We owe our new lives to this
a re-introduction of myself
We tell each other our stories because it helps us set them into a kind of imaginary stone. It is a way of leaving the imprint of our insides onto some kind of surface, like a fossil. It isn’t the real thing, but it’s as close as we can get.
We press ourselves onto the page.
We leave traces of our whisper’s DNA behind, though we carry ourselves elsewhere, and away.
My life is not everything I’ve done up until now. My life isn’t a collection of stories; horror or romance or humor. Who I am this minute is not who I will be when you read this. I’ll be out there becoming brand new again, while you are here becoming brand new as you read what I’m about to share.
This is the power of writing, even as it pushes up against its limits. My life cannot be captured and told exactly as it is, or was, or will be. Writers know this. It breaks our hearts; we write anyway. People in recovery know this. We know that the past is in the past and each day is a new one. We swear by this. We owe our new lives to this.
We know we are not ‘writing’ our own story but rather we are the story itself. Playing out in real time, whether we talk about it or not. Whether we write about it or not. Whether anybody reads us or not. We live out our lives anyway. Heartbeat to heartbeat. Breath to breath. Step to step and sigh to imperceptible sigh. We are beautiful and tragic and everything in-between and back again.
This week’s post is a cop-out, or so my mind keeps telling me (in a most obnoxious tone, to be honest, which I do not appreciate in the least). I meant to write an essay, but instead I spent many days re-writing my About Page and I’m going to share it with you now which sounds so boring and self-centered and gross, please forgive me.
It’s just that, if we are going to move forward in our relationship, and I sincerely hope that we do, I need you to know where I am right now in my life and my work. I need to know that you know why we are here.
But mostly: I needed to know that I know. That’s the truth of it. Because we can tell our stories to a million people or three, and the reason would still be the same: to understand ourselves. Maybe it’s selfish. Or maybe understanding ourselves is all we can ever really offer to anyone else.
Here goes.
Dry Humor Me is a newsletter for the rare, open-minded, brave-hearted person who wants to expand their understanding of addiction and recovery. If you ask me, I’d say just that you are here means you are exceptional.
The harsh reality is that most people think addiction is something that happens to other bad people ‘out there’ — but mostly addiction is (at the core of its core) about not being real. With ourselves. We repeatedly do stuff that hurts us because for a little while at first, it helps us feel better.
And here’s the realest part: Who can’t relate to that?
So let’s be as real as we can, okay. At least here. At least for now. So we can stay on the up-and-up with each other right off the jump.
I write about being in recovery from alcohol addiction and, for the most part, nobody wants to talk about it because they think sobriety is lame and addiction is a hopelessly dark thing that we should never speak about in public. The problem with that is: hiding it perpetuates it.
Through each of my personal essays on Dry Humor Me, I’m reaching out and asking you:
Would you give me a chance to talk with you about this complex and normal human thing called addiction?
And would you give me a chance to show you how fascinating, life-affirming, and sometimes fucking hilarious it is to get astonishingly real with yourself in recovery?
If you stick around, we’ll keep it real. Every week. And real is often way better than you think. Who knew?! (People in recovery. We KNOW THINGS.)
While it’s no secret that western culture grossly normalizes dysfunctional drinking and broadly ignores the ones who suffer mightily from it, too many of us battle our addictions in shame, isolation, and silence.
By sharing my experience as a GenX woman in long-term recovery from a decades-long alcohol addiction that even my closest loved ones didn’t know about or suspect, I invite you to join me as I expose and examine the complicated truths about how alcohol (and alcohol-centric culture) harms all of us.
Even more importantly, there is not one person on the planet who would not benefit greatly from learning what recovery has to offer all of us. Consider Dry Humor Me your backstage pass to what it really looks like (and what it really takes) to:
identify and overcome addiction
tell the truth even when it’s tough as nails
acquire the specific life skills and widely-informed perspectives that allow us to live unconventional lives full of freedom and courage
In recovery, we actually want to engage with our lives instead of run from them. It’s not easy — it’s real. And in times like these, it’s a hell of a comfort to know what’s real. Am I right? (Do people still say that?)
A Little Bit About Me
I’m a published author, writer, artist, and certified recovery coach living in Pennsylvania, USA. I earned my B.A. in Arts & Sciences at Penn State University in 2000. I had my only child in 1998, and married by beloved in 2006. When my mother died of breast cancer 3 months before my wedding day, I was forever changed in ways it would take me almost 16 years to even begin to process.
If it weren’t for my recovery, the me you get to know through my writing here on DHM wouldn’t exist.
I got sober on January 1, 2022 and my life has radically transformed since. I was born in 1978, which puts me firmly in midlife (peri! the joy! the horror!) right when I also find myself inside the radical transformation/upheaval/wtffff that is recovery from addiction.
I’ve quit drinking, quit my 20+year corporate career, and quit letting the rest of the world dictate what I’m supposed to act like, look like, talk about, care about, or pursue. I believe that the more truthfully and kindly we can express our most difficult emotions and experiences out loud with each other, the more courage and kindness we can hope to inspire in others, too.
Thank you for being here. I know you are exceptional.
See you on the inside.
I’ll share, too. 50 something who’s 32 days sober. Didn’t know how to “do” sobriety until it was too late to make a difference in my marriage. So, now I am rebuilding/reinventing/rediscovering me while sober.
This was perfectly on time for me as my task on the next week or so is to actually write a proper “About Me.” Thanks for showing up and sharing, even when parts of you felt like a cop out. I have those parts, too, and while I know they’re trying to help, it doesn’t always feel that way.