Six.
The last time December 10th fell on a Saturday, I woke up to the overly-bright sun bouncing off the snow below and shining straight through my bedroom window. My head throbbed and my body hurt. But what ached more than anything else was my heart.
In what I can only describe now as a moment of total surrender, I quit fighting. I was finally ready to admit that I couldn’t keep going on as I had been. I had been lying to myself and could no longer believe that what I had been doing was working.
Because I had spent some time the year before trying to find another way, I knew exactly what I needed to do. I threw on some sweatpants, splashed my face with water, and shuffled down the icy street to a church basement full of women who had what I wanted.
My memories of that morning are fuzzy. I do remember gripping a cup of coffee like my life depended on it (because it did) and crying while I admitted that I knew that this was my thing and that I couldn’t keep facing it alone. I remember small bits of paper with scribbled names and numbers slipped into my hands. I remember being just as hungry for hope as I was for the eggs and hashbrowns at the diner afterwards. And I remember the woman who said she was driving through Minneapolis anyways and could drop me at the car I had left downtown the night before. But mostly I remember being loved despite feeling about as unloveable as I ever had.
Six years ago tomorrow.
It no longer completely blows my mind that I have stacked up years’ worth of days without a drink. But in the very next breath, I can still recognize it for what it is: a damn miracle.
It is not one that I take for granted. Especially after all that we’ve been through in the past few years.
The statistics aren’t pretty. A recently-released report from the CDC showed that alcohol-related deaths rose 26% from 2019 to 2020. The increase was even more dramatic for women ages thirty-five to forty-four: 42%. But it wasn’t just the pandemic. Those numbers had been climbing steadily (albeit at much lower rates) for years.
I can say with a quiet knowing that alcohol would have eventually killed me one way or another.
But for the grace of God or whatever else is out there, go I.
It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about how hard those first tender months were. These days, I’m in what they call “stable recovery,” meaning that it’s been more than five years since my last drink. Plus, I have a hell of a lot more tools than I once did. The longing is gone and the cravings only hit once in a very, very blue moon. But I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it was like when it was harder to string together the days.
It’s not to say that it’s exactly easy now. It’s just that the challenge has changed. It’s no longer about not picking up a bottle (and hasn’t been for a while). It’s about continuing to grow and evolve and be the best version of me.
Living a life of active recovery is no small feat even when completely surrounded by others in the same boat. Doing it within the context of the Foreign Service community? Harder and sometimes more lonely. There are times that I feel like the really odd duck. It has, however, gotten easier.
Part of that ease has come with time. I’ve learned to navigate situations that used to throw me. Part of it has come with discovering that I’m not the only one here (even if we’re a little hard to find sometimes). And part of it also came with my decision three years ago to no longer hide the fact that I’m in recovery. Once I started speaking more openly about what it was like, what happened, and what it’s like now, the shame that I once felt began to melt away.
But let me be clear: it continues to be a radical choice for me to be so open.
Attitudes around alcohol and Alcohol Use Disorder (or “alcoholism”) and sobriety (by necessity or by choice) are changing on a societal level. But there’s still a hell of a lot of stigma. And I would argue that is particularly true in the Foreign Service community where people are afraid to seek help (or admit that they’ve done so) for fear of corridor reputation or clearances or whatever other real or imagined consequences there might be. There’s hopeful signs that the culture is changing (even in the almost five years that I’ve been around), but it feels slow-going.
I started sharing my story because not doing so was only making me feel like my sobriety was a dirty little secret rather than something to be celebrated. But I kept and keep telling my stories because I could, and can, and know that not everybody in my position has the same freedom (for any number of reasons). And if stumbling across something that I’ve said or written helps even ONE person, any bit of vulnerability that I’ve felt along the way will have been worth it.
My sobriety and my recovery are the through lines in what has grown to be an even greater life story than I could have imagined for myself. And if I could go back now to that cold, cold December morning six years ago, I would tell myself this:
It will be hard for a while but it will get easier. Progress will not always feel linear and sometimes it won’t be. But you are on an upward trajectory. You feel unloveable now and it is unfathomable, but someday soon you will be loved and love in a way that will sometimes bring you to tears. You will learn to sit in all of your feelings. And sometimes that will suck. But most days it won’t. You will discover the things that make your heart sing and learn to say no to (most of) the ones that don’t. You will finally get unstuck. And then you’ll get stuck again every now and then, but you’ll know what to do. There is a big, crazy world out there waiting for you. And I promise you that you are on your way.
Six years of days. Tomorrow, I will wake up with a clear head and a joyful heart. I will eat cake and reach out to as many of the people who helped get me here as I can. I will celebrate the miraculous and the mundane, just like I try to every day.
And I will continue to love you. Because that’s just what I do.
A REALLY IMPORTANT P.S.:
If you are struggling with doing something that you don’t want to do anymore, know that you’re not alone. And if that thing is drinking too much or too often or when you really don’t want to but can’t seem to help it, I’m happy to share my experience and more about what worked and works for me. Please feel free to reach out and know that I’ll hold any correspondence in the highest confidence: ec {at} emilycornell.com
You might also enjoy reading my other posts on recovery or checking out a couple of podcasts where I’ve shared my story:
The Unruffled Podcast Episode 109 with Tammi Salas and Sondra Primeaux. In this 2019 episode, I share my story publicly for the first time and chat about the intersection of creativity + recovery.
Make Life Less Difficult with fellow Foreign Service ppouse and coach Lisa Tilstra. I first joined Lisa for Episode 54 where I share how stories saved me and a bit about what it’s like to be a sober EFM (Foreign Service Spouse). In Episode 86, Lisa and I dig a little bit further into my recovery, showing up authentically, and transitions.
