyone, all genders, all races, all socio-economic levels, we are the political cause that is oddly the most American. I’ve attended AA meetings in New Orleans where I was the only one not in drag, and I’ve attended meetings in Ohio, where my flannel was actually a little boring, and I can honestly say they were both the same meeting. 

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AA would tell you that anonymity is the spiritual foundation of our sobriety, and so you should stay quiet. I would remind folks, that while you are free to believe whatever you believe, another truth is dead people don’t recover. So if we can speak up and keep them alive, I’m happy to then argue about any and all things sobriety.  

Governor Walz can change all that. He can own his recovery, tell us his full story, how he did it, how he does it on a daily basis, how he has a phenomenal family who hasn’t ever seen him drink. He has a success story, one of the best I’ve seen. He can tell us that recovery is possible. 

We all love a midwestern dad for being empathetic, helpful, present, for spreading joy. We trust them.  

If Walz openly talked about being sober, we’d love him more. More importantly, 24 million voters would feel less alone. Most importantly, with the removal of stigma, less Americans would die.  

Let’s do it Tim. Tell us. 

The post Tim Walz’s sobriety is a success story. Why doesn’t he talk about it more? appeared first on Salon.com.

Maja is my first cousin’s first cousin. In Baltimore, that means we’re close family. My dad's sister married her dad's brother, ultimately connecting us. A popular bartender, Maja created the most beautiful drinks anyone has ever seen or tasted in some of Baltimore’s fanciest restaurants.

“A MajTail,” I laughed, sipping the ginger-heavy citrus concoction she slid in my direction. “I’m in it for the long haul, cuz.”  

Fifteen years my junior, Maja, or Maj, has always been a dreamer. She has two big sleepy eyes that dominate her face and pair perfectly with her Zen-like demeanor. Many of the younger people in our family opted for traditional nine-to-fives or the streets, but she worked to make a name for herself in the art world, gaining an impeccable reputation for her drawings and paintings. The street guys and the nine-to-fivers have a lot to talk about with each other, but rarely share community with Maja’s artsy crowd. Our paths almost never collided until I joined the art world she knew so well, and began to see her at parties, and frequent places she worked, like The Charleston, Alma Cocina and Bloom's, where I would eat the most delicious food in the city and have the luxury of washing it down with her beautiful craft cocktail creations, with my wife and friends at my side. 

“You always have fun, even when y’all not drinking or before y'all’s drinks come out,” Maja said. “So just have fun — focus on that.” 

I love alcohol: the smell, the taste, the way it makes me feel. There’s something about sipping from a bottle or glass of warm confidence that just feels right. I’ve known this since I was a child — 10 years old, to be precise. 

One day, my cousin Lo begged me to go with him to see his estranged mother, who had recently won a long battle with addiction.

“I bought you something, baby,” she said, her veiny hands gripping a crumpled paper bag. “I didn’t forget you.” 

“The Colt 45 kind?” Lo guessed, his eyes watering as he snatched the bag. “Thank you, Mom!” 

Lo guzzled, then passed the can to me. I took a slow sip: like soda, but not as sweet, or even joyous at all, I thought. The aftertaste of Colt 45, a malt liquor that was as dangerous as it was popular, crumpled my face to match the bag that concealed the can. “Yuck!” 

The drink tasted so bad, but it felt so right. Imagine a cactus with milk so sweet, it’s worth the thorns. We laughed hysterically at my childish reaction, even though I was a child. I took another swig, shot another frown and passed the can back to Lo, who happily gulped. I knew my mom would have killed me if she found out, so I swore off liquor until it revisited me in 7th grade. 

Hawk rocked a monochromatic blue Coogi, so we wore monochromatic blue Coogis. Hawk never tied his New Balance; he purposely left the laces undone, so you’d never see a bow on our shoes either. Hawk sat drunk in the project stairwell, gripping a bottle of Absolut vodka, so when he passed it to me, I was all in. 

And I sipped, tripped and fell in love with that vodka. Booze and I became inseparable in the years that followed. It became a part of my identity: The fun guy with the drinks on deck. 

Alcohol is a depressant, scientifically speaking. But there seemed to be nothing depressing about grabbing a drink before the function, grabbing a drink at the function, and grabbing a drink after the function. There was always a reason to grab a drink with a friend. We would even grab a drink at the bar just to figure out where we should go on to grab drinks.

This lifestyle delivered so many glorious memories, nights and people I only remember in flashes. A life that I enjoyed and even bragged about, all the way up until my doctor delivered a reality check, recommending I eighty-six salty food — there goes fine dining — and go cold turkey off the booze for a while (goodbye, craft cocktails) so that we could regulate my rising blood pressure. 

Here’s what I learned during my first booze-free week after three decades of regular drinking: Liquor makes mediocre restaurant food taste like fine dining — the only ingredient better at enhancing flavors than salt. Ordering it also makes that dinner much more expensive. Everyone around me in the restaurant is also louder and sweatier, it seems, when I’m sober. And my sobriety makes other people uncomfortable, too. They poke at me, question my health, and ignore everything except what is — or isn’t — inside my glass.

* * *

“A yoooo, D Watk a weirdo! Man, oh man, aye aye, Watk lost his got dammed mind! What in the —” screamed a small woman with long braids growing out of the back of an oversized Oriole cap.  

A couple of months after the doctor told me to start eating cleaner and stop drinking for a while, an Uber dropped me off at this restaurant around 9:15, where I was greeted by thunderous applause. It kind of felt like a surprise party, except none of my close friends were there. These were casual business acquaintances, loose ties, strangers. I was being honored for my work with kids in schools. 

A young woman in a sparkly dress presented me with a framed certificate and a microphone. To my right, a DJ saluted from his booth. To my left, well-dressed educators and tastemakers eagerly awaited my words. In front of me, a packed restaurant of people ate and drank, some glancing over at me like, Who in the hell is this guy? 

I made my remarks and went over to the organizer’s table. Before I could sit, one of those tastemakers presented me with a long, luxurious brown box containing the premium tequila brand sponsor for the night’s event. 

Then four bottle girls arrived, placing four empty shot glasses in front of my face. One of the bottle girls had said, “For the man of the hour,” with a wink, filling each of the glasses in front of me with tequila until they all overflowed. The look and smell of the liquid made my head throb. 

“I have to run and wash my hands,” I told the table as they began knocking their drinks back. I cut through the crowd and entered the restroom. A walking and breathing mess stared back at me in the mirror. 

After making it through the first few weeks of my doctor-recommended sobriety, I decided to indulge a little on a family visit to Paris I had booked a few months before the physician gave me the sad news. I stuck to my guns, not touching a drop until our feet were planted on European land, and I had decided to continue my alcohol-free mission when we returned to the States. I had felt great about my choices until I was presented with that tall bottle of tequila and poured those four shots that seemed to be screaming my name. I can beat this too, I told myself. 

I splashed water on my face and exited the restroom. The educators were in full turn-up mode, iPhone filming and dancing. My shots waited patiently for me. 

I wondered what Maj would do. Maybe I should order a MajTail, I thought.

If I walked a big mocktail over to my table, I reasoned, people wouldn’t be paying attention to the fact that I was not downing those shots. 

“I’m working, on the clock, not really drinking,” I said to the bartender, a slim dude with a thinning fro. “Can you make me a mocktail?” 

“Sure, brother,” the bartender answered. “Any particular taste in mind?” 

Enter the walking Oriole cap. 

“A yoooo D Watk a weirdo! Man, oh man, Watk lost his got dammed mind! What in the—” screamed that small woman with the long braids growing out of the back of her oversized Oriole hat.

Every patron in the joint laid eyes on us at the same time, it seemed. To my surprise, others jumped in to defend me, saying things like, “Everybody can’t be an alcoholic like you, girl,” and “Don’t play with D like that!” 

Eventually, I made it back to my table, where I was greeted by another person who recently started his own wine company and wanted me to taste every flavor. Well, it’s wine, I thought, and I’m kind of sophisticated, I thought, and I just came back from Paris, I thought, so passing on this offer would be a great disservice to that young entrepreneur and the community, is what I landed on. 

I drank glass after glass, holding the bottle — bottles — making sure the women in the large cap saw me consuming enough wine to collapse an elephant. Who’s the weirdo now? 

Me, apparently, because alcohol won the battle that night. Even though I didn't take the tequila shots, I was still as drunk as a trust fund frat boy by the time I left. 

The more I reflected on that evening, the more I became bothered by things I failed to recognize or wish I would have considered in the moment. 

I don't owe these people anything, so why should their opinions force me into becoming wine-drunk? Do I lack self-control? 

I have never had the level of clarity I gained in the short sober time I had before Paris. So why would I quickly throw that away to please a bunch of strangers at a function? 

I have no idea who that little woman lost in that big-ass baseball cap was, so why would I care about her insults?

Was I drinking for me or because Maj had been found dead in her apartment a week before I left for Paris? 

And I realized that I would never be able to ask her what would she do again. I will never be able to roll into a bar and see her face, be eased by her pleasant energy and taste one of her creations ever again. Was alcohol not the fun juice I always thought it was? Thinking about Maj, it was starting to feel every bit like a depressant. 

* * *

Alcohol is one of the leading preventable causes of death in the U.S., according to the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism. More than 140,000 deaths each year are estimated to be attributed to excessive drinking. It remains an urgent, life-or-death problem for many. Perhaps a growing awareness of that is why more people are being proactive about monitoring their consumption, even before it becomes a medical necessity or a chemical dependency. 

An explosion of new non-alcoholic adult drink brands shows there’s a market that still wants the feeling of going for a drink without the effects. Some people are avoiding alcohol, or just cutting back, to be more health conscious. Gen Z is drinking less than millennials and Gen Xers. And it feels much more common now — thanks in part to events like Dry January and Sober October — to take temporary breaks from drinking without the stigma attached to “falling off the wagon.” For some, mindful moderation — rather than an all-or-nothing approach — is now part of an aspirational lifestyle. 

For deeper insights into the source of my feelings about drinking and abstaining from a person who has taken the sober journey from inside — or rather, behind — the bar, I reached out to the first mixologist I ever met, Andre “Dre” Barnhill. Dre has been a star on the emerging cocktail scene in Baltimore over the past decade. He's held prominent positions at award-winning establishments like Woodberry Kitchen, and runs Clavel, one of the hottest Mezcal bars in our region. Dre was sober for two years, but recently decided to have an occasional cocktail. 

Dre is a relatively smooth fellow, always laid-back, never too visibly excited. He’s also the bartender who introduced me to what became my signature cocktail, the vodka gimlet. 

"A yo, I am traveling a little bit right now for these readings," I asked Dre one slow night at his bar. "And I'm struggling to find one go-to drink that any bartender can make, even me." 

"I noticed that you are a citrus guy,” Dre said. “So, a gimlet." 

Gin hasn’t been kind to me over the years. But Dre helped me fall in love with the smooth, clean taste of vodka gimlets. And during that time, Dre fell out of love with alcohol and the way it made him feel, so he decided to go on a hiatus. 

I reminded Dre that I did not remember him being the heaviest drinker before he took his pause––maybe a shot or two during a shift. But then I realized that he would normally be at work when I saw him, and I was coming into his bars with my own agenda, to ingurgitate as much booze and fried food as humanly possible. 

“You have to consider the lifestyle, especially 1:30 to 4 a.m.,” Dre explained. “Shutting the bar down and drinking over a period of time, it adds up.” 

I thought of how it would feel to work in a bar five days a week, and how that environment could easily transform a casual drinker into a person who consumes alcohol every day as part of their routine. 

“And then there's the social aspect that comes with being a bartender in the city,” Dre continued. “Bartenders, we love each other, so when we go out, we are always sending each other shots. And you have to take them because turning a gift down is rude.” 

Here’s an insidious thing about alcohol and stigma: It’s wrapped up in class issues. 

I imagined Dre bar hopping with his high-end craft cocktail crew: A diverse, stylish bunch wearing wool coats, high-quality loafers and cropped denims. I imagined Hawk mixing in with his bottle of vodka blue Coogi sweater, instantly changing the mood. When experimenting with vodka cocktails with Dre and his friends, I’m progressive, approachable; a good brother, not an addict. But if I were drinking the same vodka in the projects with Hawk, I’m a gangster or a bum — the world would see me as an addict. The stigma. 

The stigma around drinking is something that bartender Ashley Mac has learned to deal with on many levels. 

“I do not like the word mocktail. To mock is to make fun of, or to do a dry run, of something,” Ashley Mac, the vice president of the Baltimore Bartenders Guild known as AMAC in the hospitality world, told me. “My sobriety is not a dry run or a joke to me. It's like a personal thing. I wouldn't use the word mocktail––spirit-free, zero-proof or nonalcoholic cocktails is what I tend to lean towards.” 

AMAC — who also goes by “The Sober Tender” — is also program director for HEARD, a mental health-focused nonprofit for people in the hospitality industry. She has been sober for seven years and counting. But she didn’t leave bartending — a job she wanted since childhood — when she stopped drinking.

“I always wanted to be a bartender, ever since my parents took me to a Ruby Tuesday's back when I was a child,” AMAC said with a laugh. “The bartender ran the show, was the life of the party. And I wanted that so bad.”

AMAC got her first restaurant job at 15 and flourished professionally in the bar industry. But participating in the drinking culture that can come with working in bars took a heavy toll. She describes herself as “a late-stage alcoholic” by age 29. She even died once during withdrawal.

“I was out for 30 seconds. The next thing I remember was waking up in the back of an ambulance, and then ICU for eight days,” she said. “It was 13 days before I was discharged and off to rehab for three and a half months. I was 89 pounds when this all happened.”

AMAC returned home with major medical debt from the hospital and rehab. She had only been employed in the restaurant industry and didn’t know what she was going to do for money. So AMAC went back to bartending. 

Liquor is not my business. But so much of my business as a writer revolves around it — I call it let’s go grab a drink culture. I met my managers over a drink. Some of my first agents signed me after a drink or 10. I’ve done shots with lawyers and television executives. What would my career look like without it? Would I have been thought of a certain way if I had refused those drinks, or insisted we meet up for tea or sodas instead? 

I told AMAC about the time I tried to secretly order a mocktail at that tequila-sponsored educators’ award event. 

“That’s horrible,” she said. “I do some contract work for a bourbon company, and I don't tell people I'm sober when I'm trying to sell them bourbon.”  

“I have oftentimes been told as a bartender, I don't want you to make my drink if you're sober,” she continued. “How do you know what it tastes like? Or, I don't trust you as a bartender because you're sober.” 

Despite some of the negative experiences that both AMAC and I have had during different parts of our journey — mainly my attempt to remain sober in drunken places –– we have also both seen bar culture begin to change to incorporate sober people intentionally. 

Menus featuring specialty spirit-free, zero-proof — or the bar-industry dreaded phrase “mocktails” — are becoming more available in restaurants. Designated dry months are social trends that aren’t going away. And new nonalcoholic spirits, beer and wine companies seem to appear every day. Some are even establishing brick-and-mortar locations where tastings, events, and fellowshipping around alcohol-free living can flourish. 

The Zero Proof, a spirit-free adult beverage company, recently released the results of a survey that boldly declared the movement here to stay: “Two-thirds of American adults consciously intended to drink less alcohol in 2022, primarily fueled by health and budget concerns. This mindset, held by 64% of younger consumers (ages 21-30) and 50% of all adults who drink alcohol, will continue into 2023.” 

The survey also found that “nearly 7 in 10 of all respondents (alcohol drinkers and non-drinkers) say they wish social settings were more conducive to accommodating those who drink alcohol and those who do not. The most uncomfortable for non-drinkers are bars and house parties.” An $11 billion industry of no/low-alcohol drink brands has sprung up in response to serve that growing market. There’s even a store in Baltimore dedicated to them — Hopscotch Zero Proof Bottle Shop —  just a mile away from the restaurant where I was ridiculed for ordering a spirit-free drink. 

The explosion of nonalcoholic spirits shows the scene is changing. People want to enjoy a zero-proof cocktail — whether always, or just on occasion — with their friends, without standing out as an abstainer. After all, there are stigmas attached to sobriety, too, stemming from its associations with both addiction and moral judgment. 

“When I got sober, it was not something people were comfortable talking about,” Sarah Hepola told me. 

Hepola has been sober for 13 years, and vividly captured that journey in her critically lauded memoir, "Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget.” Hepola’s also a former culture editor for Salon, and the one responsible for planting the seed that grew into my writing career here. Can you guess what my first essay was about? Drinking. 

The first sentence reads, “Miss Sheryl, Dontay, Bucket-Head and I compiled our loose change for a fifth of vodka. I'm the only driver, so I went to get it.”  

“There’s pressure, and I kind of went into hiding for the first year of my sobriety,” Hepola continued. “I didn't go out, because I didn't want those questions.” 

Those questions.  

Those questions made staying sober more difficult than my urge to drink did. I did not miss hangovers, and I was experiencing that nonalcoholic clarity that sober people brag about. I felt great overall — until the questions came:

“Are you dying? If so, how soon, and can have your sneakers?” 

“Do you have some kind STD? And you’re not drinking because you don’t want to throw off the antibiotic?”

“Why come to a bar and not drink? That’s like getting on a boat and not boating, right?” 

“Have a drink! Real men don’t care about no damn blood pressure until they collapse! Did you even almost collapse yet? Collapse first, then talk to me about drinking!”  

I had a great sober run after my altercation at the educator ceremony, but about a month later, it ended. It wasn’t a dark, depressing fall-off, but I did abandon sobriety. Partially because of the questions and partially because of identity — it’s still difficult for me to imagine myself as a completely alcohol-free guy. There are too many memories, celebrations and bonds forged between me and my costar booze. I can’t remember signing a deal or accomplishing a goal or grieving a loved one without it. And my doctor never said I had to stop entirely — just cut back. 

“A person's sobriety is as unique as their fingerprint,” AMAC told me. 

So maybe my version can be sipping just enough to participate without fully indulging. 

I haven’t had a taste of hard liquor since that diagnosis. I now classify as a slight social wine drinker, the guy who circles the function with one glass. But I would be lying if I acted as if I didn’t feel like I was missing out on the fun that the drunken, sweaty people are having in my sober presence. 

Drinkers and non-drinkers are going to continue to find themselves in the same spaces, though, whether for professional reasons or a refusal to stop socializing even without booze. After all, addiction isn't the only reason people have to abstain from alcohol. Not everyone quits for extreme reasons. 

“A number of my friends quit drinking,” Hepola said. “The older you get, the more it really wears on your system. I have very few friends left who are really hardcore drinkers.… They just mellowed out.” 

* * *

Having these conversations about alcohol and sobriety,  I realized that most of the people I talked to were people closer to my own age — Gen Xers and Millennials. People who, like me, came of age during a time when grabbing a drink after work felt necessary, having a cold beer during the football game felt necessary — the kind of people who looked at prayer and alcohol as the primary ways to dissolve stress. I wanted to know how the students in my writing class at the University of Baltimore — mostly Gen Z, between the ages of 18 and 21 — related to alcohol. 

“Do you guys get sloppy drunk?” I asked a small group who came to class early, when some of our best, loosest conversations happened. 

“Yuck,” a young man named Josh said. “If being drunk could get me out of a final. Wait, are you giving a final?” 

Most of the group had no real interest in drinking. They didn't consider themselves to be sober, or feel like they were part of a movement. Drinking just didn't really seem to interest them. 

“I loved to guzzle Absolut vodka back when I was your age,” I said, as proudly as if I were a liquor company rep. “We partied at the club till 2 a.m., and then we hit the after-hours that rocked til 4, and then the after-after party at my crib that went until 6 or until everybody passed out!” 

“You should be lucky you are alive,” my student Nesha said. “That whole night sounds ridiculous. How did you have any fun?” 

“I can't remember, Nesha. I was drunk!” 

My students aren’t outliers, according to AMAC, who sees similar trends in the liquor industry and around the bars she frequents from time to time. 

“There's a younger generation coming up right now that does not drink. They don't want to drink.” AMAC said. “They know the hangover comes with it. They see the stigma.” 

More young adults are abstaining from alcohol compared to college-age Americans 20 years ago, Science Daily reports. “Between 2002 and 2018, the number of adults aged 18-22 in the U.S. who abstained from alcohol increased from 20% to 28% for those in college and from about 24% to 30% for those not in school, say researchers at the University of Michigan and Texas State University.”

I was born on the cusp between Gen X and Millennials. I remember everyone drinking all of the time. There’s definitely been a shift. Hepola’s seen it, too. 

“If you're coming up underneath that, you're probably going to rebel against what your older siblings do, because it’s not cool,” she said. 

* * *

Nonalcoholic cocktails may be easier to find in liquor stores, restaurants and bars now, and young people may not be drinking as much. But let’s go grab a drink culture hasn’t retired. Maybe the conversation we should be having should be about more than navigating the world safely in sobriety — going out to a bar or a nightclub should be a safe experience for anyone, no matter what or how much they’re drinking. 

Safe Bars was founded in Washington, D.C., in 2013 by gender-based violence prevention expert Lauren Taylor. When I spoke with their executive director Amie Ward for this story, Ward — who also founded the peer-to-peer support and resource group The Healthy Tender, for sober or sober-curious folks in her industry — told me that the organization’s mission started with a focus on self-defense and bystander intervention, “because of the high link of alcohol within sexual assaults that are reported. One in two sexual assaults involve alcohol.” 

Ward’s degrees in kinesiology and cultural studies inform her insights into how power and bodies intersect in drinking spaces — an underrated skill in the hospitality world. When a patron walks into a bar, they are heading for a destination, wanting to be transported from whatever they are feeling to a place of ease. Safe Bars’ training positions bartenders as the trip’s pilot, capable of ensuring a safe trip for everyone. Ward’s first safety rule is simple: “Don't automatically give people shots.” 

“Number two: If somebody says no, that's the end of the f**king question,” Ward continued. “That’s the answer. ‘No’ is a complete sentence. Don’t ask them why — it's not your story to know!” 

I thought about my experience at the ceremony, wondering if my night would have gone differently if the bartender had stepped in. I also thought about how many people in the service industry live off tips, and wondered if it's even ethical for me to expect them to control all of the crazy conversations and interactions that happen at their bars. There are too many resources available for patrons to learn how to conduct themselves respectably. 

I landed on the idea that the answer lies in the collective; it is up to everyone — patrons, bartenders, servers, the sober and the drunk alike — to work together to create a reality where everybody is comfortable and happy. We all deserve that, sober or not. Maja taught me that.

I didn’t give Maja all the flowers she deserved when I had the opportunity. My inability to fully appreciate those times while she was here tied into the feelings that many of us — including some of the former drinkers I talked to — chased at some point in our lives: The yearning to hold onto memories, places and people that we want to see, talk to or touch again. And this is where it becomes bigger than booze — and potentially more dangerous — because there is no way to really recreate those wild nights while sober. They never would have happened the same way without the drinks.

Maja and I had so many “I was messed up last night!” conversions that I truly miss; however, I realized that I miss the art, food and life conversations we shared just as much if not more. I may not have been able to reach this understanding if she was still here, or if I had kept my drinking habit. 

The space I gained from the huge alcohol reduction from my diet has allowed me to focus on the good, the bad and the things that matter. To understand that those wild nights are gone, but better nights are coming. To appreciate what I have, and be present. To focus on the fun, just like Maja said. 

She was right the whole time. 

The post Navigating the new sober boom, where “a person’s sobriety is as unique as their fingerprint” appeared first on Salon.com.

“My science-backed view is that alcohol problems are massively heterogeneous, hugely complex, nuanced, and individual,” said Dr. James Morris, Chair of the New Directions in the Study of Alcohol Group at London South Bank University. “But the models, the terms and ideas that we have around them are very limited and categorical, and siphon people into certain stereotypes or ideas like abstinence or rock bottom or only sobriety, etc.”

“I'm by no means anti-abstinence or anti-sobriety," Morris said. "It’s such an important thing, and it's the healthiest choice. But I am against excluding other ways of changing drinking patterns, or allowing people to explore their drinking in ways that don't necessarily siphon them off into these very strongly kind of labeled ideas.” 

Morris has been doing intriguing research into the language we use around sobriety and alcoholism, and the potential positive benefits for some to embrace a more fluid perspective.

“For people that engage with self-identification, my view is that reflects a really strong commitment to recovery,” he said. “That process of recovery involves an identity shift away from protecting and valuing drinking as a positive identity to replacing that with like a recovery identity.”

In contrast, Morris said, “For some groups of heavy drinkers, a continuum model means that they don't really have to engage in that identity shift. They can consider some of the consequences of their alcohol use without having to think about, ‘What does this mean for how I position my identity?’” 

“Just like everything else in culture, people need to understand that sobriety is in a period of flux right now,” said Sarah Hepola, author of the bestselling “Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget.” “Bill Wilson gets going with AA, and so the one thing that everyone can agree on is if you don't drink, you can smoke the s**t out of cigarettes. Nicotine is a gnarly drug. And, how are you going to navigate a world if your lines of demarcation for de-escalating your addiction to a substance run along legality lines? Well, you're moving away from cigarettes, which are increasingly banned in spaces, and you're moving toward things like marijuana, psychedelics, all sorts of nootropic gray zone areas. I once listened to a woman give the most riveting share about how she almost tried kombucha. I had to ask my sponsor later, 'What's kombucha?' She said, 'That's that stuff at the store. There's a little bit of alcohol in it.' I'm like, what is happening?"

(Just to show how varied mileage on this is, one recovery program advises that consuming kombucha "can be viewed as a relapse, while another refers to it as a "good alcohol alternative.")

As Hepola puts it, “AA has a parallel with the Bible in the sense that there is a book, it was written by a person. He's dead now. Everybody that was involved in the process of writing that book is dead now. They don't have any additional materials to add to that book. But that book doesn't include things like antidepressants, the legalization of marijuana, an understanding of mental health, certainly doesn't expand to nonalcoholic drinks. There’s no kombucha. And so what happens when you have a bunch of people that are going to interpret the words of a very wise book by a dead person is that some of them are going to have a generous interpretation, and then you're going to have people that have the strict fundamentalist interpretation.” 

I was reminded of this fundamentalism when actor and podcaster Dax Shephard announced the launch of a nonalcoholic beer brand this past spring, and an older sober friend was swift to express his disdain. “How is that not a slip?” my buddy had wondered. This is a man who won’t touch anything cooked in wine, who’s highly suspicious of pain relievers — and wouldn’t dream of using mouthwash. 

For years, I’ve accepted my friend’s decades-long version of sobriety as the closest thing to authentic as it comes, including that rigorous avoidance of not just alcohol but anything that conjures the feeling of alcohol. Naturally, when a few months ago I told him about Abe Zarate, a sommelier who goes by @sober_somm on his TikTok, and whose wine tasting motto is “I just spit,” my friend was similarly skeptical. For him, even experiences that are alcohol adjacent feel like a slippery slope to cheating, a condition that reminds me of the Whole 30 maxim about avoiding “sex with your pants on.” He may be on to something. A 2023 feature in VeryWellMind warned that for some with alcohol use disorder, the smell of alcohol substitutes can trigger cravings that may lead to relapse. 

Or as Hepola said, “The old saying in AA is that if you keep going to the barber, you'll get a haircut.” But, she added, “That saying derives from a time when there really weren't that many options. When I was a year sober, I went to a bar, and asked for seltzer. The bartender was like, ‘What now?’ That's how far we've come. Because since then, there's been the La Croix revolution followed by the Waterloo revolution and the Rambler revolution. Then you've got non-alcoholic brews, and you've got zero-proof cocktails. You've got every single liquor company looking at their bottom line and going in hardcore with nonalcoholic drinks.”

Hepola recalled hearing from some other people in sobriety that “We're not going to get mad about this, but we don't like it. We left that world, and I don't want to participate in it.” And, she said, “That is completely valid. I just refuse to believe it can't be a choice.”

Sobriety is a highly individual concept, one based in behaviors that may adapt and change, within a culture that also has adapted and changed exponentially in just the past few years. There’s no one set way to practice sobriety, and nobody can define anybody else’s version of it. What looks like a slip to one person may well be keeping another one sober, because drinking is never just about drinking. It's also about belonging.

“This is 21st century recovery," said Hepola, "and it needs to reckon with all the many variables. It’s almost 100 years since Bill Wilson fell off his barstool.” 

The post What do we mean when we say “sober” now? appeared first on Salon.com.

Sobriety is not just an annual New Year's challenge — we are in a shifting moment in alcohol consumption. A 2023 Gallup poll found Gen Z drinks substantially less than their elders, and drinks less regularly and less excessively. And a 2021 Gallup poll from 2021 found that "The average number of drinks Americans consume in a week has been falling over the last several years." For most of us, though, cutting down or cutting out alcohol is a relatively straightforward affair. It's not so simple when it's your job.

"I've been in the wine industry since I was very young,"  Conner tells me during a recent phone conversation. "I got into wine because I did competitive blind wine tasting during my undergrad when I was at Oxford, which obviously for Americans is impossibly young, but in England, I could drink." Now, after building a career in a field she loves — yet one that she says incentivizes excess — she's figuring out a new normal.

"I have never desired to stop drinking," she admits. "I want to drink moderately. I've been to [AA] meetings; I have friends who've been in program. I acknowledge that it can really help some people, but I also absolutely reject any one size fits all model. I know I drink too much. I know I like drinking too much. I know that it's easy for me to drink too much. I am surrounded by free alcohol. And," she adds, " I don't want to lose my connection to wine, because wine is sacred and beautiful. And my career and my journey in this life, I think in a large part is to find a way to be moderate."

For Conner, coming to terms with a new dimension of her life also means looking back at the ways the industry — and drinking culture in general — uniquely affect women. In 2020, the New York Times published a feature on the sexual harassment and assault problems within the Court of Master Sommeliers, Americas. One female sommelier told the paper at the time that "Sexual aggression is a constant for women somms. We can’t escape it, so we learn to live with it,” Devon Broglie, the organization's chairman, resigned soon after. "It was a really triggering article," says Conner, "and to the surprise of no woman ever." 

"Basically, this is an old boys club," she says. "It's super toxic. They're all drunk all the time. They're encouraging us to drink a lot. The whole industry is a super dangerous place for women, particularly young women. We are plied with alcohol and, and it's free, and it's intoxicating. Certainly when I was young in this industry, nobody was talking about how to stay safe, how to not drink too much, about moderation. It was very much, 'Eating is cheating.'"

She says that now, "It's gotten easier for me because I work for myself, I have relationships with winemakers. But nobody wants to admit that there's a problem. Nobody wants to admit that alcohol isn't good for you. Everyone wants to look at this one study from a million years ago. 'The French paradox, oh, I guess wine is healthy.' It's not healthy. It's poison. It's sacred poison. There are beautiful things about it, but it is dangerous. And I see how little people want to have that conversation." 

For Conner, shifting her relationship with wine means still drinking it, though doing so differently. For example, "We don't drink at home," she says. "Unless we have friends over, there's no open wine at our house." 

But for Abe Zarate, a New York sommelier who goes by @sober_somm on his TikTok and Instagram, evolution has meant something else. "I just spit," is the simple explanation he offers on his bio, though in practice the experience is more nuanced.

"I always had the idea that I was a heavy drinker," he says, "but I never thought of it as abuse. There was this phrase thrown around me all the time — 'professional alcoholic' — and as a 25, 26 year-old, you kind of carry as a badge of honor. Being able to get my certification and get the promotion, get the job, etc., it becomes even more of almost a power play."

Zarate says, "It wasn't until I started noticing all the areas of my life — financial relationships, work, etc. suffering, that I started thinking, 'Maybe I should lay off.'" But when his sisters confronted him about his drinking, he knew he needed to make a dramatic change — and like Caroline Conner, discovered he didn't have a lot of company. "I started looking at other people who might be active in alcohol industry or beverage industry and sober and I couldn't find many," he says. "So that's where Instagram page came about, to give me some sort of accountability." 

Over time, he says, "It just became a mission to turn it into a sort of superpower. Why wouldn't you want to hire someone who won't potentially be you know, drunk or embarrassing or a bad representation of your business?" But after quitting drinking in the summer of 2020, Zarate had to figure out how to stay in a business where he'd be surrounded by wine. "I didn't want to be scared of alcohol and I didn't want to want it to control me," he says. "I think it controls you as you're abusing it. But it can also control you once you quit it, if you let it. And if you view it as a sacrifice, it's not sustainable."

Instead, now he says that "Wine to me is reframed as people's stories and places. That's how I go about it. I'm getting ready for the advanced sommelier exam certification, not because I care about certifications, but because I want to show one more way in which this can be a sustainable career without overconsumption, or without abusing alcohol. And to show that to myself and others who might be in need of one example of hopefully many." He also does that by, as he says, spitting.

"It's going to a portfolio tasting that a distributor might have hundreds of wines available to taste," he explains, "and people are spitting. They're still able to make educated decisions about whether it works for their program, whether they like it, just through that taste that was not swallowed." He says. "It's just a recalibration of the palate. It's just like a muscle, just doing it to figure out how to make the right call."

As Conner and Zarate continue to explore what it means to reassess one's alcohol consumption while building a career in the wine world, they both want to further a dialogue that's largely been left out of their industry. It's been nearly six years since a feature in Meininger's Wine Business International asked, "How do we teach up-and-coming professionals to know that … you can have a successful career in wine and spirits without excess, when some of those in the industry who are considered 'successful' also demonstrate existing or developing issues, or unhealthy habits that may cause problems in the future?"

But it'll take more professionals coming forward with their lived experiences of how they're making it work to demonstrate how it can be done — and, by extension, help lead the rest of us in learning how to balance pleasure and moderation. 

"I have not met many people in the booze industry who don't drink too much," says Caroline Conner, "I will say that; I will scream that from the rooftops. I really think that all of us drink too much." But in her own life, she says, "I am in a good place right now, and there will be times when I'll probably stop drinking altogether, but I don't think I'm ever going to be like, 'I'm never going to drink again.'" As she puts it, "It's complicated." 

The post What happens when a wine expert doesn’t want to drink? appeared first on Salon.com.

(“Hi, Rae.”) 

It’s not the seasonal depression or Christmas blues that get to me. It’s the holiday parties full of people you can barely tolerate, even when lit. It’s getting hockey-checked by frenzied consumers in packed shopping outlets while trying to log into your banking app. It’s the migraine-inducing cheery jingles ringing from on high while you cram more work into fewer shifts, just so you can race out the door and drive for hours toward your miserable little hometown, all to be with the collection of personality disorders that’s been posing as your family for 40 years. 

The holidays are a relapse gauntlet for someone who struggles with alcohol, even for us California sober types. And lately that’s especially the case for women. Compounding the problem, the recently sober run this bottled-in-bond obstacle course while facing increased isolation as support networks and therapists head out of town themselves. Like every dry drunk, I’ve been told the key to getting through the minefield with your chip intact is to have a plan and stick to it. Plenty of mental health and addiction experts have offered their tip sheets. 

Mine includes everyone getting out of my face while I pound sugar like I live in a timeline where size-zero clothes and diabetes never existed. Then I’m leaving town for the closest weed-legal state, with the singular goal of chiefing so hard the local budtender nicknames me “ISS” — because nerds with a death-wish have been trying to get inside and fix me since 1998, but I’m so complicated and high it’ll take two alphabets and a billion-dollar international consortium to make me come down safely. 

Not all of us are abandoning ship, though. And there are still a few parties to attend before I bounce. Mind you, I’m not an expert in anything except getting paid and being 100% that b****, so this list isn’t reflective of advice from the broader recovery community. Nonetheless, here’s a few helpful hints from Hell-oise on making your holiday party more recovery friendly for the Cali-sober people you love.

Why am I even here?

Is this a party or just a really slow and uncomfortable drinking game? Give me something to do. Where are your dice? Why don’t you have poker chips? Is this a bong? Hey, did you know the counterweight on your record player’s tonearm was set to four freaking grams? I don’t know where you found a cartridge that heavy but you’re gonna shred your wax that way, man. Yeah, no worries, I zeroed it out for you but the anti-skate knob is loose. Where do you keep your screwdrivers? 

The Irish exit

Your freshly dried-out friend actually showed up? Like… not by accident, but intentionally left the house to come here?? Holy hell. Congrats. Even 30 seconds of attendance hits the social-acceptability quota, and a lot of us will probably dip that fast. Don’t make a big deal about it, especially if the food sucks and boozing is the only thing to do. We’ve got a fine-tuned radar for when things are about to get too fun, and you’ve got other guests to worry about — like Ted. He just hasn’t been the same since Annette took his carpet-cleaning business in the divorce, and now he seems to be mistaking your monstera for a urinal.

Mocktails and non-alcoholic booze

If the coffee game is on point, we will love you in ways your parents never did. It’s marvelous of you to have NA-booze options around. Don’t be offended if some of us steer clear; depending on the person and the moment, near-beer can either be a perfect delight or trigger blood-lust level cravings for the real deal. Friend hack: If you keep a bottle of club soda with bar fruit and mixers nearby, we can keep our hands busy making PlaySkool mocktails (what a stupid word) instead of taking apart your spouse’s expensive turntable. 

Mind your business

I’m looking forward to people asking why I’m not drinking so I can see how uncomfortable I can make them. My biggest hope is that they’ll ask if I’m pregnant, and I’ll get to teach them a lesson about asking women That Question. I’ve been practicing my sadly wistful smile in the mirror, along with a softly spoken “not anymore” and just the exact right heel-turn. Werk.

Stop making it weird

So you’re doing Dry January and this is your last hoorah. Or you’re cutting back these days. Or your uncle just got sober. Or you quit smoking and just want me to know you understand how hard addiction is. Good for you — I wish I could launch myself out of this conversation and straight into the sun. Stop trying to relate when you don’t. Stop soliciting validation kudos for your pet false equivalencies. Stop veiling your own discomfort with self-deprecating remarks that tacitly seek permission to drink in front of me. I’m not here to collect sympathy, convert you to the church of AA, nor frown disapprovingly over proceedings from some moral high ground. Stop making it weird already and help me find the damn screwdrivers. 

Solo rolling sucks

Always assume I’m bringing a plus one-ish. Is it going to be a romantic interest? A sponsor? Two be-sequined nuns named Sister Petty Davis and and Sister Velveeta VonTease, who ziplined into your kitchen from our helicopter Uber while lip-syncing “Twerk Your Turkey”? Who knows. But if you’ve got another sober friend or three, invite them. Misery loves company and, if things go well, maybe one of them will start a badass girl gang with me. Maybe she’ll be cold and say she likes my leather jacket. Maybe she’ll tell me she always hated Parcheesi, and that the carpet-cleaning business is boring but it’s good money if you don’t mind the blood stains, and then ask if that’s my chopper and if I want to meet her cats — after all, I’m OK to drive.

An earlier version of this article originally appeared in Salon's Lab Notes, a weekly newsletter from our Science & Health team.

The post Staying sober during the holidays is like waging battle. Bring on the real war against Christmas appeared first on Salon.com.

“You’re too intense now,” said my mother in Michigan.

“I liked you better before,” admitted my cousin, who’d complained whenever I’d lit up but was now annoyed I couldn’t go bar hopping with her. Did she only want me to ax the bad habits we didn’t share?

“You’re no fun anymore,” carped a college buddy I’d once partied with. Did he prefer me stoned and half-conscious? 

Even a mentor said, “You’ve lost your spark.” Did he miss the deep, crazy conversations we had while chain-smoking and guzzling cocktails? I was hurt he found me more fascinating when I was using.

The muscular personal trainer I’d splurged on for a few sessions saw me sweating from nicotine withdrawal and said, “You look horrible. If it’s so painful, why don’t you just smoke?”

“I hired you to help get me over my two-pack-a-day fix,” I replied, startled. “It’s an impulse disorder. I need to learn to ‘suffer well.”

Those were the words of Dr. Woolverton, the substance specialist I saw weekly. Though I’d paid for two more sessions, the doctor suggested I cut my losses. So I quit the trainer too.

“Why all the negative reactions?” I asked in therapy, stunned and confused by the backlash.

“Your sobriety holds up a mirror to everyone’s excesses. It could be seen as threatening,” he explained. “Especially for those who don’t want to — or can’t — stop.”

But maybe there was another reason. What if I sounded like a moralizing, self-righteous prig? Was it time to give up people-pleasing, too? 

Anxious, overweight and friendless at 13, tobacco and pot relieved my social awkwardness and miraculously suppressed my appetite. I was nervous to start college early, so I became popular as the fun girl who threw wild soirees. (Well, wild for Michigan.) We shared smokes, booze (my drink was vodka and Tab), a water bong, magic mushrooms and the occasional Xanax. I relished the role of bohemian poet, sure I needed to be wacked out to write. I clung to those crutches for decades.

It wasn’t so cute at 41 — more like pathetic and depressing. While I was too prissy to try LSD, heroin or Oxy, I loved blow since it kept me from eating for three days. Before I put my entire bank account up my nose, I committed to a year of one-on-one talk therapy with Dr. Woolverton. But each time I cut out a substance, a new fetish surfaced. A psycho-pharmacologist thought I had Attention Deficit Disorder with Hyperactivity and prescribed Adderall. It made me feel like a speed freak, so I threw those pills away. One dose of Wellbutrin almost gave me a seizure.

With no one-size-fits-all balm, we tried an idiosyncratic, all-out behavioral strategy to avoid the “substance shuffle” common with addicts. Eating the icing off a dozen cupcakes caused a sleepless sugar rush, and my jeans refused to zip. A stick of Juicy Fruit gum to quell my nicotine cravings turned into ten packs a day until a nutritionist pushed me toward sugarless — and then the sorbitol made me sick. After losing two fillings, my dentist insisted I quit gum altogether. In a state of chaotic agitation, I ricocheted from the caffeine in endless daily cans of Diet Coke to hundreds of cinnamon sticks to being unable to sleep without Tylenol cough syrup.

“You have such a compulsive personality, you could get hooked on carrot sticks,” Dr. Woolverton said. He delineated the difference between an innocuous ritual versus an obsessive dependency: Stop doing it for two weeks, and if it hurts, you’re getting addicted.

As the nicotine patch stemmed my cigarette cravings, my recovery required retraining my brain to stop reaching for anything to obliterate difficult emotions. To do that, I journaled, recording the complicated feelings I could no longer inhale, imbibe or eat away. I repeated mantras incessantly, like “Lead the least secretive life you can” and “The only way to change is to change. Understanding follows.”

When a colleague called me “a walking Oprah episode,” I thought of toning it down. But then I learned the buff former personal trainer who’d asked, “Why don’t you just smoke?” died of a heart attack in his 40s. Another client of his revealed he’d been on steroids. I was shocked. I’d been so myopically involved in my own recovery, I’d missed signs he was doping. Was my temperance triggering? His death reminded me how dangerous substances could be, with deadly opioid overdoses increasing catastrophically over the last few years.

Without intervention, addictions don’t get smaller; they grow more out of control until they explode, Dr. Woolverton insisted. He advised me to put as many obstacles between myself and my substances as possible. But how?

To stay clean, I had to be boring — and vigilant. As everyone was either part of the problem or part of the solution, it was easier for me to remove people, rituals or entire food groups than be moderate. To avoid gaining weight, ruining my throat and teeth, I nixed gum, diet soda, bars and late meals at restaurants. My friend Karen called to ask me, “Want to go out and get some water?” (We wound up taking a long walk.)

I was now hooked on unhooking.

Catching a glimpse of Marlboros in the purse of a new housekeeper I was trying out made me want to bum one. How could I ask her to leave them home?

“Tell her you need to have a cigarette-free apartment, so you’d appreciate it if she left the pack downstairs with your doorman,” my doctor said. 

“That would make me sound like a control freak,” I lamented.

“You are a control freak,” he said. “Would you rather risk your sobriety than politely ask someone you might hire to help you out with a minor request?”

When I did, she replied, “Sure, no problem. I’m trying to kick it too.”

At least some acquaintances understood my need to be self-protective. Others were miffed by my rudeness. I left pals behind at readings and quickly crossed streets if I smelled a hint of weed to avoid a contact buzz, confusing companions and walking buddies. I offended an acolyte who caught me pawning off the dessert basket she brought me to a neighbor, and insulted a coworker who’d gifted me holiday champagne by saying, “Don’t you know I don’t drink?”

Without my old self-soothing methods, my nerves frayed and my patience was nonexistent. But I allowed my discomfort to surface and to play itself out, telling its own story. Nights and weekends I let myself cry, scrawling purple poetry into my journal, playing Bob Dylan bootlegs lamenting that everybody must not get stoned.

Since addicts depend on substances, not people, I attempted to rely on more humans. Yet I couldn’t handle AA groups where everyone smoked butts outside, guzzled soda and coffee and ate donuts. Instead, I avoided crowds, leaning on a few “core pillars” I trusted, like my therapist, my cousin Molly (also in recovery) and my long-suffering husband. For the first 12 months of my addiction therapy, he’d travel with me, petting my head to calm me, calling himself my “support animal.” Watching a TV show every night, he'd hold me for an hour without speaking, soothing my angst, though one evening he whispered, “The pillars are tired.”

I felt guilty for being so draining, difficult, twitchy, sweaty and claustrophobic in small spaces. At my teaching job, I fought for classrooms with windows and heating and cooling I could regulate, which alienated my bosses. In theaters, airplanes and performance spaces, I needled my companions by demanding specific aisle seats for legroom and faster escape. Everything simple was now a struggle. I’d become the Diva of Deprivation. “Life is easier when you’re anesthetizing yourself,” Dr. Woolverton opined.

My desire to please everyone was becoming toxic, so I quit that too. I skipped superficial New Year fests and literary galas filled with semi-strangers, lest I be tempted by quaffs, canapés or cannabis. I channeled those hours at home into writing and teaching instead. My frenzy and brain fog lifted and I found I could concentrate with a laser-focused intensity. I’d never be non-addictive, but as compulsions go, workaholism seemed comparatively benign, especially with regulation. I’d be at my desk at 9 a.m., then come up for air in time for class or dinner with my husband. Within nine months, something miraculous happened: My marriage, career and a few close friendships flourished.

Turned out the chemicals hadn’t liberated my creativity; they’d held it hostage. After decades of rejections, I sold several books in a row — a few chronicling my recovery — and tripled my income and energy level. Feeling intense empathy toward my students, I increased my class load and felt honored to win teaching awards. I added hours of volunteering and upped charity donations. I was so sure I’d aced clean living. And I let my guard down.

Seventeen years later, the pandemic hit. As I binge-watched TV, I munched nightly on bowls of popcorn, convincing myself it was a good, natural, snack: gluten free, whole grain, high fiber. One day when the grocery ran out of my brand (Bob’s Red Mill Whole Kernel White Popping Corn) I ran to 12 stores, unable to find it anywhere. I sweated out the 24 hours it took to arrive from Amazon. The popcorn had morphed into another obsession I couldn’t live without. A harmless one, I’d thought, before I saw I’d gained 25 pounds. I was unwittingly shuffling substances again. I knew what to do: Give up my favorite snack. It was hard for a few days, then I felt better and dropped the weight.

“You’re never recovered; you’ll always be in recovery,” Dr. Woolverton warned.

I might have to keep quitting things forever. It won’t win me any popularity contests, but having a smaller circle of VIPs who understand me is a deeper and warmer experience than placating a crowd. Dylan sang that just when you’ve lost everything you find there’s a little more to lose. After 20 years without smoking, toking or drinking, I’d add: And to be gained. By giving up toxic habits, I’ve made room for something more beautiful to take their place.

The post Secrets of a serial addict: How I got hooked on quitting, over and over again appeared first on Salon.com.

I grew up in a teetotaling family and then married in to one (both, uncoincidentally, abutted on all sides with plenty of alcoholism), so Martinelli's has long been the drink of choice at holiday gatherings. Even now, as an adult who will absolutely supplement any family gathering with a nice pinot, I still don't feel prepared for seasonal get-togethers without a few bottles of Martinelli's chilling in the fridge. Then I spend a good part of the rest of the year forgetting how damn good the stuff is — no sugar, no water, essentially just apples and bubbles with a little vitamin C thrown in to keep the color fresh. But I only recently learned that the libation I most closely associate with non-alcoholic festivity began its life in a much tipsier incarnation.

"The first third of the company's existence was as an alcoholic product," explains Gun Ruder, President and Chief Executive Officer of Martinelli's, "because pasteurization had not been applied to juices broadly. From [Stephen Martinelli's founding the company in] 1868 through the onset of Prohibition, we were hard cider, apple wines, sparkling apple wines. And that," he says, "was it." The California company chugged along successfully for decades with its fermented products, but a well-timed innovation changed its trajectory forever. 

While second-generation Martinelli, Stephen G. Martinelli, Jr. was a student at Berkeley in the early 20th century, he crossed paths with a professor who'd been experimenting with new techniques for pasteurization. "They applied it to apple juice, and wow, now you can make a shelf-stable product," says Ruder. And as the temperance movement began picking up steam and local counties started going dry, Martinelli's had their alternative locked and loaded when the 18th Amendment passed.

"During Prohibition, the company pivoted to non-alcoholic business," says Ruder. After it ended in 1933, the company went right back to making hard ciders, but kept the popular nonalcoholic branch of the business going as well. By 1977, Martinelli's had moved entirely to non-alcoholic cider production. As Ruder explains, "To make hard cider, it takes a very large footprint and about ten days of process. It was very space intensive, and the site at the time was relatively small. So they had to make the hard choice of exiting hard cider to support the non-alcoholic business." (In 2018, Martinelli's did release a limited edition hard cider to celebrate the company's 150th birthday.)

For many of us, that sparkling cider in its champagne bottle-like packaging evokes memories of sitting at the kid's table or partying with our more religious friends and family members. There's a wholesomeness associated with a bottle of Martinelli's. But with a rise in sober curious culture, a bubbly without the buzz has a broader, cooler appeal. A recent Gallup poll found that American adults aged 18 – 34 drink alcohol less frequently and less excessively than their older peers. Among my own generation, even a single cocktail hits harder these days, and it's nice to feel like you can keep the party mood going without switching over to water. 

Though Ruder says the company's sparkling cider drinkers are still "primarily children who aren't of drinking age" followed by "folks that are choosing to have an alternative to alcohol at an event" — they've begun to see a "huge upswing" among folks in their 20s and 30s. "It's an important part of our consumer base," Ruder says, adding, "The benefit we have is that those consumers many of them grew up drinking our product anyway." Mixing familiarity with a more contemporary vibe, the company rolled out a blush version of their sparkling cider in 2019. And those who want a more Instagrammable experience might opt for its Heritage Label version, with its evocative, old school typography. 

Image and perception, after all, are everything — down to the names we call our seasonal beverages. As the company explains on its site, "Martinelli’s apple juice and cider are the same; the only difference is the label." Ruder confirms, "There is no difference. At different times of year, with the exact same product, if you put them side by side, everybody will buy the cider. There's a concept there that makes cider more popular." 

And while Martinelli's has a solid, all-year-long thing going on with its juice, the company hopes its fans can expand our appreciation of the fizzy stuff beyond the holidays. "We do resonate with tradition and family and celebration," says Ruder. "We have a core resonance this time of year, with that iconic champagne bottle on the table. He adds, "We think there's opportunity in occasions where people who love our product don't think about us in the same way as they do it from Thanksgiving through New Year's. Everybody thinks about buying a bottle of Martinelli's Thanksgiving through New Year's, because they always have." But why not also raise a glass when "going on a picnic or celebrating a birthday or just made it through to the end of a long day of work? 

"We believe that there's a place for celebration and indulgence every day throughout the year," says Ruder. And while that sounds more like a great New Year's resolution than a Thanksgiving intention, this effervescent season of joy, I'll drink to that. 

The post From kiddie table drink to sober curious sparkler: The enduring allure of Martinelli’s appeared first on Salon.com.

For Alexis*, a 35-year-old software engineer from Portland, Oregon, being California sober means abstaining from alcohol, cocaine, meth, psychedelics, nicotine — everything but marijuana and caffeine. After witnessing how her parents struggled with addiction and alcohol use, she self-described as “straight-edge,” meaning she stayed totally abstinent from drugs until her late 20s. Then, she found cannabis.

“When I did finally get introduced to marijuana, it was like night and day for my general anxiety, and helped me feel creatively empowered,” Alexis told Salon. “Marijuana made the world softer without the downsides I saw my friends go through with other drugs.”

The term “California sober” evokes breezy West Coast stoner vibes, as the state was one of the first to legalize medical marijuana in the ’90s. California’s Humboldt County, situated in the far northwest of the state, is legendary for its “Emerald Triangle,” once home to many underground pot farms. Now, of course, cannabis in California is a multi-million dollar industry that by some estimates will soon make up about 20 percent of the entire country’s legal weed market.

But is ditching all other drugs besides cannabis really all that “sober?” For some folks, especially those in the addiction recovery world, using one drug to help you stay off another is a taboo dooming users to failure or relapse. One rehab retreat center warns, without citing sources, that “medical use of marijuana can be dangerous for people in recovery and may lead to an even worse relapse over time.”

This idea is plastered across other rehab websites, too. The message is clear: If you’ve struggled with opioids, stimulants, alcohol or benzos, then stay away from all other drugs, including marijuana.

But how much truth is there to this statement?

Based on several measurements of harm, including dependence and risk of overdose, cannabis is remarkably less risky compared to alcohol. Though using marijuana, the extract of the cannabis plant, is not “safe,” it is very rarely a direct cause of death. One literature review could only find 35 deaths associated with cannabis, many of them involving complex medical history; while a more recent study in England found that toxicity from cannabis was “negligible.”

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Meanwhile, alcohol is attributed to 3 million deaths per year globally, or 5.3 percent of all deaths from any cause, according to the World Health Organization. Using alcohol has also been linked to more than 200 different diseases and at least seven types of cancer.

“Drinking has become more and more of an issue the older I became,” James*, a 28-year-old consultant from Phoenix, Arizona, told Salon. “Drinking further harms my already impacted impulse controls. I’ve drank and driven, self-harmed and hurt loved ones due to words I’ve said while intoxicated. At this point, I recognize that it’s very hard for me to live a ‘sober’ life — if I don’t smoke cannabis, I’ll drink. If I don’t drink, I’ll smoke cannabis. Even in times where I’ve really worked on my sobriety, I always lapse. Rather than setting myself up for failure, I’d rather work on my own moderation with cannabis.”

Going California sober can be an effective harm reduction tool, says Peter Grinspoon, a primary care physician at Harvard Medical School who specializes in medical marijuana. He says he’s helped many of his patients transition from opioids, alcohol or both to cannabis instead. Grinspoon, who is also a board member of the advocacy group Doctors For Cannabis Regulation, emphasizes that cannabis can be addictive. But that doesn’t mean moderate use can’t be a sort of in-between strict sobriety and destructive drug use.

“Millions of people use cannabis as part of their recovery,” Grinspoon told Salon. “Addiction kills. We need a big tent for recovery, not a small tent.”

Yet Grinspoon says this idea of being “California sober” has not widely caught on with addiction psychiatrists, who still think of marijuana as dangerous and having no medical value. These attitudes can be linked to Alcoholics Anonymous, which has published literature warning that “the misuse of prescription medication and other drugs can threaten the achievement and maintenance of sobriety” and that people who used “street drugs, ranging from marijuana to heroin, have discovered the alcoholic’s tendency to become dependent on other drugs.”

“The Big Book was written in 1939, before we had MRIs, before we understood the brain,” Grinspoon said, referring to the best-selling text authored by Bill Wilson about how to quit problematic alcohol use. “This is an ideology, not science. Yet it has such an overwhelming influence.”

Alcoholics Anonymous and other rehab routes typically promote the myth of cross-addiction or the “addictive personality” — the idea that if you can’t use one drug responsibly, then you can’t use moderate amounts of another substance. In other words, the idea that abstinence from all drugs is the only route for someone with a substance use disorder.

The addictive personality is not a topic that has been researched in much detail, but much of the evidence for it is weak. Furthermore, this model reduces the complexity of addiction into a “one type fits all” approach, according to Mark Griffiths, a professor and psychologist at Nottingham Trent University who specializes in behavioral addictions like gambling and sex addiction.

“There is no personality trait that guarantees an individual will develop an addiction and there is little evidence for an ‘addictive personality’ that is predictive of addiction alone,” Griffiths wrote in the Global Journal of Addiction & Rehabilitation Medicine in 2017. “In short, ‘addictive personality’ is a complete myth.”

Regardless of its merits or pitfalls, cannabis use is not going away. As more and more states and countries undo prohibition, citizens have more choices for getting buzzed. There are other state-named consumption regimens too, including “Colorado sober,” which means one abstains from alcohol, but indulges in cannabis and psychedelic drugs like psilocybin “magic” mushrooms.

“Alcohol can be a tough one to drop, but the long-term benefits of not blacking out regularly, not drinking daily and developing into a borderline alcoholic are very positive,” Tyler, a 37-year-old homesteader from Texas and former Colorado resident who identifies as “Colorado sober,” told Salon. Denver, Colorado was the first city to decriminalize mushrooms in 2019, with the rest of the state following suit last November, but also legalizing DMT, ibogaine, mescaline and a few other powerful psychedelics. So The Centennial State has a bit of a reputation for ego-dissolving, mind-altering substances.

On the weekends, Tyler would alternate between LSD, mushrooms and DMT. “Having cannabis and psychedelics to turn to is nice and can help remind you of long-term goals,” he said. Psychedelics are surging in popularity in other parts of the country, too, so maybe “Colorado sober” is becoming more of a thing, like the California version. It’s not that new of an idea, actually. After all, even Bill W., the founder of AA, was a proponent of using LSD to quit drinking booze.

Getting intoxicated is a big part of being human. It is very probable that many of those reading this now are under the influence of a stimulant like caffeine. Psychedelics and alcohol have played a role in the growth of civilization; though any drug can have ill health effects, there’s nothing morally wrong with experiencing a buzz. Regardless, any drug can be toxic if not used responsibly — and no matter what path one chooses, there are always risks. The lines between “sober,” “California sober” and “Colorado sober” reflect how different people are risk-averse in different ways.

*Names have been changed.

The post Meet the “California sober” set: Why trendsetters are ditching all drugs except pot appeared first on Salon.com.

Everyone loves Tommy Shelby, and can you blame them? The leader of the Peaky Blinders, a powerful gang in Britain after World War I, in the show of the same name, Tommy is coolly efficient but sensitive. In touch with his Romani heritage and culture, a present father, Tommy is more progressive than all of his rowdy brothers, including when it comes to women, all of whom seem to fall for him (nearly everyone he meets does). 

As a criminal boss, he maintains a reign of trouble without being terrible or a monster. He has a heart. He isn’t cruel. When children run after he kills their father, Tommy doesn’t chase. His family looks to him as a leader, and his word and name are respected and feared above all others.

But in the current and final season of “Peaky Blinders,” Tommy stops drinking. And everyone gets really mad.

RELATED: “Single Drunk Female” isn’t just sobriety TV. It’s a show that makes recovery feel universal

Season six of “Peaky Blinders,” which aired first on BBC One and now, finally, has graced the shores of Netflix, follows a family gang in Birmingham. After returning home a war hero (and with plenty of invisible scars from the trauma), Tommy (the magnificent Cillian Murphy) has built an empire. But he wants more. He wants what many crime bosses before him have wanted: to go straight, build a legitimate business. In seasons past, he has done just that, while of course maintaining the other, darker side of his line of work (gambling, fixing races, running liquor and drugs) and in the process, secured a very nice lifestyle for his family and a position in government for himself.

Being a hero, though, Tommy still wants more. He wants to change the world, to stem the rising tide of fascism (good luck) and goes undercover to do so. This places him and his family in increasing danger, and widens his circle to include a lot of evil men and women. 

None of them take kindly to the way he starts the new season (his own family doesn’t take kindly to it, either): sober. Tommy Shelby, heir and instigator to a fortune founded in part by whiskey, is no longer drinking. Whiskey or anything alcoholic at all.

Tommy gave up drinking before the events of the newest season, which shows him early on in a dusky bar, speaking perfect French and ordering water. (There aren’t a lot of non-alcoholic options in post-WWI.) The order does not go over well for the drunken patrons who mistakenly identify him as a businessman taking away their smuggling livelihood after Prohibition has ended. A brawl ensures. Tommy says calmly and forcefully: “I no longer drink alcohol of any kind.” 

He’s been sober for a while, four years in fact, since the conclusion of last season and the violent death of his Aunt Polly, a guiding light of the gang and of the show (the great actor who played Polly, Helen McCrory, died of breast cancer in 2021 at the age of only 52). Later, he says the most recent person he killed was himself, murdering the person he was when he drank.

“Since I forswore alcohol, I’ve become a calmer and more peaceful person,” Tommy says, directly after shutting down the brawl by pulling out his gun and among other things, expertly shooting a pigeon in mid-air. This has to be one of my favorite moments in a show of dozens of favorite moments. As never before with onscreen animal death, I believed I cheered.

Peaky Blinders (Netflix/Matt Squire)Tommy always had a reserve of inner calm. It’s one of the aspects that defines his character, making him different from just another gangster. He’s a gangster with a moral compass, a center often in turmoil about the violence he witnessed and participated in during the war, and about the violence he participates in now. 

Tommy is mostly the same, in other words – and even sober, an excellent shot. But no one else thinks so. From colleagues to his sister Ada (Sophie Rundle) to his second wife, long-suffering, former sex worker Lizzie (Natasha O’Keeffe), people believe Tommy has changed for the worse (in Tommy’s defense, Lizzie has never been the happiest with him, and in Lizzie’s defense, Tommy has always shut her out). They don’t like the new person he’s become in recovery.

Sometimes when a person is not drinking, others around them feel uncomfortable in part because it might shine a light on their own drinking and force them to reexamine their behavior. But “Peaky Blinders” has extremes when it comes to portrayals of addiction. Tommy’s older brother, Arthur (the incredible Paul Anderson), loyal and lovable with his distinctive floppy haircut and mustache, and limbs as spindly as the Purple Pieman, struggles mightily with a powerful addiction to opium. 

Always an intense, emotional character, given to his own extremes — bouts of rage and of tenderness, who once found religion after marrying a pious woman he still loves deeply — addiction has ravaged Arthur. And his family is furious about it, putting the tough in tough love when it comes to him and his drug suppliers: writing the name of Arthur Shelby (his family name: a threat of violence) with lipstick on Arthur’s chest when he passes out, threatening to bomb the den where Arthur buys, begs for or steals his drugs. The family is intolerant of his addiction, though they are in the business of addiction. 

And yet the Shelbys and their associates don’t want the opposite either. They don’t want a sober brother. At least not when that brother is Tommy. Drinking and drugs are the family business, the family bread and butter — running them, supplying them. And what does it mean when the head of the business won’t taste his own product? What does it say about trust, and the easy way of men? How much of that ease is lubricated with booze? 

Tommy’s sobriety might also give him an advantage over his shady business associates. A sober man doesn’t let his guard down. A sober man keeps his wits about him. A sober man is not easy for a drinking man to trust. 

Abstaining from smoking, another near-constant vice of the show, also comes up as the beloved character of Jewish gang-leader Alfie Solomons (an unrecognizable Tom Hardy) deals with cancer. He’s given up smoking and does not want any tobacco lit in his presence. Tommy, of course, is never one to follow the rules, even the rules of his good friend, even rules similar to his own new moral code, and lights up.

Peaky Blinders (Netflix/Matt Squire)Multiple times early in the new season, Tommy’s sobriety is pressured, threatened even, in tense challenges where his business — and his very life — depend on whether or not he slings back a full-to-the-brim glass. He passes every time. That emotional center? It’s also made of steel.

Control has always been something Tommy struggles to maintain: control of his business, of family members, and of the past. War trauma threatens to overtake him, his flashbacks sometimes seeming more real than the actual world. Not drinking is a way to stay in control of at least one part of his life.

He doesn’t have that control over the way his family behaves (Arthur, his children; and Lizzie, who threatens to leave him this season). He doesn’t even have control of his own body, as he begins to deal with seizures. But refusing a glass? Refusing glass after glass? Tommy can do that. 

But Tommy’s sobriety is threatened, threatened in the worst way as the most awful thing that can ever happen to a person happens to him and to Lizzie. Tommy doesn’t pass the test this time. He turns back to drinking: first, wine in a devastating scene with Arthur and a cask where slow wine drips are filmed like rivulets of blood. Then, he turns once more to the harder stuff.

Having Tommy sober for the majority of this season, however (the final season, though thankfully a planned movie is apparently in the works), is not a wasted choice. It’s a key part of his journey and a defining time for a character who has always been strong.

Something terrible happens. It changes him. Something else terrible happens. And he changes again. Tommy is able to maintain control for a long time, but grief brings him to his knees and back to the bottle.

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The vehemence with which those around Tommy react to his not drinking also speaks volumes as to how they view masculinity. A man, the head of the family, drinks. A man drinks a lot (and yet, is not weakened by his addiction like Arthur). A man cheats. He cheats without remorse — a real man does everything, everything he wants, including acts of violence, without remorse and without being affected by it. 

But Tommy has always been a different kind of mob boss, a different kind of brother, father and husband, and a different kind of man. Emotional, tender and above all else, complex. He did it his way throughout “Peaky Blinders.” His way for most of this season was stone cold sober. I’ll miss him terribly when he’s gone. 

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The post “Peaky Blinders” and Tommy Shelby’s perceived crime of sobriety appeared first on Salon.com.

Sheedy appeared on “Salon Talks” recently about what she looks for in her creative projects these days, and the legacy of her iconic teen roles. 

Watch her “Salon Talks” interview here or read a transcript of it below.

The following interview has been edited for length and clarity.

We see your character, Carol, first through the eyes of her daughter Sam. Her life gets pretty disrupted by Sam’s meltdown. Tell me where she’s coming from when we meet her.

She’s a teacher. You don’t really get to see a lot of that in the season, but she is. Her husband, Samantha’s father, had a very long illness and two and a half years ago he passed on. Carol has been getting her life together and figuring out her life. She’s in her mid- to late 50s. I am 59 so I understand this — recreating, transitioning into her new life. Then everything gets blown up because her absent daughter becomes a disaster, causes a crisis with drinking and has to move back home. Getting my world together as Carol and figuring out my life has suddenly become all about her again. That’s what happening.

And she doesn’t have the necessarily perfect, TV mom expected reactions to everything.

No.

RELATED: Anthony Michael Hall on why he was “destined” to work with John Hughes

There are ways that character could have been written and played very one-dimensionally. But as we see her throughout the season, we understand where she is coming from as a fully formed adult woman in her own life.

The writing in the show is wonderful. She’s written in a multidimensional way. The dynamic I have with Sofia Black-D’Elia, who plays Samantha, is alive and it’s complicated. What I appreciate about the show is that the writers and the creative team have let that dynamic really define, for Carol, what’s going on. Where things are going with Samantha and within myself because of Samantha are coming from that place, rather than being just thrown in. They give you a framework, and this feels like it’s coming from an authentic place. It’s coming from my dynamic with Sofia. I really appreciate that about the writing.

How did you develop the character?

Carol was just immediately there and alive in the writing. She made sense to me. I respond to her. I could feel her. Then I started working with Sofia on the pilot, and we were doing rehearsals. What is happening with Sofia is powerful and wonderful and juicy and complicated, because she’s a wonderful actor. The way that we meshed together, what was happening between Sam and Carol, gave me more and more of an understanding of who Carol is. There was a depth and dimension, and that has so much to do with Sofia.

When you approached this character, were you thinking about what her history was, what her relationship with drinking was? There’s that scene where she’s just holding a glass of wine and saying, “It’s hard to be a person.”

She’s been through a lot. She’s still in the middle of grieving my husband who died and my own feelings about how Samantha did or did not show up for that. Making my life, doing my whole thing. I think for Carol having a drink, having wine, has always been something. It just softens the edges and it’s something that she does at night. She doesn’t drink like Samantha did.

This thing about Samantha suddenly coming into the house, this is not said in the script, but it’s going on with me in my head as Carol. I feel like, “She’s coming in with her problem, but I am not changing what works for me because of her.” There’s the friction right away. “She’s got to do her own thing and get herself together. I don’t even know if I believe in the alcohol thing with her. I don’t even want to go there, but don’t come in here and tell me I can’t have my wine at night, period. End of story.” That’s where we start from.

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It all feels so true because of course the show is grounded in creator Simone Finch’s real life experiences.

For a long time, there was a lot of celebration of female drunkenness as kind of a shorthand for empowerment. The show starts where you think that might be what this is about. What do you think it is about this moment we’re all living through, where a lot of us really are reassessing our choices?

Simone’s own experience is what mostly informs the storytelling. There is something that’s resonating in the show. The show is not about a pandemic, but everybody in the show, every character, there’s a transition happening. There’s what life was and now where life is, and where are we going to go? That’s happening with every character in the show each in their own way. I think something resonates about that.

We’re all trying to get our feet under us again. Things look different, and things are not the way they used to be. There’s been huge changes, so there’s a little bit of a disoriented feeling. Somehow the writing captures that in the episodes. Nobody seems to be on firm ground. Everyone’s going through some kind of life change, without it becoming soap opera-y at all. It’s actually gritty and funny. All the characters are moving through something in their lives, and they’re not really sure where they’re going or what’s going to happen.

One of the other things that makes this show unique is just how female driven it is. Driven in its voice, in its storytelling. In not just the main character, but also so many of the supporting characters.

Ally, I found a quote from you from an interview that you did 30 years ago. You completed the beginning of a poem, “I think that I shall never see.…” Do you know how you ended it? “A good woman’s role in a film that makes money.”

Did I say that?

You said that.

Oh, that’s funny. Wow.

What does it feel like now looking around, not just at the success of a show like this, but the culture in which there is space for other kinds of successes like it?

There are so many options of stories that one can watch. It isn’t the way it used to be where you had to watch what was on one of the main networks and that was all there was. Now there are so many different platforms that there are so many stories that are being able to be told. Brilliant stuff like “I May Destroy You.” Things that are not going to come out there and be some big movie that has to make a certain amount of money, but it’s going to have its own audience and the audience will easily find it. You don’t have to go to an art house to see an indie film. You can find this stuff on your laptop or your TV or computer.

There’s just so many more stories being told. That means that there are so many more stories being told that are about women, because there are more options and there’s a broader playing field and there’s an audience for it. It’s completely different then it used to be, but there’s brilliant stuff out there. I love watching female-driven shows. That’s always the stuff I look for.

And you are a very picky actor. You take time off. You seem to be drawn to stories that are told by women or have a strong woman’s hand in it. Is that something that you were very intentional about later in your career, because that’s not necessarily where you had the option of starting?

I think that the most multidimensional roles that have come to me, come from writers that are women. Writers that are women, producers that are women. Not always directors that are women. That can be different. But there’s just a different kind of character that’s going to get written if somebody’s writing from their own life experience. With a lot of these roles, it was coming from something real that showed up from a woman into the writing.

There’s a different flavor to that than reading a script that’s very often written by a man where the woman is a secondary supporting character. That’s another ballgame. There are a lot more women writers. There’s a huge playing field now. The writers’ room on our show does not look like the way writers’ rooms used to look at all. At all. I think that’s the reason that the characters are so full of life, and there’s so many of them and they all fit together. There’s voices in the room that didn’t use to be in the room.

That also seems to be reflected in the chemistry of the cast. I saw an interview where you said that you see this as a show about a mother and a daughter.

I do. As far as I’m concerned, the whole show is about the mother and daughter. That’s it, because that’s my storyline. There are other things going on, but all that my focus is just on what’s going on with Sam and what’s happening to my life right now. As far as I’m concerned, that’s what the show is about.

Most of the people who you’re acting with are of a different generation. Millennials love and respond to your earlier films and the films of that era — those John Hughes movies, movies like “War Games.” What do you think it is about that period, that time in cinema, that part that you played in it, that still affects people so deeply?

I don’t know with all the different movies, but I do know that there’s this continued appreciation for “Breakfast Club.” They’ll look and say, “Oh, that was my high school experience,” or something. I don’t really know. I actually don’t have an answer to that question. I don’t know why those films resonate. I would think that for somebody my age or somebody in my age bracket they would resonate just because you remember. I remember being my 20s. I remember the ’80s. There’s a nostalgic feeling. But why those movies speak to young people I have absolutely no idea. I really don’t.

At the time, you couldn’t possibly have imagined that you would’ve been creating something.

No, we had no idea. We had no idea that it was going to have such a life.

Are you hoping that maybe in 30 years, this show is a time capsule of a post COVID moment in the new sobriety?

I don’t know. I loved doing this season and I just would love us to be able to do another season of it. I’m not really thinking beyond that. I guess in 30 years, not just this show, but a whole bunch of the things that are on right now, are going to be seen as the shows that got made during the COVID time, which nobody will ever forget,. It’s going to have repercussions for a very long time. There is a bunch of work right now being done. Some of the shows actually incorporate COVID into them, like “And Just Like That” did. Some of them are just what’s in the air, what’s the zeitgeist right now? What are we doing? What kind of stories are we telling? It’ll be interesting to see.

Do you feel making this show in that moment for you as a cast gave it something different, a sense of closeness or intimacy that you might not have otherwise had? 

I got to have my scenes with Sofia, and we’re living in a time where I was in the hotel by myself. The only person I would see would be my brother who’s vaccinated. Finally being able to be in a room, actually relating with somebody, having some kind of interaction, was joyous. It was work and it was Sofia, but add onto that, also, it was finally talking to somebody in person. 

“Single Drunk Female” airs Thursdays on Freeform and streams next day on Hulu. Watch a trailer for it below, via YouTube.

More Salon Talks: 

• Bridget Everett: “I can relate to that feeling of giving up”
• Betty White “glowed” on set, says co-star Valerie Bertinelli
• Lily Rabe takes on “The Tender Bar” with director George Clooney

The post “Single Drunk Female” star Ally Sheedy: “My most multidimensional roles come from women” appeared first on Salon.com.

Alcoholism is the disease around which this story revolves, one that brings Samantha Fink (Sofia Black-D’Elia) to her knees, costing her friendships and a good job, and generally delaying her launch into independence.

Her situation has nothing to do with the pandemic . . . until we come to understand how much of Samantha’s first hours, days and weeks of sobriety are a struggle through exhaustion. That part hits close to home.

If television is a mechanism that both defines and moves with the current of fashion, “Single Drunk Female” is right on time in this respect and others. Debuting in the midst of Dry January guarantees its alignment with a surge in temperance trends.

RELATED: The key to a successful “Dry January”

Just as many people, if not more, are headed in the opposite direction of willful sobriety, a product of pandemic exhaustion and depression. You know, those ongoing concerns we met in early 2020 with joking/not joking about day-drinking.

Series creator Simone Finch recently explained in a Television Critics Association press conference that the seeds for this show began germinating in 2012, before she got sober. So if this story about substance abuse recovery derived from her own life feels relatable to folks living out the definition of surge depletion that is coincidental.

Samantha is messy when we meet her, which coincides with the final inebriated moments before she’s fired from her media site job. One court mandated month in rehab later, she’s moved back to Boston with her self-absorbed mother Carol (Ally Sheedy) whose main concerns as she picks up her daughter from rehab are a) not being late for her spiritual book club meeting, and b) how much Samantha talked about her in therapy.

Carol is a classic undermining parent, smiling brightly while nitpicking her child’s efforts to apply concealer to her zits, and Sheedy plays her like a length of barbed wire brought to life. Her comic chemistry with Black-D’Elia keeps the show flowing with black humor.

Balancing that out is Rebecca Henderson’s bone-dry delivery as Sam’s reluctant Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor Olivia and Lily Mae Harrington’s party girl Felicia, who is equally Sam’s biggest supporter and the devil on her shoulder always luring her back out to the bar. Garrick Bernard’s droll yet down-to-Earth James is also wonderful as a friend Samantha gets to know for the first time in meetings . . . even though it’s not the first time they’ve met.

The opening episodes are very good at conveying the raw irritation of sober life to someone who’s a newborn to it. Samantha is grieving her father’s recent death and a break-up with her best friend Brit (Sasha Compère), and the writers excel at presenting these as contributing factors, not excuses, in Sam’s journey from self-loathing and egotism into responsibility.

Even so, “Single Drunk Female” doesn’t relinquish the right for Sam and everyone else in recovery to laugh at themselves at their best and worst. Jojo Brown’s Mindy Moy gets the cream of these moments as Samantha’s fellow AA member and new boss at the local grocery store, who gently smacks the air out of her ego at work and refuses to sit too close to her sloppiness at meetings. “I’m your chic friend who needs you to try a little harder,” Mindy tells Samantha – but truly, isn’t she reading everyone who’s traded in couture for sweatpants?

This being a story about resetting from a wild life of black-out partying to a new one centered in alcohol-free stability, Samantha does her best to abide with all of it.

This being a comedy shaped in part by the sensibilities of executive producer Jenni Konner (“Girls”), Samantha and everyone who puts up with her are blessed with the gift of snark and full to the brim with empathy as they have conversations about working the steps and avoiding triggers, and call Samantha out for her immaturity.

I should note that the appeal of “Girls” escaped me entirely; I grasped why it was a cultural phenomenon while never finding any of main characters to be anything short of insufferable. Maybe it’s because its creator’s paradigm is a galaxy removed from my own. Having said that, “Single Drunk Female” similarly benefits from Finch’s introspection about her sobriety, filtered with care and grace through Black-D’Elia performance.

Through her, Samantha’s struggles feel universal, in that you don’t have to have battled cravings for drugs and alcohol for her perpetual life fatigue to speak to you. There’s a “been there” familiarity to Samantha’s failed attempt to sneak a nap during a shift at her new grocery store job. It’s because she’s nine-days sober and her body is adjusting to sleeping free of depressants, but haven’t we all felt like crawling behind a row of cereal boxes to sack out at some point recently?

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And who doesn’t crave the tangible return to community as we crawl past the two-year mark in a pandemic that’s teased so many promises of bright new days only for us to slip into yet another hangover from darker months?

Millions of us are going though our versions of detox and rehabilitation right now, real and metaphorical. It must be said out that actual recovering addicts have had a far tougher run in a pandemic that has forced many of the community gatherings that are essential to their healing into virtual spaces.

Still, there’s something about Black-D’Elia’s slouching through the hours, one step at a time, that makes even the most over it straight-edger feel seen. You may be a teetotaler, someone who imbibes in the occasional cocktail or a person on the verge of joining the Temperence movement. However you define yourself, the massive interruption we’re living through has forced all of us to start over in some small corner of our lives. That’s all “Single Drunk Female” is, clear-eyed and writ large.

“Single Drunk Female” premieres with back-to-back episodes Thursday, Jan. 20 at 10 p.m. on Freeform and debuts the next day on Hulu. Subsequent episodes air Thursdays at 10:30 p.m.

Watch a trailer for it below, via YouTube.

More stories like this:

• What drives women to drink?
• Sarah Hepola on “Blackout” and the lessons of sobriety
• Why the pandemic is inspiring many to give up alcohol
• Is the pandemic making us drink more, or less? It’s complicated

The post “Single Drunk Female” isn’t just sobriety TV. It’s a show that makes recovery feel universal appeared first on Salon.com.

This was my thinking: I was in another country, which may as well have been another galaxy, where, like the rules of physics, the rules of Nell didn’t apply, plus I really liked Jimmy, so I could handle a stoner boyfriend for four months. But anyone who knew me back in the States would have thought I had caved, given that I was straight edge at the time, as I’ve pretty much always been.

I was already like this when I saw the phrase in an issue of Maximum Rocknroll when I was a teenager and understood, in a eureka flash, that I wasn’t the only person alive who thought that getting drunk and stoned was wimpy. When I finally read the lyrics to “Straight Edge” by Minor Threat, the DC punk band whose 1980 song shellacked the straight edge ethos into receptive young brains, I was reassured, and even a little comforted, that my reasoning aligned with theirs:

I’m a person just like you
But I’ve got better things to do
Than sit around and fuck my head
Hang out with the living dead
Snort white shit up my nose
Pass out at the shows
I don’t even think about speed
That’s something I just don’t need

I’ve got the straight edge

I’m a person just like you
But I’ve got better things to do
Than sit around and smoke dope

Cause I know I can cope
Laugh at the thought of eating ludes
Laugh at the thought of sniffing glue
Always gonna keep in touch
Never want to use a crutch

I’ve got the straight edge

The nifty thing about Minor Threat’s case against drinking and drugging was that they didn’t recycle the reasons that boring politicians were pushing, namely the health and safety risks (which, it must be said, are good reasons). Instead, Minor Threat was making a principled argument (“Never want to use a crutch”) and that was incredibly sexy to a self-important teenager who was maybe a bit too caught up in the idea of being taken seriously. But after I met Jimmy, I had to admit that the Minor Threat logic wouldn’t work on everybody.

RELATED: Is the pandemic making us sober up?

I knew Jimmy in the late 1980s, when jobs were hard to come by in England. Jimmy, who was in his early twenties, was on the dole and, like his sister, had been given a council flat, although I don’t think he ever set foot in it. Without jobs or much in the way of prospects, the people at Jimmy’s sister’s place — who, with maybe one exception, didn’t have parents who could swing a college tuition for their kid, as mine could — arguably didn’t have, as Minor Threat put it, better things to do than drugs. And maybe they didn’t know that they could cope without them. If I had a husband in jail and a baby to care for on my own, I might reach for the heroin too.

Meanwhile, the same-age people I knew who did drugs and got shit-faced back in the States were middle-class (like me) and up; these were the people that Minor Threat, and Black Flag and the Descendents, among other spectacular punk bands with anti-drink or -drug songs to their names, were singing for and about. A recurring theme was the way that being drunk or stoned gave people unearned courage, and I agreed that this was cheating. I remember once describing something goofy that I’d done—this was during the period when I might sing a self-parodying song while a friend filmed it—and getting the reply, “Wow, you must have been really drunk.” Managing to do something funny/stupid that other people wouldn’t or couldn’t do without booze or drugs was a source of pride for me. Hey, I can achieve dork liftoff without any help!

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Some of what I found myself disliking about drinking and drugging didn’t make it into any punk rock lyrics that I’d heard. I disliked drunk/stoner braggadocio (“I was so wasted last night…”). I disliked the too-easy woots generated whenever a talk show host made a joke about tying one on or getting buzzed. Having said that, I do understand that the risk of irritating me is not a good reason for you to skip doing drugs; you’ll do better with old standbys like the expense, the shrunken attention span, and dope’s libido-killing potential. (Long before I was reading the lyrics of Minor Threat, I read my generation’s debauchery bible, Tony Sanchez’s “Up and Down with the Rolling Stones,” and learned a ton.)

But the key reason that I don’t drink or take drugs is probably this, and it’s a little embarrassing: I’ve always pictured a little scrim coming down over people’s faces when they get drunk or stoned, after which point I’ve lost my unfettered access to them. Whenever Jimmy was off his knob, it felt as though he’d been taken away from me, like a Stepford wife in a shell suit. And was there any other way to interpret his decision to get stoned in my presence than that I was less fun than heroin was? The line “I’d rather drink than fuck” in Gang Green’s “Alcohol” always made me nervous: Might I one day have a boyfriend who would prefer to get drunk than sleep with me? More to the point: If I’m sufficiently interesting, shouldn’t another person be unmotivated to get bombed in my company? And could it be that my decades-long full-bore commitment to straight edge is as much tied to my ego as to some larger principle?

I’ve been on the other side of the scrim just once. The first few times I tried to get high, there was no effect. I learned a new line in the Lothario playbook: whenever I told a guy about my latest botched attempt with pot, he’d say, “I’ll get you high.” And it was a guy — a couple-years-older high school classmate I didn’t know very well — who finally got me stoned. He took me to an outbuilding of some sort behind his suburban Boston home, and once he had gotten me, and presumably himself, high, I couldn’t stop crying. Even though I was the one bawling, he told me that he wanted to be held, and I obliged, and yes, I, too, am surprised that this encounter didn’t conclude with my molestation. What it concluded with was my understanding that the prospect of losing access to my good, clear mind was mortally terrifying. I’ve never wanted to escape myself—never nodded along with the refrain “I’m too much with myself / I wanna be someone else” from Evan Dando’s plangently beautiful Lemonheads song “My Drug Buddy.” The problem I had with being stoned was the opposite: not being able to find myself once that scrim came down.

Maybe it’s partly in the wiring. When I was in high school, I had a friend who paid a lot of attention to the clinical terms that her psychologist mother tossed around, and one day this friend informed me that I was hypomanic—essentially, someone who’s neurotically cheerful all the time. I didn’t believe this was a real, operational term until I stumbled on it a few years ago. But even if the term doesn’t apply to me, maybe having an involuntarily chipper disposition and what seems like an inexplicably large supply of self-confidence is like having parents who could afford to send me to college: a leg up that makes choosing to be straight edge a luxury. (This, combined with the usual do-gooder liberal reasons, is why I voted for legalization when Massachusetts put pot on the ballot a few years back, incidentally.)

For me, the only downside of being straight edge is that it can be a little lonely; none of my friends are, and my husband isn’t. But it’s a desperation-free loneliness—not at all like what I felt whenever Jimmy was out of his brains: I would look directly at him and not be able to find him anywhere.

More stories on sobriety from Salon: 

• I left my drunk friends behind: Sobriety made me turn a terrifying new page
• “This is about a woman learning to trust her gut”: Sarah Hepola on “Blackout” and the lessons of sobriety
• A cocktail writer goes dry

The post Why I’m (still) straight edge appeared first on Salon.com.

Sadly, there has been an onslaught of ignorant criticism of Lovato’s recovery program, which just goes to show how far we have to go when it comes to understanding recovery from addiction.

The kerfuffle started with her new documentary “Dancing with the Devil,” in which the popstar speaks openly about a broad range of personal struggles, from surviving a nearly fatal overdose to struggling with eating issues and the trauma of sexual assault. But the headlines have focused on her choice to practice what’s known as “moderation management,” which is when people choose to indulge in some substances — but, as the name suggests, in moderation. 

“Yeah. I think the term that I best identify with is ‘California sober,’ ” said Lovato in a recent CBS Sunday Morning interview. The interviewer then asked her if that meant she still drinks some alcohol and smokes a little weed. “I really don’t feel comfortable explaining the parameters of my recovery to people,” Lovato responded, “because I don’t want anyone to look at my parameters of safety and think that’s what works for them, because it might not.”

Lovato is careful with her words, and has clearly thought about the implications of being a popstar and role model while also being true to herself and honest about her recovery.

But her caution with her words didn’t stop the haters. One blogger described her recovery path as “delusional” and “dangerous.” “I think the term ‘California sober’ is quite disrespectful to the sober community,” Ken Seeley, a professional interventionist, told Entertainment Today. “I know a lot of people that work really hard to hold their abstinence and fight for their lives in recovery and to bring up this new term, ‘California sober,’ is so inappropriate.”

Similarly, a People magazine story about the Lovato documentary was emblematic of this common misunderstanding of recovery. “Demi Lovato Reveals She Smokes Weed and Drinks ‘in Moderation,’ But Says ‘It Isn’t for Everyone,'” the judge-y headline read. In the story, People wrote that Demi Lovato “isn’t sober.” The article continued:

The singer then says she’s “done with the stuff that’s going to kill me,” but admits that she still smokes weed and drinks occasionally. Traditionally in rehabs and 12-step programs, recovery is predicated on complete abstinence from drugs and alcohol and not moderation.

But what is “traditional” is not necessarily right for everyone. There’s no shame in having a heterodox recovery.  

The fact is that recovery has as many paths as there are people. As a national advocate and person in recovery myself, I’ve learned first-hand and witnessed how diverse, creative, and innovative our community is. Recovery is defined as “a process of change through which individuals improve their health and wellness, live a self-directed life, and strive to reach their full potential.” That means that each individual who seeks relief from substance use disorder deserves the basic respect and dignity we’d offer any other person in recovery from a chronic illness. Instead, Lovato is described by armchair experts as being an “alcoholic” and “addict” and who doesn’t know any better and can’t be trusted to make healthy choices for herself.

Likewise, moderation is a recovery pathway, too. Abstaining from some substances while still using others is recovery. Just as total abstinence is recovery, or using medications like methadone is recovery. Incorporating wellness tools like yoga or relying on a spiritual practice is also recovery. Why is that so hard for some people to understand?

Lovato’s recovery is as valid as mine: zero-use abstinence, with the support of a 12-Step program. I don’t think that her pathway threatens mine, or “sets a bad example.” If anything, I think her courage shows that recovery is truly for anyone who wants it. The problem here isn’t what Lovato chooses to do with her own body. She’s a 28-year-old adult woman.

As one of the world’s biggest pop stars, Lovato is used to having her body policed by strangers. In her documentary, she describes how for years she had no control over her life. Her schedule, wardrobe, finances, and even what she ate was dictated and controlled. It’s frankly refreshing to watch a woman like Lovato take back control and live her truth. But it seems women, especially celebrities, are harshly criticized. They’re too thin or too fat, the wrong shape, too trendy or hopelessly out of style. They’re bad mothers or they spend too much time with their families. It’s no surprise that this same judgment extends to recovery, too. If a woman uses substances, she’s a lush; if she abstains, she’s uptight. There is no middle ground, and you know what? I am glad that Lovato isn’t trying to please anyone but herself with her recovery choices. Each person must decide for themselves what “recovery” means and how they want to live it.

But therapists, treatment specialists, and other so-called experts are doing plenty of hand-wringing over Demi’s decision to do what’s right for her. Yet, these are the very people who should know that what she’s doing is exactly how recovery support should work. It’s not a therapist’s job (or anyone else’s) to dictate how someone else must live, or what guidelines they should conform to. Instead, they are supposed to offer the tools, resources, and support that can help that person live their best life.

In my experience, finger-wagging, shaming, or criticizing does not help anyone get sober. Nobody shamed me into treatment; I chose to seek help because I finally accepted that my life was worth living, and I met other people who were brave enough to show me what was possible for me. One of those people was Demi herself: when I first met her in 2013 while living in Los Angeles, I was still in active heroin addiction and lying to everyone about it. Shortly after meeting Demi and hearing her story, I changed my life for good. I found a pathway that worked for me. Like Demi, I also came out publicly as a member of the LGBTQ community after getting sober. My identity and my substance use were very much connected. Shame kept me in the closet for a very long time. If I’d tried to please everyone, I would still be sick and self-hating. I might even be dead. But I’m not. I’m alive today and I’m happy. I am healthier than I’ve ever been, engaged to the man I love, and helping share the inspiration I received from Demi and many other friends.

The faster we let go of the idea that zero-tolerance, abstinence-only recovery is the only valid path, the sooner we will start saving lives. Hundreds of people die every day from substance-related causes. How many of them would be alive today if they were told there was another way? I am grateful for the incredible diversity of recovery pathways in my community. Our diversity is our strength. Instead of assuming a “one-size-fits-all” recovery that is dictated by institutions that pathologize and punish people, we need to focus on the individual and ask how we can support them on their unique journey.

The post There’s nothing wrong with being “California sober” — Demi Lovato’s haters be darned appeared first on Salon.com.

In those first bewildering weeks of the virus, as my friends and I were scheduling Zoom happy hours and turning to our laptops for “quarantinis,” the evidence suggested we were right on track with everybody else. “Alcohol sales surge” pronounced a Miami Herald headline back in April. “How are Americans coping with the global coronavirus pandemic?” Reporter Don Sweeney asked. “According to alcohol industry sales figures, they’re drinking — a lot.” And in September, NPR declared alcohol sales “a bright spot in a troubled economy” as Drizly’s Liz Paquette marveled that “As we stand today, we’re up around 350 percent” in sales over the same time last year.” But those assessments may have been misleading from the beginning.

Assessing whether Americans were really drinking more is complicated by geography. Yes, online alcohol sales jumped over the springtime — and bars were mostly closed. Yet when you pull back, it doesn’t look so much like a spike as a simple shift. “Everyone keeps talking about how the is drinking up because mail orders are up,” says Sarah Hepola, author of the bestselling memoir “Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget.” “But you’re not accounting for the fact that there’s all these other revenue streams that got completely shut down. I feel like in order to take the full 360, you need a lot more data than we have right now.”

But while a worsening pandemic and looming election certainly make it feel like we’re in a sweatpants-and-Ina-Garten-sized cosmopolitans-at-10AM moment, the truth may be that it’s a fantastic time to not drink. While data collection is not exactly part of the recovery community ethos, my sober friends and family say they’ve noticed an uptick in newcomers recently. “There’s more stress and isolation,” one longtime member of Alcoholics Anonymous tells me, “which arguably is leading some people to come in to the program sooner than they might have otherwise.”

Hepola agrees. “We’re months into this and you would imagine that people are realizing, ‘Maybe drinking myself through this isn’t going to work really well.’ We don’t know when it’s going to end, and meanwhile, life does go on. Maybe wine and alcohol became the immediate crutch to deal with the fear and anxiety of the uncertainty. But what happens if you go to that repeatedly over a long amount of time is you will actually increase your fear and uncertainty, because you won’t know what you did the night before. You won’t know how you’re going to do the next day. You reach for that crutch, and it creates more brokenness.”

“There’s no question that there are people who have problems drinking, and that their drinking is up,” she says. But, she adds, “12-step recovery just got a boost into the 21st century that it wasn’t expecting to have. I think there’s a number of people that are dipping a toe into that. The 12-step meetings have never been easier to go to, in the sense that you literally click and you can hide your face and you don’t have to announce yourself. All the steps of going into a church basement, researching it on an ancient website that was never designed for the 21st century, trying to figure out where is this place — all that stuff, that was really hard.” Now it’s especially easy to have a support community, even for those who might barely get to leave the house.

And even people like me, who have no inclination to write off alcohol altogether, are finding themselves experimenting with the “sober curious” movement that was already gaining traction before the virus. This past month, aka Sober October, has been as good jumping off point as any for those inclined to not drink, without committing to never drinking.

This past year, a multitude of temptations and excuses have been cleared away. Dining out is a complicated, infrequent event. Parties don’t (or aren’t supposed to, anyway) happen. Even with the holiday season, typically the most high-achieving time of year for any drinker, barreling toward us, the incentives just aren’t in place. Where’s that awkward Thanksgiving with your racist uncle that goes more smoothly with a surreptitious shot of Jameson now? That ironman weekend of celebrations across multiple zip codes? That tipsy night out with your high school buddies after you touch down in your hometown for Christmas? They’re all gone. Might as well stick with seltzer — or any of the inventive new brands of nonalcoholic beverages like Curious Elixirs — if it’s going to be like that.

I discovered almost immediately in quarantine that I miss drinking. And when I say that I miss drinking, I mean that I miss drinking with other people. I miss the associations of it, I miss the rituals. In time, I’ve developed new habits, some of which still involve alcohol. On Friday evenings, I mix myself a simple, single margarita or Paloma as a way to signal to myself that I am, however briefly, transitioning into the weekend. I’ll have a glass of Malbec at my elbow as I putter through a rare unrushed preparation of a dinner. I’ll watch an entire movie from start to finish, and have a beer as accompaniment. But mostly, I find there’s not much point in raising a glass if there’s no one else there to click it. And while I may be mostly alone, I am not alone in that. This week, a friend invited a few of us to an early evening “Zoom happy hour.” We all talked for ages and caught up on our lives. And not a single person even bothered to drink.

The post Is the pandemic making us sober up? appeared first on Salon.com.

Indeed, back at the start of the pandemic, alcohol sales skyrocketed — increasing in the United States by 55 percent the week ending March 21, 2020, compared to the previous year. While some data suggests that people have been drinking more during the pandemic, at least initially, the pandemic has also prompted a life re-evaluation, with many Americans reconsidering the role of alcohol in their lives.

“At first, I was actually drinking more,” Mike Miller founder of Wilderness Times, told Salon. “Just being around the house more opened the door for it more often, so I found myself drinking more frequently.”

For Miller, this meant two to three drinks over the course of five to six days. According to the Centers for Disease and Control (CDC), heavy drinking for men is when 15 or more drinks per week are consumed. 

“A few weeks into the pandemic I calmed down and realized I was definitely over doing it,” Miller said. “So, I went cold turkey and completely stopped.”

Miller added that “moderation is difficult,” which is why he found it easier “to just cut it out completely than try to wrestle with limiting myself.”

Despite reports of many regressing into unhealthy consumption patterns amid the pandemic, some have seen it as an opportunity to make healthier lifestyle choices, including abstaining from drink. While there’s no data from the United States yet, a study by researchers at the University College London found that young Australians are actually drinking less during lockdown, partly because of the lack of social opportunities. Similarly, a July poll from Alcohol Change UK found that 37 percent of 1,647 UK residents surveyed had attempted to manage their alcohol consumption during lockdown by having alcohol-free days, reducing the amount of alcohol they purchased, or attending a virtual support group.

David Bakke, a 48-year-old living in Atlanta, told Salon when the pandemic first hit his alcohol consumption “shot up a bit, basically out of fear.”

“That lasted for maybe a little over a month, but once I realized that your immune system has a lot to do with fighting off the virus, I made the transition and got myself back to my pre-pandemic level of drinking,” Bakke said.  “I simply decided that I wanted to do everything possible to limit my chances of being infected; if this means a little less partying for the next several months, I’m good with that.”

There is another reason to be concerned about alcohol consumption during a pandemic — namely, alcohol can have a negative effect on the immune system. A paper published in the journal Alcohol Research states that excessive alcohol consumption can “impair the body’s ability to defend against infection,” which is of increased concern in the event that one’s body needs to fight off the novel coronavirus

Maritza Chesonis-Worthington, a functional nutritionist & hormone expert, told Salon it used to be hard for her to imagine giving up alcohol — until the pandemic happened. As a “health conscious” person, her decision to abstain from alcohol happened for a myriad of reasons. First, she wanted to support her immune system and stay healthy. Second, there was less social pressure to drink.

“Perhaps it’s not the substance itself that drives dependency, but rather the connection and sense of tradition that it brings amongst family and friends,” Chesonis-Worthington said. Now she has been finding “novel ways to connect with others.”

But not everyone is cutting alcohol cold turkey. According to a report in the journal JAMA Network Open, Americans are drinking 14 percent more often during the coronavirus pandemic, though this data that comes from the beginning of the pandemic. The study compared responses from a survey of 1,540 participants of their self-reported drinking habits in spring to the year prior. For women, the increase was up to 17 percent compared to last year. The study’s participants were between the ages of 30 and 80; the data collected was from the RAND Corporation American Life Panel.

Michael Pollard, a sociologist and co-author of that behavior, previously told Salon that it was unclear whether these “alcohol use behaviors [will] persist,” or whether they will “go back to the way they were before COVID-19.”

Indeed, some say their drinking habits accelerated at the beginning of the pandemic before declining, as mythology writer Mike Greenberg told Salon.

“When quarantine started up I was so excited, a little too excited,” Greenberg said via email. “Working from home, grabbing a beer around 4 (who’s gonna know?), and having every excuse not to exercise? It was fantastic… until it wasn’t.”

Greenberg said after the first couple weeks, he was drinking nearly everyday.

“The only thing drooping more than my gut was my mental health,” Greenberg said. “It’s been a real battle since then but I’m finally coming out the other side with the local gym reopened I’m exercising more often than not, eating healthier, and sticking to water, juice, and tea.”

“Honestly, I feel like superman in comparison,” he said.

The post Why the pandemic is inspiring many to give up alcohol appeared first on Salon.com.

Quick backstory: I’m 29. Recovering alcoholic. Been sober 2.5 years, woot woot! Lost my virginity at 16 because all my friends had so I wanted to catch up. And so began my sexual career. Completely lost. Hooking up with damn near anyone. Nobody that cared about me and certainly nobody I cared about. Into college I went where the drinking really got started and I slept around a lot. No emotions attached. As a 29-year-old I’ve had two very short-term boyfriends, connected with both of them but spent [the] majority of the relationships stoned / drunk.

So now I am sober — YAY —  and lost sexually. I know I’ve experienced incredible sex in the past, but couldn’t tell ya exactly what makes me orgasm. Legit no clue. Started dating the sweetest lamb of a man. We’re total opposites. He grew up in a really religious household and only made out with girls for a long-ass time. He’s only had sex with five women. We’ve slept together five times now, and I am like WTF IS HAPPENING. I suggested he go down on me once and he put his face down there for all of three seconds and proceeded to say he just wanted to f**k me. Yawn. No orgasms obviously.

He thinks I am all experienced and in a way I am, yet I have no idea how to communicate to him what I want because I don’t know what I want! The incredible sex I’ve had, I’ve been so wrapped up in it, I haven’t paused to jot down any pointers for future partners.

I am so lost!!!! I was never blessed with that tight-knit group of girlfriends who’d talk about sex tips and stuff —  a few friends here and there, but I don’t know. I feel lost and alone and unsure of how to proceed.

Dear Sexy and Sober,

The past two and a half years you’ve been clearing out your path so that you can now actually see where you’re currently walking, where you’ve been walking, and where you’re walking to. Although there are still plenty of branches to chop (aren’t there always?), the beginnings of your self-reflecting practices have made your metaphorical machete sharp enough to slice through the obstacles that you perhaps once thought would be impossible to slip through.

You’re in a time of rebirth, and it’s important to remember that we’re all naked when we’re born. We’re slimy and squinty-eyed and so vulnerable. We don’t know who we are yet or what the world is, and the only way to figure out how we fit into it is by trying on different things and seeing what works.

The concept of “beginner’s mind” is one I tend to invoke in moments when I feel utterly naked and without a foundation to base my metaphorical outfit off of, and one I’m sure I will repeatedly refer back to in this column. Shunryu Suzuki, a Japanese Zen Master, popularized  Zen teachings in the States in the 1960s through his book “Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind,” and whether he coined the term or not, he did write this book, and my overly anxious, constantly imposter-syndromed brain will forever be grateful. “A mind should be an empty and ready mind, open to everything, whereas a mind full of preconceived ideas, subjective intentions, or habits is not open to things as they are,” he wrote. Basically, Suzuki talks about approaching every aspect of life as a newborn, unknowing and unbiased. The more you know, the more you tend to think you know, when truly, the one who knows the most understands they don’t know all that much in the first place.

This principle is applicable for every aspect of life, but I bring it up now because sounds like both you and your boo could benefit from it.

Your relationship with this man, and your sexual experiences with him, are brand new. Even if you’d had all the sober and intentional sex in the world before him, this experience would still be brand spanking new. There’s a bunch of really fun, added elements of newness to this particular situation that it sounds like you haven’t experienced before — like being able to be a lot more present with him than perhaps you’ve been with other partners — which makes you a lot more vulnerable than past sexy times. It probably feels kinda scary.

You’re no longer a teenager, or someone who gets high all the time — but that doesn’t mean you’re not still running away. You’ve overcome so much, but it seems like you’re still afraid of actually seeing yourself. Your real self — not the self that others project onto you, or the self that you’ve projected for so long.

Let’s pivot our attention to your mans for a moment. It sounds like he’s also swimming in unmapped waters as someone who doesn’t feel that they’ve had a wide breadth of sexual experience — even if that concept is kind of funny and made up. From what you’ve written, it actually sounds like perhaps your experiences were a lot less varied than his, as the emotional and mental state you were in was often the same throughout your sexual encounters. Sure, there may have been a rotating cast of characters, changes in scenery, and perhaps some variation of the choreography, but the storyline always started and ended the same. For the first time, you’re rewriting the story with this new partner. Meanwhile, he’s nervous about missing a beat or forgetting his lines.

The cool bit about sex and intimacy? There are no prescribed lines you have to say, or parts you have to act out, as long as you communicate (and I include consent as a necessary part of this communication). It’s a blank slate every time, even though most of us never treat it that way.

A beginner’s mind works wonders, young grasshopper, because communication during sex isn’t just about what you do or don’t like, it’s about expressing who you are and how you’re showing up to this particular moment.

It sounds like you think your partner has projected a super-sexual persona onto you — have you ever talked about how you don’t feel aligned with that perception? Do you want him to continue to see you that way, or are you ready for him to see you just as you are — the smooth and graceful bits of you, as well as the awkward and uncomfortable ones?

In terms of sexual acts, you’re beginning to communicate to your partner what you like, for example, telling him you want him to go down on you — that’s awesome that you know that works for you. However, in the anecdote you share, he goes down on you for three seconds, then proceeds to insist he wants to f**k. Sounds like perhaps there may have been some performance anxiety there on his part, and that he wanted to get to the act where he felt like he knew what he was doing. Either that, or he’s selfish in bed, which in that case, boy bye — although from the way you’ve described him and your relationship, it doesn’t seem likely as the first assumption. Of course, there could be a slew of other reasons as well, and there is no way of finding out what’s going on unless you two engage in a conversation about it.

You deserve to orgasm, and that is a human right alongside any other, but what if you took away the goal of orgasm for a second? What if instead, you both reshifted the focus of your sexual intimacy to exploring and getting to know how your bodies move together and respond to each other?

“To put the focus back into exploring touch, take turns pleasuring each other,” Louise Head, a relationship coach and certified sex educator, told Salon. “Set a timer for three minutes and begin by focusing on one partner. When time is up, switch to the other person. Do this for several rounds. As you start to feel more turned on, you can increase each partner’s turn to five minutes. This exercise takes the pressure off of performance and orgasm and creates space for each partner to focus intentionally on the other partner’s body,bo giving both partners practice being the giver and the receiver. Pay attention to which role feels more challenging to you!”

This is a great way to just play with each other, and take the pressure off while being present. There isn’t any destination or end goal, simply room to explore and experience the moment as something unique that has never been done before.

Now, exploring each other’s bodies and presence is wonderful, but GIRL — it’s time to take some matters into your hands — literally. Masturbate. Explore yourself. Make yourself cum. Figure out what you like and don’t like with your own hands and your own mind. Fantasize; let your dreams roam into all the weird places you never let them go before. Be present with yourself, face yourself, touch yourself. No more running away. No more being filled up by substances, experiences, and people that don’t serve you.

“Explore what feels good when you have sex with yourself,” shares Head. “Once you have a good sense of this, find a way to communicate these techniques to your partner. This might look like talking about what techniques you use on yourself, or you and your partner can take turns masturbating while the other watches, later attempting to recreate the moves on each other.”

Going back to you not having notes on the good sex you’ve had, a great practice for you would be to literally it write down —journal what you’re feeling after being physically intimate with your partner. Jot down what you liked, what you didn’t, what you were hoping to try. Have him do the same, then share it with each other. This might feel terrifying and awkward, but it will also give both of you permission to communicate exactly what’s going on. You can even use this sex journal, created specifically for this practice.

This is all brand new, remember? You’re learning to walk again, so step towards the adventure of it, the newness of it, the possibility of it — and enjoy it. Be open to learning about yourself and finding playfulness in tension and in the discomfort of being vulnerable. It can be so much fun, I promise.

Have questions about sex and love? Email Arielle@Salon.com

The post Sober now, and sexually lost: How do I ask for what I want in bed? appeared first on Salon.com.

Then he said something I wasn’t expecting.

“I’d love to see you fuck another dude.”

I knew the guy was a tad freaky. The first time we had sex he pounded me so hard I thought my bladder would explode, so I rushed home and took some amoxicillin to ward off a UTI. He also shoved his cock so hard down my throat repeatedly, I practically puked on myself and could barely breathe.  For some reason, I pretended to like it.

You may wonder why I remained bewitched by him.  There were the understandable reasons: He was brilliant, educated at a good college, ostensibly classy and a self-professed feminist.  All of this was hugely attractive to me.  And I was so used to his kind of sexuality — that rough and detached porn-style sex — I just figured there was something wrong with me if I didn’t dig it.

“Let’s go to a swingers club,” he said. “You can wear a leather bikini and I can wear a suit.”

“That’d be hot,” I lied.

I didn’t really consider the ramifications of the request in the moment. I told myself that he was just a free-spirited man who wasn’t shackled by societal conventions, a kind enough person who just wanted to have some casual fun.

Plus, what kind of ramifications could there be?  As an empowered 21st^–century woman, I should be able to screw five men at a time and a horse in between without any emotional fallout.  Any emotional fallout is simply a byproduct of social conditioning, a tool to keep me sexually repressed.  And the last thing I want to be is repressed.

“Let’s do it next weekend,” he said, and we enthusiastically set the date.

But later, at home, I began to reconsider. I worried about the risk of catching diseases (yes, I know the culture strictly enforces protection, but condoms break all the time).  I oscillated between being offended at the invitation and feeling ashamed that I didn’t want to spread my legs for total strangers and watch this guy, who I actually liked, have sex with a bunch of other women.  I oscillated between wanting to tell him to fuck off and wanting to acquiesce with the hope that he’d develop a genuine affection for me.

Eventually, I sent him an email: “I don’t want to go to a sex club, mainly because of diseases, mainly because I know it will destroy me, mainly because I’m not that kind of girl, mainly because I know I’d just be doing it to get your affection.”

And with that, I cut off communication for good.

* * *

I used to party hard. I was often so wasted I could have all sorts of sexual liaisons with no emotional entanglements, like when I woke up one morning to discover I’d just had a threesome with my ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend and her current boyfriend, and someone was getting strangled up in the mix. It was really easy to brush it off because I was only half-there at the time, if present at all. Plus, I could get drunk again, blurring both my memory and consciousness one more time for the next encounter. None of it hurt.

This kind of blasé sexual conduct seemed to be normal, expected even. As a fine arts student in college, everyone was having sex with everyone. These were moneyed kids at a prestigious university who prided themselves on their orgies and drugs and STDs.  A friend in my photography class took portraits of all the random guys she slept with, something like 27, while another girl took a video of herself fucking 100 guys in an hour.  This was art.  This was empowerment.  This was feminist, or so they said.  And I adopted that perspective as my own, without any serious critical inquiry.

Then I quit drinking. By 2007 I had run my life into the ground, thanks to the steady flow of vodka and Adderall running through my veins. Unable to work, and barely able to finish grad school, I realized I had to get sober. But it never dawned on me that when I kicked booze to the curb I’d have to rediscover what was OK for me sexually, because my entire sexual identity developed when I was wasted in my early 20s, and when I was wasted, nothing mattered.

Now that I don’t drink, what I do or do not do sexually really matters. I experience, feel and remember everything  — his touch, his tongue, his lips, his gentleness, his roughness, his words or lack of words, his intoxicating smell or his rank smell, his twisted fantasies or his hot fantasies. Now that I’m fully present in my mind and body, I can’t check out. It’s just not the same when I’m wasted. I don’t care. He doesn’t care. No one’s getting hurt.

But as I remained sober and started growing up and taking responsibility for myself, I unwittingly surrounded myself with the same kind of guys I hung around with when I was trashed. They all assumed I wanted to be screwed like a porn star—without sensuality, without subtlety and without any artfulness or intimacy. And I’m left with lots of questions about what I do or do not like and what’s expected of me. If I don’t like having my hair ripped out or being called “cum-slut,” does that mean I’m a prude or frigid or somehow not a fully realized sexual being?

To the contrary—I am a highly sexual woman.  Just because I don’t want to be demeaned doesn’t mean I don’t have a sex drive or that I’m not insatiable.  It also doesn’t mean I don’t like to mix things up and get kinky when I’m in a (dare I say the R word?) relationship.  So when Adam asked me to go to a swinger’s club, I immediately said yes, mainly because I didn’t want to be labeled a prude.

And then it hit me: Why should I feel guilty and ashamed of not digging on orgies?

Maybe I should have given Adam a chance to engage a conversation, to talk honestly about the whole plan, but at the time I was completely convinced he’d think me a close-minded puritan and lose interest in me because I was not sexually “open.” Maybe I should have had that conversation.  Maybe it would have benefited him.  Maybe it would have benefited me.  Maybe he was trying to show off, posturing the whole time, having porn star sex with me because he thought that’s what I wanted.  Maybe the next time this happens I’ll have the balls to have that conversation, because it would probably have been better for both of us—good for him to hear that I’m not interested in that stuff, and equally good for me to start talking about the stuff I actually am into.

But for now, I’m glad I could assert what was right for me. I am neither virgin nor whore, and I choose to hold that space proudly, which is not easy to do. I’ve always felt pressured to be one or the other to suit some man’s fantasy. But now, at 36, I can admit that, while I love to screw, I don’t want to be degraded like a porn star, objectified like a whore, and I don’t enjoy being orally raped. Do I want dudes to piss on me? No. Do I want to be pounded so hard I get a vicious bladder infection? No, especially because I have terrible health insurance. Do I want to have a guy spray his cum all over my face while he hovers over me in a state of complete emotional detachment? No.

And at 36 I can also admit that I can’t do casual sex. If I sleep with someone, I start feeling an emotional bond, even though some sex workers and sex writers tell me that attachment is a myth propagated by the patriarchy to keep me sexually disempowered. It doesn’t matter — I can’t do it.  Maybe that makes me uncool, unhip and undesirable, but I just don’t care anymore.  Do I have to be emotionally attached to sleep with someone? Hell no — if a guy’s got charm and brains and that indefinable sex appeal I’ll want to rip my clothes off.  But today, I have to use discretion.  Today, I have to be honest with myself, and if I think the guy’s going to bounce the second he gets in my pants, I have to turn him down.

The post The orgy prude: How I finally admitted I don’t like meaningless, porn-star sex appeared first on Salon.com.

Well, the folks at restaurants, one of the primary places people go to drink, would rather you skipped the whole happy excercize. “The resolutionists are bad on all fronts,” says restaurant consultant Josh Eden, noting that January is already the very worst month for sales in his business. “But the idea of an organized effort — an activity with a global, trademarked brand no less — to get people to cease drinking for 30 goddamned days makes most restaurant owners weep.”

In most cities, restaurants run short on customers on Christmas Eve and don’t  see crowded dining rooms again until Valetine’s Day. Customers are either on vacation or burnt or broke or wary of the cold. “After Valentines Day they disappear again until March,” says Eden. “When it starts to warm up a little and they’re feeling cagey.”

So there are fewer customers in restaurants and the ones that are there are spending less money. What makes it worse is that right up until Christmas Eve restaurants have been burning a blue streak since Labor Day. “We’ll never make more money than we do then,” laments Eden.

Typically the revenue split between food and alcohol for a restaurant is 60 percent from the food and 40 percent from alcohol but the markup on alcohol is colossal compared to food. The house only makes 30 percent on a plate of food because of the labor required to prepare and deliver it to your table, never mind refrigeration and on and on and on. A drink returns 80 percent of its price.

And the margins in the industry are fearsome. Each month, after costs (including food, rent, labor, administration, utilities, and marketing) only 14 percent of revenue represents the profit for an impeccably run restaurant.

“Everybody gets pretty excited in that first week,” says Mark Tarbell, owner of Tarbell’s, The Wine Store and The Tavern in Phoenix and host of “Plate & Pour,” on PBS, of the effects Dry January have on his businesses. “And l’d say the bar business drops about 20 percent — that’s a big, bad drop in this business — but it’s not as high as that by the third week, and in the fourth week we’ll have a 40 percent increase in business, so it’s a net gain here. My message to the world is that moderation in all things, in everything, in politics, in drinking, in anything, is easier for all sides.”

The proponents and participants are scrupulous about describing Dry January as a voluntary cessation to develop (maybe improve) personal alcohol awareness and it has never been intended as a path to sobriety, though many have found their way there as the result of the experiment. Restaurateurs take heart in this knowledge and even now, as the reality of Dry January spreads over dining rooms across the land, restaurant pros know, says Eden ,”You’ll be back.”

The post Dry January might be good for you but it’s hell on the restaurant business appeared first on Salon.com.

After the punishing party season from Thanksgiving to New Year’s, more and more people are declaring a “Dry January” and taking a break from alcohol. Salon’s Nicole Karlis reports that if you can weather the taunting you may get from your indulgent friends, a drinking sabbatical can have positive effects, including conditioning you to drink a little less all year round.

Are you taking a few weeks off from your poison of choice? Have you ever tried a Dryuary before? And if you’re cutting back or cutting off entirely, why did you decide to do it?

The post Have you quit drinking for January? appeared first on Salon.com.

On Nov. 8 voters in California, Maine, Massachusetts and Nevada approved ballot measures to legalize recreational cannabis. It is now legal in a total of eight states. And this creates potential problems for road safety. How do we determine who’s impaired and who’s not?

The effects of alcohol vary based on a person’s size and weight, metabolism rate, related food intake and the type and amount of beverage consumed. Even so, alcohol consumption produces fairly straightforward results: The more you drink, the worse you drive. Factors like body size and drinking experience can shift the correlation slightly, but the relationship is still pretty linear, enough to be able to confidently develop a blood alcohol content scale for legally determining drunk driving. Not so with marijuana.

We have a reliable and easy-to-use test to measure blood alcohol concentration. But right now we don’t have a fast, reliable test to gauge whether someone is too doped up to drive.

The need is urgent. The 2014 National Survey on Drug Use and Health reported that 10 million Americans said they had driven while under the influence of illicit drugs during the previous year. Second to alcohol marijuana is the drug most frequently found in drivers involved in crashes.

But how do you know when you’re too stoned to drive? How can police tell?

My colleagues and I at the Center for Medicinal Cannabis Research at UC San Diego have received a US$1.8 million grant from the state of California to gather data about dosages, time and what it takes to impair driving ability – and then create a viable roadside sobriety test for cannabis.

Testing for marijuana isn’t like a BAC test

Alcohol and marijuana both affect mental function, which means they can both impair driving ability.

Some elements of cannabis use are similar. Potency of strain affects potency of effect. Marijuana and its active ingredient – THC – alter brain function, affecting processes like attention, perception and coordination, which are necessary for a complex behavior like driving a car.

Regular users tend to become accustomed to the drug, particularly in terms of cognitive disruption or psycho-motor skills. Because they are accustomed to the drugs’ effects, this means they may function better relative to naïve users.

Smoked marijuana produces a rapid spike in THC concentrations in the blood, followed by a decline as the drug redistributes to tissues, including the brain. The psychological impact depends upon a host of variables.

Let’s say, for example, a person smokes a joint and gets into his car. THC levels in his blood are likely to be quite high, but his cognitive functions and driving skills may not yet be impaired because the drug hasn’t yet significantly impacted the brain. But another driver might use cannabis but wait a few hours before getting behind the wheel. Her THC blood levels are now quite low, but she’s impaired because drug concentrations remain high in her brain.

Six states have set limits for THC in drivers’ blood, and nine other states have zero-tolerance laws, making the presence of THC in the drivers blood illegal.

But unlike alcohol, evidence of cannabis use can linger long after its effects have worn off, particularly if people are regular users or consume a lot in a single episode. Among chronic users, it may not clear out of their systems for weeks. Therefore, unlike blood alcohol concentration, the presence and amount of different cannabis compounds in the blood or urine do not necessarily tell you whether the driver is impaired due to marijuana.

This is why a quick and simple assessment of whether someone is driving while under the influence is difficult. And that is a necessity for any type of effective roadside sobriety test.

To create a fast and easy-to-use test, there are a few questions about marijuana that our team at UC San Diego has to answer.

How much marijuana is too much to drive?

Current blood, breath, saliva and urine tests have been challenged as unreliable in court, though they are used to prove that someone has ingested marijuana.

In California and elsewhere, the primary assessment of impairment is the law enforcement officer’s field sobriety test.

One specific challenge is determining the relationship of dose or potency, and time since consumption, to impairment. While there has been some research in this area, the studies have not comprehensively examined the issues of dose and time course of impairment. The lack of data is one of the big reasons for our work now.

Later this year, we will begin controlled experiments in which participants will smoke varying amounts of cannabis in varying strengths and then operate a driving simulator. We’ll look for impairment effects in the immediate period after exposure and over subsequent hours.

We’ll also investigate the relationship between THC and other cannabinoid levels in blood to different measures, such as saliva or exhaled breath. Roadside blood sampling is impractical, but perhaps there is an easier, reliable indicator of marijuana exposure.

Finally, there is the goal of finding the best way to assess impairment. A driver suspected of being high might be asked to follow with his finger a square moving around on a device’s screen, a test of critical tracking. Or she might perform tablet tests that more validly simulate the demands of driving.

The idea is to determine whether and how these measures – drug intake, biomarkers, objective cognitive performance and driving ability – correlate to produce an evidence-based, broadly applicable assessment standard and tool.

Igor Grant, Professor and Chair of Department of Psychiatry and Director, Center for Medical Cannabis Research, University of California, San Diego

The post Legalizing marijuana will mean taking measures to make sure users aren’t too doped up to drive appeared first on Salon.com.

When I walked back into the house, I was in shock. It had been a month and a half since I had crossed through the threshold into the historic home that housed the ragtag group of people who had once been considered closer than family.

The living room looked nothing like the hazy recollection of nights and early mornings I had in my head. The couch that had felt like a throne sat sagging and filthy against the wall.

Cigarette ash was piled around the arms of the sofa. I glanced up the stairs, but was distracted by the dried dark brown handprints that were smudged and trailing the walls up the once grand staircase.

I know they weren’t mine. But they were a grim reminder of what had happened behind my bedroom door at the top of the stairs.

In the next room, I found a couple who had been my good friends watching “Judge Judy” and smoking from my hookah.

“Is everyone still asleep?” I asked, but I was met with blank stares. It took them a few minutes, trying to focus on me to realize who I was.

“You came back?” asked the dazed man, Joe. His scruffy beard looked more ragged than I remembered. My eyes wandered to his exposed arms. The marks looked familiar, but the vastness of the bruises were a sad reminder of where I could have easily ended up.

In between taking hits from the hookah and the nearby pipe of opium, Joe told me about the raid on the house. I had left right before. And most everyone thought I was somehow involved, since the timing worked out so well for me. He gave me an odd look, then ask, “Did you do this to us?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I walked away. Maybe it was better to be thought of as a narc than to admit what had really happened. I walked out, leaving a quick note that I was donating everything in my room back to the house — the mini-fridge, the computer, the couch, the clothes, everything. I never went upstairs.

This wasn’t my home anymore.

*

More than a year later, I had a high-stress job and needed a break. A trip back to the city that could always loosen me up was exactly what I thought I needed. I had gone from hippie in homemade skirts to yuppie in pearls over that year. I didn’t drink and I hadn’t had drugs in quite a while. Cigarettes were the only vice I had left. But, I thought, I was still me.

I arranged to stay with friends and headed out for the weekend. My first stop was at a party at the old house. My last memory of the place had faded, and I was only left with the good times I had while stoned or drunk. I had all but forgotten my awkward final visit.

I walked into the party at full swing. As I passed the people who had once been considered family, I smiled and waved — but everyone reacted coldly. Their eyes would immediately find the ground and as I tried to make conversation, they would quickly drift away, saying they needed another drink.

Within the first hour, I was near tears. I headed to my old hiding spot to clear my head. I climbed up the fire escape and pulled myself up over the edge of the roof. Sitting up there and looking up the stars always used to calm me. But now, all I felt was terror. I sat on the roof crying as I tried to figure out what had happened to me.

From my perch, I spotted Joe leaning against a fence. Despite the heat, he wore a thick long-sleeve shirt, and his once robust figure had grown frail. His eyes stared blankly into the crowd. His cheeks looked hollow even from that distance.

I didn’t realize how much I had changed. I felt I was doing something wrong. What had I done to lose the people who cared about me? Maybe they had never cared about “me” at all; maybe they only liked having another person to buy drugs from and split handles of vodka with. They wanted someone like them, and that just wasn’t me anymore.

I had never wanted to use again as badly as I did then. I wanted my life back. I wanted my friends back. I wanted things to be just like they had been before. I was 21 and maybe this was the end. I had lived my life and now I was done.

At that moment, when I knew there was nothing left for me, three guys crawled over the edge of the roof. They were complaining bitterly about all the stoners stumbling around. They had climbed up there to look around the neighborhood to remember where they parked their car.

As two of them argued back and forth, the third — Adam — came to sit next to me. And somehow, within minutes, everything seemed better. I wasn’t as broken as I thought. I wasn’t a leper to everyone. And maybe, just maybe, things were going to work out for the better.

To mark Salon’s 20th anniversary, we’re republishing memorable pieces from our archives; this piece originally appeared in summer 2011.

The post I left my drunk friends behind: Sobriety made me turn a terrifying new page appeared first on Salon.com.

“We have to keep drinking,” my friend said, “or our personalities will get worse.”

Four of us sat at a high top in Big Chicks, a gay bar/restaurant/euchre-tournament venue within walking distance of my apartment in Chicago. All around us, porn-stached men looked past each other, trying to find their friends or their potential friend-for-the-night. My table ordered pitchers of Blue Moon while I sipped on Diet Coke after Diet Coke. If my friend’s drinking theory was true, it meant my personality had been getting worse every day (and I hadn’t started with much to spare). 

Nearly two years earlier, I visited a therapist to talk about the end of my first love, and she suggested I was an alcoholic. I thought therapy would be about bashing my ex, not my own problems. Many people had told me I had a drinking problem, so just let me talk about the jerk who broke up with me. Nope, she was having none of it. She said he did me a favor by breaking up with me, because I needed to get my drinking in check. Rude.

Instead of putting down the bottle, I decided to give up men and therapy for a year. Taking my newly single, non-therapied self off the market for a while sounded way more reasonable than sobriety. About a week after the therapist’s proclamation, I met up with a friend at a gay pride parade, and later in the day, we ended up at a hotel party. Things I remember about this party: smoking a cigarette after playing beach soccer, bumping into a staff member from my university, the haze of a gym teacher’s rented room. Within 24 hours, I failed my no-boys decree. And this broken promise shook my core. I don’t know how to explain it. My drinking had already gotten me arrested (DUI), nearly kicked out of my university, fired from a job, and spoiled countless relationships, but I had never considered it a problem. When I finally shook off my hangover, I went back to therapy — and gave up drinking at the age of 24. But I didn’t want to stop going to bars. I still wanted nights out on the town.

From my very first fake ID and backdoor club sneak-in, I loved going to gay bars. I mean: GAY and BAR. No two words next to each other ever made me happier. In those neon-lit gay bars, where men swished their hips and kissed each other, I found my people. Growing up as a Southern Baptist, I dealt with the residual fire-and-brimstone feelings that came along with homosexuality. Fun times. Gay bars with colorful lights and muscle-tee men gave me a glimpse of a different life than church hymns. What I first learned about gay culture formed in those moments when I held another man’s gaze and danced until sunrise. Those nights taught me how to dress, talk, flirt and love.

My alcoholism isn’t a result of my sexuality, but gay life tends to glamorize drinking. We hang out at white parties and tea dances and liquid brunches where alcohol flows as freely as the latest gossip. My social life revolved around drinks with friends, and saying, “I’m an alcoholic,” meant being excluded from my favorite club. The gay man I spent all those nights drinking into existence needed to look himself in the bloodshot eyes and figure out a few things.

That night at Big Chicks, we left the bar around midnight, and I went home. At least one of my friends presumably went out to Boystown to continue his night around men who drink vodka and diet tonic waters (or whatever the health-conscious drink now). As I gave my friends goodbye hugs, the only pressure I felt was to catch a bus.

My lightness felt a lot different than the first time I went out sober to a gay bar.

* * *

Three months after my last drink I sat on a red vinyl bar stool in one of my favorite Florida gay bars with a getting-drunk college friend. I liked sitting in a smoky gay bar (smoking not yet banned in some Florida bars) without the judgey eyes of new sobriety.  For me, going to a gay bar felt like eating a home-cooked meal. Sobriety made me hungry.

“I’m so proud of you,” my friend said. “It’s great you can sit here and not be tempted to drink. I wasn’t sure you could do it.” His skepticism of my three-month sobriety made sense, but I couldn’t help feeling some small part of him disliked my sobriety. “I’m gonna go get another drink,” he said. “Is that OK with you?” I nodded, and he slinked off his bar stool to order another $1 Long Island iced tea, the main reason we frequented this particular bar back in the day and why it ranked as one of my favorites.

Our friendship had formed at a time when I thought nothing of staying up until 6 a.m. drinking whisky and flirting with guys to get free drinks. We’d plan beers and beach days with our friends. Also: the after parties. But “recovering alcoholic” didn’t hold the same ring as “party boy.” Recovery meant I needed to change the things about me that bonded us together.  Instead of martinis and body shots (super-classy drinker here), I “talked about things.”

With my friend sipping his $1 Long Island, I realized most people don’t know how to deal with my situation, so sometimes they just won’t deal with me. On the dollar-night’s red vinyl bar stool I felt a collective “OK, BYYYEEE” resound from my LGBT community. I’m not saying the gay community necessarily wants people to drink alcoholically, but drinking was how we learned to relate to one another. No one wants to hang out with a buzz-kill sober person, I thought, before I decided to get going.

* * *

“Take this,” James said, handing me a bottle of some weird-sounding fruit-beer hybrid. “I can’t drink anymore tonight.”

A group of us stood in front of a Korean restaurant after eating a duck course for our friend’s birthday dinner. We needed to decide our next spot, because, well, someone brought cake and you just can’t eat cake on the street. I laughed and handed the big alcohol bottle, cold and wrapped in a black plastic bag, to another friend. No matter how hard you try to stay away from something, it might just end up in your my hand.

I don’t get mad when people drink around me, I only feel a slight – and this is rare – hint of jealousy sometimes that they can have a “normal” relationship with alcohol. But these friend-alcohol moments also remind me to get over myself. My friends and community support me in ways they can – in ways they know how. Not relying on non-sober people to “look out” for me actually makes things easier, because I don’t worry about these people letting me down in sobriety. Community is important, but it can’t be everything to everybody.

“We could go to Big Chicks,” someone said. Our group always took forever to make decisions. The birthday girl vetoed the Big Chicks idea, because the group planned on BYOB-ing and such an act is bad form at a bar. A part of me was happy we chose not to go out to Big Chicks; a smaller part, a little disappointed.

I rarely went out to gay bars and only if I felt comfortable and had completed a complicated emotional algorithm. A common thought prevails that recovering alcoholics only hang out by themselves in dark corners or with other alcoholics in dingy rooms. Some sober people never go to bars, and I respect what works for them.  Don’t get me wrong, I love others in recovery, they help keep me sober, but in my mid-20s I still sometimes want to dance to bad pop music with other gay people.

Since the Big Chicks we-have-to-keep-drinking night about two months earlier, I hadn’t gone out. I knew I would, eventually. My complicated love for gay bars still stays with me. Maybe it will go away one day, maybe it won’t. Maybe I am tricking myself. Even if you feel good, how can you own something that owns you? People tell me the compulsion to drink will come back. Like an ex-lover, he will show up with clouds disguised as flowers. I’m worried my mantras and resolutions might get left at home like my umbrella. Timing never was my strong suit. I still find comfort and familiarity in the loud music and pulse of gay bars – it’s what I know. I wish this wasn’t true, but I’d be lying if I said otherwise.

As my friend group walked to our chosen cake-eating spot, a comedy theater down the street, my desire to go out to the bar passed. None of these friends had known me pre-sobriety. We laughed and linked arms and the night felt right. Thinking about it later, alone, away from my friend’s birthday cake, I realized I probably wouldn’t have gone to the bar with them anyway. Why push it? I was sitting at a table with people who respected me. I was starting to keep my promises.

And anyway, I hadn’t been wearing my dancing shoes that night. I loved the fact that I no longer fell on the dance floor, taking anyone within arm’s reach to the ground with me. Now, if I tripped, I could catch myself, or at least refrain from knocking over anyone else. When I stopped drinking, my personality may or may not have gotten better. But my dancing definitely improved.

The post Sober at the gay bar appeared first on Salon.com.

On David Foster Wallace:

I’ve read a bunch of him. I like him. He’s somewhat antiseptic and does suffer from a top-heaviness, which is to say he’s more “head” than “heart” in his writing, and I think that ratio really, really needs to be balanced to be great. Like I just read With or Without You by Domenica Ruta, who’s obviously as “smart” as DFW but has much, much more warmth, thus I’d take her book to the moon instead of his. Though, again, I do like him a lot and have read 85% of what he wrote.

On feminism:

You are very kind! The response is primarily very positive. I just want to show that you can be a blustery hairy “alpha” male and a feminist at the same time. Plus, I love affirmative action. Misogyny will almost definitely outlast homophobia and racism on this planet and it’s because of systems that were put in place forever ago and assiduously maintained and strengthened over the years. So we’ve got to tear those down. And when I say “we,” that includes men. And guess what? MY LOT, as a straight white man, IMPROVES when women’s lot improves. A rising tide raises all ships > there are more women then men on the planet > if we improve women’s lot, the world is BETTER FOR EVERYONE. HOW DO PEOPLE NOT REALIZE THIS? It infuriates me, then I turn that fury into jokes, essays, basic human kindness and hard work to try and make the world a better place for everyone. WOE unto the man who doesn’t actively try to make the world better for women. Regardless of one’s spiritual beliefs, his soul will be torn apart by neon griffins in hell.

On how to have a career in comedy writing:

WELL you can absolutely have a career in comedy writing after you graduate even if you’re in the midwest and your parents are whatever they are and blah blah etc. Just start writing now, even if you don’t share it with people, or join (or start) a sketch writing group at your school and watch comedy in your free time so you figure out what you like/don’t like and want to emulate, or what you want to do that you feel is inside of you but don’t see being done elsewhere.
You could infinitesimally improve your odds by moving to LA or NYC or London after you graduate and take classes at UCB or ImprovOlympic or the Groundlings or somewhere so that you’re around other funny, motivated people too. That helps. Then write and write and write and never quit. Other people will quit, but you won’t, if you in fact really want to write comedy.

On Mexican women:

I like Mexican women. Very much. All of them.

On his favorite Twitter interactions:

Any with Margaret Atwood. WHY does she interact with me? I cannot believe it.

On his favorite public speakers:

The 3 best public speakers I’ve ever seen who radiated the most dynamism, fun and positivity are: Desmond Tutu, The Dalai Lama, and Ralph Nader. I’m sure the first two surprise no one, but Ralph Nader was SHOCKINGLY warm and human and funny and charming. Maybe 10 years ago I went to hear him speak and thought “This’ll be informative” or whatever and he was just so fun and groovy. Weird, right?

On hitting rock bottom:

I hit “rock bottom” when I slid out of my wheelchair and landed on the floor of my cell in jail and my bloody hospital gown slid up, exposing my penis, testicles and asshole to everyone in jail. I had to be lifted back into my wheelchair by two samaritans since my arms were broken and my legs were in these leg stabilizer metal/velcro things that didn’t allow my knees to bend. I was in this condition because I’d driven a car into a building some hours before. Before I was taken to jail I had to ask the arresting officers in the emergency room if I’d killed anyone, because I didn’t remember anything. They told me no.
It was the realization that my drinking could very easily kill other people that made me finally quit, after years of trying. At the time I didn’t care if I died, but I didn’t want to take anyone else with me, or worse, kill someone and not die myself. When the cops told me I didn’t kill anyone, I decided not to kill myself and get sober. That was just under twelve years ago.

On sobriety:

I don’t drink any alcohol and I don’t do any drugs now. I don’t proselytize; if other people want to drink, great. I just found that it was, for me, impossible to drink even a little without wanting to drink more. Before I got sober 11 years ago, I tried a few times to quit, then after a spell would say “OK, I’m going to keep it under control this time,” then invariably it got horrible pretty quickly. So I condone “not drinking at all” for me personally. I’m maybe 5000 times happier now, and also alive and not in jail.

The post Indispensable wisdom from Rob Delaney’s Reddit AMA appeared first on Salon.com.

Today my brother has 10 months sober. I woke up to this email from him, addressed to my parents and me:

“I would not change 1 thing in my life today. So crazy to actually mean that. I luv all y’all so much & y’all have each helped me beyond ur understanding in different ways. Today I am really fuckin grateful.”

A year ago today, he was dying from a cocktail of opiates, benzos and alcohol. Having spent the latter part of my teens and early 20s shooting heroin into every vein in my body, I knew his pain. Yet I was still powerless to help because, as we know, someone has to first want that help.

So one day I woke up and decided to do the only thing I could—put it all down on paper in the following letter to him. I share it in the hope of making someone feel less alone today.

Dear Jonny—

In 1998, I knew I needed to change. I knew there was a better life somewhere out there for me. I believed in freedom and creativity and love, and had somehow given all of that up in the service of my addiction. I had become completely dependent on outside sources to give me any kind self-worth—mostly this was in the form of external accomplishments or the bravado and reassuring self-delusion that came along with getting high.

Only to say that I had nothing left to tap into in my own heart to let me know that I was going to be okay.

Or that the universe was a safe place.

Or that love, in its unending series of messes and compromises, was in fact perfect and holy just the way it was. And moreso, that what made it truly god-like was the very fact that it was beyond my control. It did not come in the form that I wanted it to…and it took me years to discover that this was because it was so much bigger than me, or anything I could fathom. I realized that I was not in control!

And that was the moment when I became more than the sum of my parts. That was the moment that I finally felt like I belonged to something greater. That was when I truly began to grow… and at the same time realized that there was no destination.

I spent years (well into my early recovery) painting elaborate stories in my brain about why “I was right.” I would have hours of conversations with people inside my own head and make up their side of the story/conversation, too. Then I would rebut their story with lawyer-like precision until I came to a place where I won.

The more that I actually lost in my life, the better my internal lawyer would have to be to win the case. But my brain is fierce and my will is strong, so I could do it. To the bitter end I could do it.

And then, one day, after the haze started to clear, and I had been following direction (that I hated!) for a while, I had one simple thought. “What am I getting out of being right?” Then another question followed: “Why do I need to be right?” And for that split second, I had an epiphany that I have spent the last 14 years trying to remind myself of (to varying degrees of success): BECAUSE MY DISEASE WANTS ME TO BE ALONE.

Several months ago, mom and dad told you that we would not be getting together as a family anymore because it was just too hard and too toxic. Last week, I told you that I did not want to carry the relationship that we had (without some kind of professional help or guidance) because it hurt too much and never seemed to get better. By your own admission, your disease has alienated you from friendships.

It must take a lot of mental work to explain away all of these (seemingly similar) changes in your life and lawyer your way out of them. But I know this disease. I have this disease. And I know your own fiercely intelligent brain. So I’m sure that you can do it if you decide to continue to do so.

I guess what I’m saying is that if you’re anything like I was (and still am at times, when I’m in my deepest fear), you’ve read this letter and your brain is telling you, “He doesn’t understand.” It will sum up the years that I’ve spent in pain wishing to have a better connection with you, the days (since I found out about the extent of your habit) that I’ve spent praying and crying, and the hours that I’ve spent writing and rewriting this letter into some form of a write-off.

“He loves me but he doesn’t get my life.”

“He’s too caught up in his own bullshit to see what’s actually going on with me.”

“He means well, but I got this thing. I know how to do this.”

If this is the case, I just ask you to take one single moment to quiet those thoughts. Quiet your brain and try to find God in your heart (your higher self that has no fear or anger) and then ask this one question:

What are you getting out of being right?

And if your heart can hear this question. Consider one more thing:

What if you’re wrong?

And if, by chance, there is now any inkling of doubt deep inside you, then maybe you can hear this:

There is a truth and beauty in this universe that we cannot even begin to know until we put the gloves down. Surrender is where we find the strength that we never knew existed. Surrender is always in action, never in thoughts.

Your brain is your enemy.

You are safe.

You are loved.

You are sick.

You cannot do this alone. No one can.

Your plans don’t work.

You are me and I am you. Your pain is not just your own. Because I love you, because you are my brother, it is my pain too.

And lastly, that there is a life out there that is beyond your wildest dreams. And it’s nothing like you imagine it will be. It is so much better.

And it’s yours for the taking.

I can see it right in front of you! But I cannot give it to you. That is a journey for you and you alone.

But all you have to do to get from here to there is let go…

—Joshua

The post A letter to my sober brother appeared first on Salon.com.

My hedonistic dreams were dashed, though, when I got sent to rehab at age 17, the week after finishing my junior year of high school. Surprisingly, sobriety was a huge relief; I was exhausted from trying to manage an active addiction, paralyzing depression, an eating disorder, and prepping for the SAT and AP exams. I was on board with staying clean.

But I simply could not imagine how I was going to go to college in just a year. What would I do there, if not drugs? Wasn’t the whole point of college that you were away from your parents for the first time so you could drink as much as you wanted to?  One day at a time, people told me. You’ll figure it out when it’s time.

In the spring of senior year, I found out I’d gotten in to the prestigious university a mere 20 minutes from where I grew up. I was thrilled; at a year sober, I wasn’t quite ready to leave my home group, my parents, and my sober network of friends. So I packed up my clothes, bought some extra-long twin sheets, and moved across town into the dorms.

My dreams of a thrilling social life on campus were dashed on my first night in the dorms. Somehow I got assigned to the “quiet” building, designated for people who enjoy studying and never want to have fun. Despite the fact that I hadn’t gotten stoned or drunk in over a year, my desire to be a carefree 18-year-old hadn’t waned at all. I wanted the loud dorm! But I was stuck in what was basically a fluorescent-lit mausoleum, with a roommate who ate cookies so sloppily that she got an ant infestation…in her bed. It was heinous. Within a few weeks, I moved back into my mom’s comfortable, vermin-free house.

College, 1.  Lily, 0.

I’d kind of counted on my dorm-mate becoming my new best friend, so I felt a little stumped when she turned out to be such a dud. But, like any good AA, I was willing to do the footwork. First plan of action: chat up my fellow students. I started with the cute football player in my history class. Mr. Longsnapper and I dated for a few golden weeks, until I came down with mono and he told me he couldn’t bring me home to his parents because I was Jewish. Also, it wasn’t as much fun as I’d hoped to sit on his couch and watch while he and his roommates got drunk and played video games.

College, 2.  Lily, 0.

I kept trying, though. I sat next to a girl in my English class who had tattoos and smelled like cigarettes, and she seemed like a good candidate for College Bestie. She ended up being the perfect friend to take smoke breaks with and we studied for finals together but the friendship fizzled when our class ended for the quarter. Alas.

So I tried something totally different and totally antithetical to who I am: I joined a club. Besides AA, I don’t think I’ve ever joined anything in my life. I hate team sports, group outings and anything that requires me to subsume my own interests and goals in favor of the benefit of the group. But I really, really wanted to make friends and it wasn’t happening in my classes or in the dorms. So I auditioned for the Jewish a cappella singing group and donated my dignity to the universe.

Yes, it was the nerdiest thing I have ever done in my life. But at least I was trying. I did my best with those kids, but I was the only one who didn’t speak Hebrew, the only one with tattoos, and the only one who chain-smoked before our performances.  Shockingly, I didn’t last.

College, 3.  Lily, 0.

My last ditch effort to feel like I belonged was trying the meetings on campus. They were in a windowless, subterranean room and the other attendees were school administrators and receptionists. There was one other student but I quickly ascertained that he was only at the meeting to get his court card signed. Compared to the buzzing, hormone-fueled young people’s meetings where I’d gotten sober, this was truly bleak. I never went back.

I think it’s safe to say that my freshman year sucked.

When sophomore year rolled around, I got an apartment close to campus with a friend from junior high. This would be my year, I thought—I was finally out of my mom’s house, living the real college life.

My body had other plans, though. The low-grade insomnia I’d battled since age 10 ratcheted itself up to epic proportions. I would find myself conscious, sort of, for 48-hour periods. I’d lie awake in my room, battling the pillows and the sheets, dreading sunrise because it meant I’d have to haul myself to class and function on what felt like half of a brain. My depression, which I’d also been dealing with since long before I took my first drink, intensified. Between the sleeplessness and the return of the clinical depression, I felt trapped in my bed. I wouldn’t leave my apartment, and sometimes even my bedroom, for days at a time.

Needless to say, my grades plummeted. I failed two classes in one quarter, which landed me on academic probation. I felt like I was back where I had started before sobriety: a big, fat disappointment. This was not how I had planned my college experience.

Eventually my AA friends did an intervention on me at my apartment. They sat me down (actually, I was already in bed, and they just sat on it with me) and told me, quite plainly, that I was ungrateful. The opportunity I’d been given to go to this prestigious university? I was squandering it. Gratitude was an action, they said, and the way to express it was to, you know, actually go to class, even if I was suicidal and sleep-deprived.

Somehow, based solely on willpower and fear, I was able to get it together—I made it off of academic probation, pulled my grades up and changed my class schedule so that I wouldn’t have to be anywhere before noon. I even signed up to study abroad in London the summer after sophomore year, which ended up being by far the best experience of my college career.I went off to England exactly three days after my boyfriend—who I’d been dating for six months—dumped me. I literally wept for 10 hours straight on the plane and I was sure I was making a huge mistake by leaving the country. It was the most vulnerable and fragile I’d ever felt in my three years of sobriety and I was leaving my friends, family, sponsor, and meetings behind. I was scared of drinking, for the first time in my sobriety.

When I arrived in England, my assigned roommate, Nancy, turned out to be a born-again Christian. She was a virgin; she didn’t smoke; she blushed when I cursed. Holy shit, I thought, this is going to be a nightmare. Why do I even get my hopes up anymore? College just isn’t my thing.

But Nancy surprised me.

About a week in, I was still incredibly homesick. And heartbroken. And squirrelly from lack of meetings. The drinking age in England was such that I could go to any pub and order an armful of Stellas and of course no one back home would ever find out. I could sauce it up in Great Britain and then pick up my sobriety where I’d left off once I got back to the States.

They say that, sometimes, the only barrier between you and a drink is your Higher Power. But my Higher Power was the AA group itself, so what was I supposed to do when I was thousands of miles away from my fellows? I remembered that AA taught me to be willing to do whatever it takes to stay sober, so I swallowed my pride, all the way down, and asked Nancy to pray with me one afternoon.

I told her that I didn’t drink because I was a recovering alcoholic and that I was scared I was close to a relapse. Let’s keep in mind, this was a girl whose idea of debauchery was sharing a beer with a girlfriend—I can’t even imagine how strange she thought I was. But Nancy didn’t even blink when I asked her to pray with me, and for me.

We held hands in our shitty bedroom and prayed silently. I prayed for my heart to heal and for my desire to drink to be lifted, one more time. I think she prayed for Jesus to save me. Whatever it was that we sent up into the sky, though, it worked. I stayed sober and my heart did heal. My time in England ended up being thrilling, and heady, full of late-night discussions about politics and Shakespeare and religion—finally, I was having the true college experience.

My last two years of college were a blur: I took the hardest classes I could, I did internships, I had a hectic social life and somehow I had wound up sponsoring nine (oy!) girls. It was one of the happiest times in my life—every second was accounted for, in the best way. I felt like I was finally acting grateful for the incredible opportunities that had been afforded to me.

I graduated from college on time, with my entire family watching. Three days later I celebrated five years of sobriety and when I took my cake, I was able to talk about how much I’d struggled in school and how I made it through without picking up a drink or trying to kill myself. I get to share that experience with my sponsees today and be an example of how to balance the program with wanting to be a normal college student.

Did I have the “Animal House” experience? The “Less Than Zero” experience? Absolutely not. To be honest, I didn’t even have the “Revenge of the Nerds” experience. There’s only one person I still talk to from my university days (no, not Nancy) and most of that communication takes place through Facebook comments. I only went to one real frat party, which, for the record, had a Pimps and Hos theme. I left after five minutes, when I realized I was the only girl wearing pants or a shirt.  On my way out, I was groped by several sweaty Zetas. I celebrated my 21st birthday by going on a date with a boy (from AA, natch), then to a bar with two sober girlfriends and my sister, and was in bed by midnight. I did not take 21 shots of anything, nor did I scream “Woooooo!” at any point.

Going to college sober was a lesson in sacrifices. I didn’t have the social experience I had hoped to simply because the only people who didn’t drink or smoke weed were…kind of lame. And the people who did drink—well, they drank, and it’s never fun to be the only non-drinker in a room full of boozy college kids. But what I did get out of college was a world-class education and a sense of accomplishment and the satisfaction of meeting and exceeding my goals. And when I get resentful that I never got to do keg stands in a frat house, I try to remember that I had that so-called “college” partying experience in high school.

There’s a line in the Big Book that talks about how, if our programs are strong, there’s nowhere on earth we can’t go as long as our motives are good—even, as it turns out, to Pimps and Hos parties at the Zeta house. I’m living proof.

Lily Weinstein is the pseudonym for a West Coast-based sober writer. She’s also written about being a non-zealot in AA and about sexual predators.

The post I was a sober college student appeared first on Salon.com.

Maybe a month after I stopped drinking, I took a job as night manager at a bar on 14th street, a bar I had drank in, fallen asleep in and gotten tossed from. It was a decision that everyone questioned, myself included. I took it for two reasons. First, I reasoned that alcohol was everywhere. “Avoiding temptation” was an illusion: there was a liquor store across the street, a bodega next door, my roommate’s beer in the fridge and Listerine in the bathroom. If I wanted to drink, I was going to drink. Second, I didn’t have another option. I needed that job. It wasn’t “sink or swim”—swimming was the only option I had. I worked there for two years and though I was sorely tempted many times, I never drank.

I’d been sober for more than a year before I admitted to anyone that I was an alcoholic and sober for two years before I submitted the general public to that ugly news. Initial reactions ranged from actual tears of gratitude and relief to the girl at the bar I was managing who looked at me slyly, swaying on her heels and said, “So what would happen if you took just one sip?” and tried to push her drink into my hand.

After their first splash of surprise (or lack thereof), I had to accustom myself to my peers viewing me through the distorting lens of alcoholism. My experience has taught me that most people—even intelligent, worldly people—have bad data about alcoholism. When others learn you’re an alcoholic, you immediately become a victim of the information shrapnel they’ve passively absorbed about the disease. They don’t see you, a specific, unique person burdened with a wily, tenacious affliction. They see Andy Capp, Charles Bukowski, Anna Nicole Smith, Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest, any character from any pre-1990 Tom Waits’ song, after school specials, a faulty decision tree that always returns to alcohol, their drunken aunt/uncle/mother/father/whatever. Every sentence you utter, even the minutest gesture you make, is filtered through volumes of self-help literature, hours upon hours of well-intentioned talk shows and second- and third-hand paraphrasings of the aforementioned.

In my three-plus years of sobriety, friends, enemies and strangers alike have offered me their unsolicited, uninformed, condescending input on my life: I’m not an alcoholic because I was able to quit on my own without AA, I’m not sober because I don’t go to AA or work the 12 steps, I’m not sober because I infrequently indulge in psilocybin mushrooms, I’m a “dry drunk” because my soul is not infused with God’s healing light, I’ve become a caffeine addict/a “chocoholic”/an exercise addict/a sex addict, just exchanging one addiction for another.

Part of this is my fault. Usually, when we make the big declaration—“I’m an alcoholic”—we often leave off the last, most important part: “…so I’m going to stop drinking and work very hard to make lasting changes in my life. Some of them may seem bizarre or ill-advised to you, but I ask you to be patient with me and supportive of me because it’s not going to be easy.” I got to the first part when I was 17—piece of cake! It took me 15 years of hard drinking to get to the crucial second part. But lots of people will be tempted to pathologize your every move once they know you are an alcoholic/addict. Some of them will just be pricks with massive problems of their own. They will also be people you love and people who love you, making your tough situation even tougher by inexpertly expressing the ways in which they care for you.

So let’s go point by point. Just as alcoholism existed before AA, alcoholics have stopped drinking before AA existed. It strikes me as bizarre that my disease can be reverse-diagnosed by its “cure.” The only other instance of this I can call to mind is the witch hunts of the 16th and 17th century where a suspected witch was subjected to the “ordeal of water”—repeatedly held under water for increasing amounts of time until she proved her innocence by drowning. (The few who survived were clearly witches, so they were hanged.) Oh, there’s also House, in which a maverick pill-popping doctor subjects patients with bizarre ailments to a battery of increasingly unorthodox and dangerous cures. Folks, that’s a TV show. It’s fiction.

I know that I’m an alcoholic. My family and my friends who have known me for 20 years recognize that I’m an alcoholic—they knew long before I did. It’s taken a lot of humiliation, soul-searching and grim self-evaluation for me to admit I am an alcoholic—first to myself, then to my inner circle, then to the world at large. Please don’t further demean me by telling me it’s not real or pushing me for proof.

There is no empirical data which proves that AA helps alcoholics get sober or stay sober. Yes, you can cite story after transformative, inspiring story, as can I, but that’s all anecdotal evidence. AA is a secret society with no accurate active member count and no measurable success rate. An article in Wired on the organization’s 75th anniversary reported that, from the best information available, AA doesn’t work. Multiple accredited sources report that AA members fail to stay sober more often than they succeed. Does AA help at all? Wired reports that it does and I believe that it does. Wired also reports that group talk therapy like the sharing that occurs in AA helps people recovering from cancer and pathogen-driven diseases like tuberculosis. My takeaway is that it benefits people suffering from a hardship to congregate with other people suffering from the same hardship to talk about their experiences. As such, I support AA as one potentially useful tool but it’s not one that works for me. In no way is AA or the 12 steps the alpha and omega of recovery its strictest adherents would have you believe.

As alcoholism is not dependent on AA for its diagnosis, neither is sobriety. I describe myself as sober because I don’t drink alcohol and I am habitually abstinent from drugs. It’s not just that I don’t drink hard liquor or wine or beer; I don’t drink non-alcoholic beer, I don’t drink kombucha, I avoid food I know has alcohol in it, I even threw out the vanilla extract my ex used to bake with when I saw its alcohol content. One of my best friends, Steve, is sober. But he is a devout Catholic so several times a year, he drinks a mouthful of wine as part of religious services. I don’t do the steps; Steve puts a great amount of faith and effort into them. When we vacation together, Steve smokes pot all the time; I rarely do. I eat mushrooms a couple of times a year; Steve would never think of such a thing. Once in a while, I’ll make a stupid bet with a friend or play cards; Steve has a gambling problem so he won’t bet a nickel or even play solitaire. Do we both understand ourselves as sober? Hell, yeah. I get to define my own sobriety because my sobriety means almost nothing to you compared to what it means to me. Steve taught me how to drink. He and I have pushed against our addictions long enough that we have mapped out the entire floodplain. We have placed the sandbags, we have carried the stones. We know the difference between a harmless trickle of water and the precursor to a flood. And we’ve become experts at differentiating between the two because it’s our own selves that are at risk of being washed away.

The mushrooms are a constant sticking point and it’s ridiculous. I mean, even my mother ate shrooms once, and not when she was in college. I once tried to date a girl who had grown up a straight-edge punk rock musician with a deep investment in questioning the government and the moral majority. By the time we met, she had relaxed her stance enough that she allowed herself to get hammered regularly and yet she mercilessly mocked my infrequent use of mushrooms. When I tried to get at the essence of her objection to them (since she thought alcohol use was okay), it came down to the fact that alcohol was legal (according to the government) and everybody drank (the moral majority). So much for thinking for yourself, or even thinking at all. This year, the BBC reported that new analysis of LSD studies performed in the 60s published in the Journal of Pharmacology indicated that “a single dose of LSD has a significant beneficial effect on alcohol misuse.” Point blank, they said LSD “helps alcoholics give up drinking.” Furthermore, they suggested that “more regular doses might lead to a sustained benefit.” AndTime reported that a recent Johns Hopkins study stated that the correct dosage of psilocybin mushrooms “offered long-lasting psychological growth and helped people find peace in their lives—without the negative effects.” Anecdotally, how many mushroom addicts do you know? A beer and a line of coke only ever fired me up for another line and another beer but every time I do mushrooms—well, they not only make it clear to me what needs to stay in my life and what needs to go but they also cure me of any desire to do mushrooms for a while. And all you Big Book beaters—surely you must know that the devout agnostic Bill W. had his religious epiphany on December 14th, 1934 when he was tripping on belladonna, right?

I don’t believe in God or a Higher Power or spirituality of any kind. I’m indifferent to AA. I’m resistant to the 12 steps. I suffer bouts of melancholy and fits of anger. All of these things taken in sum cannot make me a dry drunk. Why? Because when I stopped drinking, I filled that gaping chasm in my life with the opposite of drinking. I wrote, I learned how to fix and modify guitars, I learned to run, box, kickbox and suffer gladly the torturous workouts my trainer Tracy Helsing devised. I ended a lot of hollow friendships, deepened my relationships with friends who, sober or not, were good for me, repaired my relationships with my father and older sister and invested deeply in my relationships with my nephews and nieces. I ate my vegetables and took my vitamins and did my homework. I stopped doing fun things I wasn’t proud of and did a lot of hard things I knew were good for me but somehow still couldn’t feel proud of because they were so “recovery-by-the-numbers” like raising plants and doing yoga. Of central importance to my transformation was keeping my appointments with my counselor, Chris Sturiano. I didn’t want to go so I forced myself to go. I didn’t want to be honest so I forced myself to be honest. When I didn’t want to tell him something because I knew his response was going to annoy the fucking shit out of me, that was the first thing I forced myself to tell him. Some of it was really rewarding, a lot of it sucked and all of it was hard work. Don’t erase all my vigilant efforts to change by calling me a dry drunk just because I get pissed when I get a parking ticket. Parking tickets suck—that’s a universal constant.

Have I replaced one addiction with another? You bet. Just like you, I am addicted to pleasure…and air and water and just life in general. Human beings are biologically programmed to seek pleasure and avoid fear and pain. Eating, drinking, sleeping and fucking bring us pleasure because those activities ensure the survival of the species. I swore off alcohol, not pleasure. It’s not necessary to pathologize my every move simply because I am an alcoholic. I don’t run because I’m an exercise addict, eternally chasing the “runner’s high.” Occasionally, I enjoy running but mostly I endure the discomfort of running because I know it increases both the length of my life and the quality of my life and I hate running less than I fear death and the sensation of dying. Just because I have been addicted to alcohol, it doesn’t mean my life after alcohol is necessarily just an empty series of dire cravings and desperate injections of pleasure. When I pat your dog, I am not chasing “dog patter’s high,” I am just patting the dog. Because, at the end of the day, yes, I’m an alcoholic, but I’m also a bass player, a gear nerd, a writer, an ultrarunner, a guitar wrangler, a songwriter, a mediocre kickboxer, a solid friend, an uncle, a brother, a step-brother, a foster brother, a son and a flawed, imperfect but mostly happy human being.

Mishka Shubaly lives in Brooklyn, where he writes music and plays bass for Freshkills. His Kindle Singles—Shipwrecked, The Long Run, and Are You Lonesome Tonight?—have all been bestsellers and his latest Kindle Single, Bachelor Number One, is currently #9 on the Kindle Single list. This is his first piece for The Fix, though he has been profiled by the site.

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