It's Okay to Miss Alcohol, Even if It Ruined Your Life

I am 16 years sober and still sometimes miss drinking. Admitting that strengthens my recovery.

“It happened this way: I fell in love and then, because the love was ruining everything I cared about, I had to fall out.” 

So begins the prologue of Caroline Knapp’s phenomenal, sharply relatable memoir about drinking and sobriety, aptly titled Drinking: A Love Story. I initially read this book before getting sober, and it wormed under my skin uncomfortably, illuminating truths I couldn’t yet admit. I did my best to repress it. I read it again after I got sober, and immediately, Knapp’s articulation of how she fell in love with the thing that would destroy her left me stunned and breathless. 

Unlike the very last part of that quote, however, I am not sure that I ever truly fell out of love with alcohol. I know plenty of people do. Throughout my time in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, folks would often share that they “no longer miss alcohol at all” or, in some cases, are even “repulsed by the thought of drinking.” 

I am genuinely thrilled for anyone who has this experience. It’s remarkable to undergo that kind of 180-degree shift. In theory, I can imagine what it feels like—I’ve pined over romantic entanglements that now make me physically nauseous—but it’s not something I experienced with alcohol. 

I am under no illusion about what would happen if I were to drink again. For me, alcohol use happens like gravity: It is predictable, quantifiable, certain. If I start, I will continue drinking until I am almost catatonically intoxicated. There is no middle ground. 

I know this is because even now—more than 16 years after my last drink—the thought of being “just a little buzzed” makes me feel itchy and restless, already preoccupied with how I’m going to maintain and deepen this fictional intoxication. Unlike many of my friends in recovery, I’ve never wished I could have “just one glass of wine.” I have wished I could have ten drinks without becoming a walking chaos grenade. 

This has caused some confusion among my loved ones. When I fondly recall drunken exploits or salivate over obscenely strong drinks on a menu, they tend to glance sideways at each other, wondering if they should be worried about me. 

Their confusion is understandable, and their concern is kind. It is strange to be nostalgic for the thing that ruined—and nearly ended—your life. More than strange, for some people, it would be downright unhealthy. Recovery is the process of figuring out what works for you. Here’s why talking about it helps me—and is a crucial part of my recovery process. 

When I was drinking, I spent so much time and energy trying to hide how much I loved not just alcohol but getting utterly obliterated. It was exhausting to try to sip my drink at the same normal (excruciatingly slow) pace others did, irritating to force a casualness in my voice as I suggested another round (and maybe a round of shots, too, just for fun? Why don’t we make them doubles?).

It was exhausting, shitty, and usually ended with me drinking alone somewhere, finally able to drink without restraint or pretense. 

I was fortunate to go to inpatient rehab, and for all the services it offered, nothing helped me more than being able to talk about my fierce love of drinking. Here were people I didn’t have to pretend with. They didn’t have a “normal” relationship with alcohol either. That honesty was more freeing than I ever could have expected.  

When I left rehab, I didn’t stop. The cat was already out of the bag; the jig was up. Everyone in my life now had proof of my obsession with alcohol (not that they needed it, but my plausible deniability was gone). I could now be honest with them about exactly how unhealthy my desire for booze was—and remained. 

Why wasn’t that dangerous? Why didn’t it lead me directly back to sitting on the floor of my closet with a bottle of vodka?

Weirdly, it’s this love—this unhealthy, ridiculous, obsessive love— that helps keep me sober. By definition, no one who only ever wants to drink to excess can be happy drinking in moderation. My obsession with alcohol was like a tsunami; it crushed everything else I cared about and swept it out to sea. No matter how much I sometimes wish I could go on a bender, it simply isn’t worth losing everything else in my life. 

I started this newsletter to show the many different sides and paths to recovery. Too often, a dominant narrative emerges about how recovery should be—what you should feel—and I don’t believe there is any universal “should.” So when I miss alcohol, I talk about it.

Articulating when I feel longing, love, or nostalgia for booze does two important things for my recovery. 1) It reminds me just how abnormal and unhealthy my relationship with alcohol has always been, and 2) it shows me that no matter what I’m feeling about the substance, I can (and should) abstain from it. I don’t have to be at the mercy of a toxic relationship, even if I go through periods of missing it.

That’s why I give my unhealthy, irrational love a voice. I don’t hide it. I don’t lie about it. I say it. Then I laugh, shake my head, and feel grateful for everything in my life that alcohol hasn’t been able to destroy because I haven’t picked up a drink.

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I’m not a doctor or mental health professional, so my advice shouldn’t be construed as medical or therapeutic advice. You are free to take or leave it.