This is not a story about how I fell down some stairs after a few wines and sprained my ankle, or the night I smashed my wrist against a toilet doorhandle after I’d stumbled in to vomit (I had a cast on my arm for a week). That’s what you were expecting, right? Some outrageous tale where my lifestyle became so shamefully destructive that I had no choice but to transform? The truth is, there wasn’t any catastrophic event that sparked my sobriety 18 months ago. Both of the aforementioned vodka-soaked memories definitely happened, but on the scale of drinking testimonies in this country, I doubt my experiences would even make a blip. I wasn’t an alcoholic or even a problem drinker, and my drinking was nowhere near destructive levels. No one around me was being hurt by my drinking, and my liver was perfectly healthy. But my emotional and social dependence on alcohol was putting me out of alignment with my desire to live a meaningful and purposeful life, and cutting the cord has been a necessary step for my own growth.
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