I don’t find it hard to be sober.
Being social and sober—
that’s the hardest part.
It seems like everyone has a vice.
They call it “Cali sober,”
but I can’t do that either.
If you’re masking pain with anything,
you’re not sober.
I stopped drinking on the road,
living a life of quiet solitude.
Hotel rooms, empty diners—
I’m not the type to drink alone.
Even eating at the bar feels heavy,
lonely beneath the hum of televisions
and clinking glasses.
I have friends.
But when they drink,
I shrink.
I always want to leave.
I’ve always been anxious,
but now it’s sharper—
more present,
more real.
It’s been a year
since my last drink.
Twelve months passed quickly,
but the pride remains.
Clarity came soon after—
clear as the sky after rain.
But being social
still feels like walking into a storm.
Because everyone drinks.
I’m not the one to call them out
when they get loud,
when they stumble,
when they slur.
But I no longer want to be there.
So I stay home.
Alone,
more than I’d like.
Searching
for someone
who sees the world
the way I now do.
I find myself
on the outside looking in—
like standing on a porch
at someone else’s party,
hand raised to knock.
I peer through the window:
laughter, smiles,
cheers rising like music.
But I don’t knock.
I don’t go in.
I didn’t stop drinking
because I had to.
I wasn’t destroying myself—
not exactly.
But in hindsight,
alcohol lit too many fires
I spent years trying to put out.
And that—
that’s the hardest part
of being sober:
Living in a world
that drinks
like it breathes.
My plight