Surviving My First Sober Party

I quit drinking well into the throes of the Covid pandemic. We had been on quarantine orders for months at the time and while small, safe gatherings were finally being allowed, Sean and I were still spending 95% of our time at home away from others.

Early in October, after about two full months sober, friends of ours from St. Pete invited us to their Halloween party. They assured us only 12 people total were invited so there was no need to worry about covid spread. Of course, my concerns only began with covid.

At 63 days sober, I was terrified at the prospect of a party — no matter the size.

Sean and I spent the two weeks following the invitation discussing the potential pros and cons of going. What ordinarily would have been a welcome invitation to do something social after months of lockdown was instead causing tremendous anxiety and requiring many long, reflective walks and conversations to sort through my mixed feelings. Had you told me 2 years ago that a party invitation could cause such a reaction I would have spit my (likely alcoholic) drink out.

Ultimately, we decided to go. There were a couple of factors that made me feel like this would be something I could handle:

These friends aren’t big drinkers in the first place

It’s a house party, so I can bring a case of my trusty non-alcoholic beers and blend in

Worst case scenario we say ‘thanks for the air mattress, but we’re going to head home’ and drive the two hours back to Orlando

One thing you learn in sobriety is that an exit strategy is key.

With our Halloween costumes, my 2 favorite pillows, melatonin, and a 12-pack of Bud Light Zero packed into the car, we began the drive to the west coast of Florida. The ball of nerves in my throat remained, but jolts of excitement at seeing my friends and finally getting a chance to socialize began to rise to the surface. We had made the decision to not tell our friends that I wasn’t drinking beforehand, assuming people would see the Bud Light Zeros in the fridge and come to their own conclusions.

Cut to several hours later and the party is in full swing. There are about 14 people gathered in the kitchen and living room, mingling, playing flip cup, dancing. Certain I didn’t feel like talking to strangers, I joined Sean at the flip cup table. With my non-alcoholic beer in hand, I was able to participate with little to no questions from the others gathered around the folding table.

For the first couple of rounds, this felt like a win. A full-body sigh of relief. To know that I could still be included and insert myself just as I used to gave me a surge of hope. However, it didn’t last very long. Because, believe it or not, the thing about drinking games is that they aren’t particularly fun — they’re a vehicle for getting drunk.

After a couple more games, I found a replacement to step in on my team and I snuck out to the deserted patio.

“I was having a great time but now I just feel sad and bored and alone.” I texted my two best friends in our group chat: “Sleepy Gang”

“I’m sorry, that sucks”

“Just by being there in the first place you’ve already made a huge step!”

“Any chance Sean will be ready to go soon too?”

“Yeah, maybe. I really want to try to stick it out…” I reply.

As I sat on the patio alone, I tried to reframe the situation and give myself the credit I knew I deserved. My friends were right, simply by choosing to attend the party I had stepped way out of my comfort zone and proved, once again, that I can do this very hard thing.

As the party continued on, I found myself feeling increasingly isolated. It’s a difficult feeling to describe, but it’s one I still feel often when I try to fit into drinking situations.

As those around me — my friends, loved ones — get drunker, I feel further away. I see them and know they are no longer 100% themselves… but I still am. And as they begin to act out of character, or say things that I know they don’t mean, or get distracted every time I try to talk to them, I am reminded that I am entering the point in the night when I am alone.

While the others at the party were finding easy entertainment in beer pong and story sharing, I began to realize another significant difference between drunk and sober people: as a person gets drunker, they require much less to be engaged and happy whereas I require much more to stay engaged and happy and, most elusive, awake.

Unsure of what to do with myself, I began to tidy up. I gathered empty cans and torn plastic cups and started a recycling bag. About half of the people originally in attendance remained, and I could tell the alcohol and sugar driven energy was waning. I asked our friends where the air mattress and sheets are stored and got our bed for the evening all set up. I washed some dishes. Put leftover food into Tupperware.

As time continued on and people left for the night, I desperately occupied my time and mind waiting for when I could go to sleep.

I spend a lot of time worrying about how my friends feel when they hear me recount these experiences from my perspective. I worry about hurting their feelings, making them think that I don’t enjoy spending time with them. I worry about the invitations ceasing as much as I worry about the invitations continuing.

I worry about what it means for my future, and thus Sean’s future, if I can’t find a way to happily integrate into these types of social gatherings.

Because that’s the thing, right? It’s the happily piece. Sure, I can go to drinking-based events. In the 12 months since my first sober party, I have played many a drinking game with a non-alcoholic substitute. I have been one of the last people in attendance and DD’d the other late-nighters home. I have gone to bars, to clubs, and to boozy brunches. I have tested my sobriety every which way for the sake of fitting into the mold that existed before I quit. But often not happily.

It’s not to say that I’m miserable the entire time when I’m at gatherings like this, because I’m not; but, inevitably, at some point in the night the evening takes a turn and the isolation and sadness and uncertainty of how to be or who to talk to takes over.

Then, when I return home the wave of sadness crashes onto me and, usually, I begin to cry. It’s the whiplash from all of the hours spent reminding myself why I don’t drink so that I can stay strong, the extrovert-ing, the guilt of not enjoying myself fully and the effort to try to. It’s the isolation, it’s remembering how easy these types of gatherings used to be, how comfortable I once felt in any situation.

The morning after the party, I rolled over on the half-deflated air mattress and touched Sean’s back. He wiggled and repositioned until our legs were tangled and my head was on his chest. I laid there thinking about the day ahead and my grumbling stomach when he let out a deep moan.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know… hold on.” I rolled over and grabbed my phone from where it was plugged in by the TV stand, “8:13”

“Oh my god. Why are we awake? Go back to sleep.”

“I don’t know… I’m up.”

I got out of the bed and threw on some daytime clothes after brushing my teeth. I grabbed my keys and wallet and went to Starbucks to journal. Despite how emotionally taxing the night before had been, I was joyful. I sipped on my coffee and the thoughts and feelings poured out of my head and onto my notebook paper; ‘instant therapy’ I thought.

My journal entry from that morning reads:

“Last night was really hard. At times it sucked. But I got to see my friends, and in the first couple of hours I had a great time and caught up with them and remembered why I love to be around people who make me feel good. There’s got to be a better way of spending time that doesn’t make me feel so shitty.”

“But this morning I feel great. I didn’t say anything I now regret like I used to. I didn’t feel the need to push shots and get everyone super drunk so we can ‘have more fun!’ like I used to. I didn’t overreact when Sean made casual conversation with a very pretty girl like I used to. I didn’t wake up this morning, miserable, dreading the drive home while puking into the toilet LIKE I USED TO. I feel great and most importantly I’m really fucking proud of me.”

I sat at Starbucks a little while longer as the clock approached 9:30 am. Deeming it an acceptable time to return to the house and wake everyone up, I stopped by Panera, grabbed a dozen bagels and two types of cream cheese, and went back to eat breakfast with my friends.