On February 28, 2018, I got a call from my dad saying my brother died. My brother was the guy I went to for advice. The man who was an amazing uncle to my kids. Someone who constantly told me I could be a single mom and kick ass at it. The guy who protected me from my ex. The guy who I called my best friend and brother. He died. From an overdose.
He was gone forever.
I managed with the grief. I didn’t drink anymore.
Until April 30.
I restarted the clock. My boyfriend at the time was out with his friends, so I figured what the heck, I can too. One drink turned into five, which turned into shots, which turned into me crying and feeling like I wasn’t important to anyone. Then a hangover. My last hangover.
Nine months ago.
It’s been nine months. It feels so amazing to say that. And boy have I been tempted.
“Just have one drink, it won’t kill you.”
I’ve been asked why I don’t drink. I’ve been frowned upon, judged, and I have been congratulated and admired.
I’ve read countless books about being a drunk mom, a drunk wife, a drunk employee, and just a drunk. I’ve read countless blogs and message boards. I’ve messaged my amazing sister in sobriety too many times to count. And I have drunk 1,092,381,927,537 cups of decaffeinated coffee.
But you know what? You know what is amazing? Sitting in a deep dark place NOT numbing your pain and getting out of that hole with your own sober mind. It’s so liberating.
I’m here. I’m living proof. You’re worth it. Everyone is. Be proud of who you are. Be proud of what you have overcome. Your children love you. It’s unconditional love. It’s there every single day. Every single minute. Don’t take it for granted.
This post was submitted by Erica Kaspar.