Instagram Ads Saved Me from Myself

The best way to truly know me is to look at my targeted Instagram ads. No, seriously. Every weird remark I’ve made offhandedly to a friend, every late-night wine-fueled google search, every questionable Pinterest account I’ve pinned for later is all well-represented in the ads I scroll through every five to six images on the gram. And this month it’s Sober, Sober, SOBER (read in a used-car dealership announcer voice).

Like many of us, 2020 did an absolute number on me from my mental health to my physical health, or lack-there-of. An extrovert at heart, isolating in my tiny southern California apartment with little natural light and a strikingly lonely king-sized bed was a bit soul-crushing. Gone were the days of roaming free and wild, carrying a bottle of contact solution and a toothbrush just in case I found myself unexpectedly sleeping somewhere that wasn’t home. I was trapped in four walls of Etsy-curated comfort and I felt miserable. And so, like so many fellow lonely souls around me, I started to lean every so gently against a glass of pinot after the workday to ease the bitter isolation I was feeling. And that glass ever-so-surely became two. And then it wasn’t unusual for it to be a bottle on a Tuesday to ‘treat myself’.

And I was cautious with my new lover at first. No alcohol Sunday night through Thursday. We had to have some limits. But what about something to get through hump day? A particularly challenging work meeting to arrange, a phone call with an old friend to discuss emotional boundaries, a virtual date with a new crush could all easily sway the schedule to pull that glass of vino closer during the week. But I was exercising! I was biking 75-100 miles a week and hiking on weekends. And I ate kale for Christ’s sake. I couldn’t be particularly unhealthy. Plus, I was still in my mid-to-late twenties was there really anything to worry about?

And yet, my glass was never the last one to empty when I did socially distance with friends. I eyed and measured and calculated against my peers to see what was enough, what was normal. This game of ‘Am I Normal’ is a favorite of mine that I’ve been playing since before puberty, but the stakes have never felt higher. What is healthy? Is it a threshold of liquid or is it the thoughts swirling in my mind? Is it the occasional binges in a group or the habit of a vodka soda to ease the edges of the day?

Perhaps an early red flag for me could’ve been the piles of memoirs on alcoholism I’m borrowed form the library. I don’t think anyone who obsessively reads memoirs about AA and treatment has a completely functional and balanced relationship with alcohol. But I would shield myself from confrontation by justifying the drinking with my extensive research. I don’t drink in the morning so I can’t be an alcoholic. That one is my favorite metrics because I’m a warm-drinks-before-noon kind of gal. Another prominently pondered upon excuse was I never black out. Clearly I’ve got control over this situation. True, but the ticking time bomb of The Habit was haunting my peripheries, just outside of the ring of interrogation.

And then there was Christmas time. I went to my parent’s house for three weeks to escape my cubicle-of-a-house in San Diego and spend some time with my family in an otherwise grossly depressing time. And my mind instantly slipped into ‘vacay no-holds-barred alcohol frenzy’. I wasn’t working for the break and I lapsed into my ideal routine of working out all morning and then chilling on the couch with my dad and a glass of wine. Or a martini. Or pina coladas. Or a cool new cocktail I saw on TikTok. The pour was heavy and the glass got bigger and bigger as the night went on. I don’t believe there was a single day I was at my parent’s house that I didn’t have at least one drink a day. And that started to freak me out a bit. Even I couldn’t lie my way around a daily alcohol quota.

So, when I finally returned to the sunshine and Good Vibes Only oasis of SoCal, I decided it was time to seriously meditate on my relationship with booze. Dry January was on my horizon and I was actually looking forward to it. After a farewell party on New Year’s Eve complete with 6 White Claws and at least 3 hot toddies that I can actively remember, it was sparkling water and kombucha for me.

And guess what guys, sobriety is actually totally easy. Just kidding it sucks. It’s hard and I miss having wine with my friends. There’s an ache for the fantasy of lounging on the patio debating love and life and existential nonsense while we poured until our hands were numb. There have been nights where I pace around the house and down La Croix like a parched turtle someone confused with his terrestrial cousin and mistakenly flung far into the desert. I’m a thirsty bitch I cannot lie.

But I’ve also read five books. I’ve discovered new writing opportunities to force myself to apply to. I’ve woken up on a Sunday morning feeling legitimately refreshed and stoked to jump out of bed and start my day. When I’m feeling particularly twingy, I put on my old emo albums from college and light some incense and cry. I journal and reveal the barest, most stripped-of-pretense truths I can stomach to put in pen and I feel release. I started a Skin Care Routine ya’ll. I didn’t even own moisturizer until this year, no joke. It’s not all roses. I still drive to the ocean and stare mournfully out at the abyss and wish desperately for a beer to coddle while I pine.

I honestly can say I don’t know what this means after January. I’m in the thick of it right now. I don’t know if I’ll stay sober or just take month-long breaks at measured intervals throughout the year. We don’t often get the privilege of seeing people in the Moment of Reckoning, bare beneath the searchlights of fear and angst and struggle. And that’s me right now. I’m not standing in the Before and I can’t look back across the chasm of After. I’m making the leap right now and I’m in free fall.

But at least now I know what alcohol-free beer to buy from Insta.