I haven’t been writing or engaging on my Soberish social media too much lately. Two, three months ago, a fire had been lit under me. I was immersing myself in my sobriety: engaging with the sober community, soul-searching and unpacking all the baggage from the years before. The work was interesting to me. It inspired me. Writing became my own treat to myself, a much-needed outlet to replace old, destructive ones. It mattered to me. It was important.
Things got complicated, as they so often do. My passion project became interrupted by visits to the doctor. I was trying to get back on my anxiety medications because I was struggling and beginning to revert to old patterns like posting up on the balcony, chain smoking and drinking Diet Pepsi after a hard day’s work. The medication wasn’t agreeing with me. I felt sick to my stomach and wasn’t holding down food. My emotional state swung between apathetic and despondent. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t write. Something was off.