Staying sober when it's the end of the world

I didn’t want to write this. I don’t know how to write this. It’s gonna be a weird one.

I started writing something else for this week, but then last night happened, and I didn’t know if I could write anything at all. I am acutely feeling every single emotion I used to drink over—anger, shame, a deep, aching sadness, and a profound sense of alienation. I went to bed last night thinking I don’t know if I can get out of bed tomorrow. Now I’m on the couch with Sally, my old, sick dog, snuggled up next to me. I’m trying to write this newsletter, but it’s nearly impossible to think. My bones feel as heavy as concrete. The only noise in the room is Sally’s labored, raggedy breaths, and all I can feel is abject terror at the consequences of time moving forward. 

Sally was never supposed to be mine. My boyfriend at the time wanted a small dog. He went to the Oakland SPCA and—I will always love him for this—decided he wanted the one dog who didn’t come up to eagerly greet him. While the other dogs yipped and licked, a skeletal chihuahua cowered in the back of her little cage, vibrating with fear. She had been used as bait in a dog-fighting ring. Three families had returned her to the shelter because she was too traumatized. But Charlie picked her. 

I was one year sober and 24 years old. Sally was one and a half. We bonded immediately. We were both trying to figure out how to exist in a new and unfamiliar world that was better than the one we came from but also utterly overwhelming and terrifying. We both had trauma that proved extremely stubborn. We instinctively understood these similarities in each other and—in our way—each reassured that other that, whatever else happened, we’d get through it together. When Charlie and I broke up, there was no question that I would keep Sally. 

I am immensely grateful that—14 years later—Sally is still alive, in her happy place, curled up against my leg. But the last few years have been hard. She’s been in heart failure well beyond the average range a dog is expected to live with the condition. She has a cough that sounds like a goose being slaughtered, and it’s steadily getting worse. She’s in kidney failure. When I leave the house, I’m terrified I will come home to my beloved dog’s body, robbed of my chance to say goodbye by the grocery store or some other insignificant errand. 

I’m incredibly lucky. I’m lucky that Charlie picked her. I’m lucky she’s been with me for almost my entire sobriety and adult life. And I’m so deeply scared of what’s next.  

This post is supposed to be about drinking and the election. I’m supposed to write a longer, more helpful version of the note below—about how to stay sober when it feels like the world is falling apart. And it is objectively absurd (and potentially offensive!) to in any way compare the inevitable death of my dog to what’s facing the country come January. Except, for me, there are similarities. Both feel excruciatingly painful, cruel, and terrifying. Both make me wish I could stop time. Both make me feel like I’m stuck in some fucked up nightmare. Both make me want to drink. 

But here’s what I know with 100 percent certainty: my drinking will not make anything better. If I were to pick up a bottle of vodka right now, I’d have maybe 30 minutes to an hour of giddiness before 1) doing something dangerous/stupid/embarrassing and 2) dissolving into tears and feeling worse than ever. And for what? It’s not going to change the outcome of the election. It won’t heal my dog’s ailing organs. And when she dies, it won’t bring her back. I am hurting, but I don’t need to hurt myself even more. 

I refuse to let Trump—who has already stripped me of my bodily autonomy—take my sobriety as well. I refuse to let my anxiety and grief about Sally rob me of this precious time with her, however long we have left. This is a time for big hearts and clear minds. I will be devastated when Sally is gone, but I will adopt another dog who is traumatized and alone—not to replace her, but because I know what it feels like to need love and safety, and I can offer those things.  

If I am sober, I can take action. If I am sober, I can be present—even when it hurts. If I am sober, I am in a much better position to help those who do not have the kind of privilege and luck I do. I refuse to float away into passive numbness. To do so would be an affront to those who do not have the luxury of doing the same. In the meantime, I’m trying to focus on the small, everyday things that bring me joy. Rubbing Sally’s belly. Scratching my goats behind the ears. The view from my porch. Idiotic memes. You, the subscribers and readers of this newsletter. The friends who, after last night, are also trying to figure out up from down. 

We need each other. On some level, we are all underfed, trembling dogs needing security and love. I hope we can help each other. Sobriety is a good place to start. In my experience, showing up to help is far more effective when I’m not completely shitfaced.

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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.