The Financials of Getting Sober

“I think I need to get sober,” I whisper.

But I am blacked out, sobbing on my bedroom floor.
My husband soothes my hair.
“Hush now, you’re okay,” he says.

The next day, Instagram feeds me an app.
For $7.99/month, I can learn to control my drinking.

I download and input all my information:
name, date of birth, number of drinks per week,
grandmother's social security number.
I don’t really remember the details.
I was awfully hungover.

My friends heard me sobbing through my bedroom wall.
They'd slept in the guest bed.
They order me a breakfast beer—their treat.

It would be financially irresponsible to decline.

They propose a toast.

“To memories,” we say.
I don’t know what I am supposed to remember.

I share my monthly budget with my friends, they balk
at the $400/month allocated to drinking.

I think they are irresponsible for not setting that money aside.

$400 is a lot not to have as a line item in your budget.

We judge each other equally.

“I think I need to get sober.”

I want to mean it this time.
I research online.
I need to buy a book, another book, another one.

“It’s only $49.95,” I say, though no one asked.
“I spend that much on drinks in a night,” I say.
“Consider it a subscription to my wellbeing.”

I review my bank statement—
Netflix,
EcoBox,
Hulu,
Sobriety™.

I report the charges as fraud almost immediately.

I show up to online meetings,
but keep drinking at night.
I worry the bank knows it's not the books or apps
that are fraudulent.

I throw the books into the trash three months later,
at least the bank let me cancel the subscription.

I never should have bought the stupid books.

“I think I need to get sober,” I text my friend.

I am paralyzed with fear on my couch,
Reading another library book about controlling my drinking.

(A financial hack—sobriety is free at the public library,
and the librarian has kind eyes.
Amazon is eyeless.)

My friend brings over a bottle of wine
to celebrate, or commiserate, my need to get sober,
or something like that.

It's free wine.

But this time I sip my water,
let her drink alone.

I walk through the doors of a free meeting,
buy the book again—
only one this time.

I delete the app.
Tell myself that if the book works,
it's just two months of the app payments
that I’ve been making monthly
for three years.

An ice cream cone crunches in my mouth.
My husband stands at the grill.

“I think you need to get sober,” I say.

“For you,” I tell him with a kiss,
“I’d even tell you how I did it for free.”