Please spread the word to a sober friend! Find me on Substack… or Twitter… or Facebook… or Instagram… or YouTube.
As I type this, I am sitting in a hotel room, on my second solo trip away from home in the past 16 months or so.
I’ll be honest: The idea of alone time has always been very exciting to me, and a year-and-a-half of being cooped up in a pandemic cage match every day in my living room didn’t diminish my desire for some time to myself. It’s my own little fortress of solitude and I’m planning on coming out of it feeling like Superman.
Sounds pretty normal, right? Well…
I have a complicated relationship with alone time. I love it. I absolutely love feeling free to sleep, or meditate, or call into a 12-step meeting, or lift weights, or run, or stare at a wall and think about next year’s NFL Draft, or whatever else I want to do.
But there is such a thin line between solitude and isolation for me. I’m not somebody who can sit in a hotel room by himself for very long before I am unplugging entirely from anything that is spiritually nourishing. As I sit here, I am watching mindless TV and can see bags of gummy bears and dirty socks beginning to sprawl out across the room. Gimme a couple more days and it’ll look like a flophouse in here. Luckily I am heading back home tomorrow morning.
I experienced this battle—between solitude and isolation—a bit from about 2015-19. Every summer, during my busiest work time of the year, my wife would pack up the kids and drive around the East Coast visiting family. I counted down the freaking days every year. I couldn’t wait to have some me time. I was going to get to meetings, go out to dinner with guys from the program, stay late at the office if I needed to, clean out the garage. I had big plans.
And I did none of that. I sat in a chair and ate Cool Ranch Doritos for breakfast and Cocoa Pebbles for lunch while I binge-watched TV shows and sports. I told myself I’d get to a meeting the next day. Within 36 hours, I was shirtless in my recliner, blinds drawn, eating horribly, just banging out TV in a dark living room. If that sounds a lot like what an active addict’s living room would seem like, you’re not wrong. It was eerily similar to my days of drinking and drugging by myself, on the loose. Turns out, the problem with me time is the “me” part.
But here’s the thing: a part of me likes the discomfort. Even when it gets uncomfortable. I can be selfish and non-spiritual and do whatever I want, whenever I want, without many repercussions. In Step 5 of the 12 and 12 book, there’s a line that says, “Almost without exception, alcoholics are tortured by loneliness.” That’s when I’m 10 miles past replenishing solitude and am instead deep into the woods of isolation.
The good news is, my sober time has taught me that there’s about a 48-hour max on how long I can go until I have no choice but to plug back in. So for the first four years she did that with the kids, I’d limp into a meeting on Day 3 or 4, caked in honeybun icing and reeking of Liam Neeson revenge shoot-em-ups, and I’d get back on track.
For that fifth year, I vowed to do it different, and I did. Did I still load up the car with an over-the-top amount of glee as I warmed up the van—in July—to get everybody on the road? Yes, I did.
But I went to nine meetings in seven days, made about 25 phone calls and dialed it down on slamming Netflix, Diet Coke and Taco Bell. I managed to find solitude—a nice balance of the spiritual, with some junk food on the side. It was beautiful week.
It’s a good reminder as I sit here in my hotel room that, to put it in caveman terms… isolation, bad. Solitude, good!
If you want to subscribe to LOL Sober, hit the purple button below. I’m not putting anything behind the paywall for a little while longer, so if you choose the free option, you’ll receive everything without paying. If you’d like to contribute anyway, many thanks.
