Eight Years Free
from drugs and alcohol
At the end of January, I celebrated eight years of freedom from drugs and alcohol. Unlike previous years when I had a polished draft ready for publication on the exact date, I’m just telling you now, two months later. Perhaps it’s because I’ve entered a new, more easeful stage of my recovery. In fact, it doesn’t even feel like “recovery” anymore; it’s just life, infused with a dash of hope for altruism, and my daily practice in which I remember that which is so easy to forget.
On January 30th, I had dinner with Grace to celebrate at our new home in the Oakland hills. She got me tres leches cake from the grocery, my favorite, and wrote me a card so sweet that I trembled and cried. My parents, sister, and a few dear friends texted me to congratulate me, and I told the dudes in my men’s group since we had a session that evening. I think recovery’s true treasure lies in the company of those who embrace your being, not just your deeds. Tears still well up as I recall the hands that lifted me, and the support that carried me here.
Although this annual milestone usually tempts me to recount some hardcore tales from my past for you, this year, I cherished the simplicity of having the day all to myself. It’s fortunate that I was writing a memoir about my struggles with a fancy literary agent before putting that project on pause, and that I spent the first two years of my recovery writing for hours upon hours each morning about my past. Such tales feel increasingly distant.
My memory is shockingly bad, which does have a positive aspect: I spend far less time ruminating on “what happened to me” than most people. This is likely a result of nerve damage from narcotics, perhaps mixed with a healthy dose of psychological suppression, though I’ve explored that ad nauseum. I’m not exaggerating when I say that recalling yesterday’s events will be a struggle for me. This morning, as I write to you, the memory of my recovery dinner was so distant and nebulous that I had to text Grace to remind me of the dessert she had given me. Despite that my affection for silky tres leches knows no bounds, and my eyes moisten whenever I glance at the note she penned, now resting on my desk.
I also devote comparatively little time to thinking about the future. This is because, for most of my adult life before recovery, I simply couldn’t imagine having one. I used to believe my end was inevitable—whether by overdose, a fatal car wreck, an inescapable run-in with the law, a violent episode in the Tenderloin, or a peaceful passage in my sleep into the bardo, never to return to this harsh world. That I survived is a miracle, and the source of my optimism—for myself, for you, and for all of us.
Only recently have I started considering the future in broader, decades-long terms. I can now imagine myself as a grandfather, surrounded by a large family who love me for the singular nut-bag that I am. It’s a comforting vision, isn’t it?
Alas, it’s just a thought, as wispy as the rest. What I’ve learned, the hard-knuckleheaded way, is that tomorrow is not guaranteed. My struggles with memory and future planning have given me an unexpected talent and a cheat code that I swear, I never sought. The twists and turns of my karmic path, with their intense highs and lows, have forced me to live day by day, moment by moment—it’s all I can do.
In her note, Grace wrote that my recovery is a bright and golden thing that can be pointed at but not truly known by anyone but me. That is the truth. The eight years I have now been drug and alcohol-free is about the length of time I was a serious addict, stumbling blindly towards a fate that seemed all but certain. This week, we celebrated the Spring Equinox, when day and night are of equal length. So maybe my letter to you this morning is perfectly timed.
Thank you for reading and supporting my work, as well as my recovery, throughout these years. May your life become a canvas where the dark and the light paint a masterpiece together. 🖤
I look forward to seeing my great grandchildren when you are a grandfather. Love Pop.
Congrats, Alex! Will there still be a memoir? 😇
I relate to your forgetfulness. I not only have limited recollection of my upbringing but also the memory of a fly in my day to day... nothing sticks. I've come to understand that as a product of my story, and medicines have fairly recently shown me that it could be something to work by teaching the parts of me that forget that it is now safe to remember.