1055 Days of Sobriety, but Only 2 Have Been Thanksgiving

Sober holidays are better than drunk ones

Nov 20, 2024

I woke up barely knowing where I was. Again. Luckily, I was in my own bedroom, and during my stumble to the kitchen, I remembered it was Thanksgiving.

My head thumped violently, and my heart beat faster than it should. I already knew what kind of day it would be — the kind where I tried desperately to stave off the hangover by keeping the party going. Besides, I was pretty sure I was still drunk.

I had a coffee and tried to clear my head, but no amount of coffee could undo what I did to myself. The vague guilt and shame persisted until I got to my folks’ and sloppily suggested we have a drink to celebrate. They always obliged, and I continued lying to myself and drinking throughout the day.

Year after year this scene played out much the same. I would party hard with friends the night before the holiday — a night most bartenders admit is one of the busiest nights of the year — and spend the next two days on a bender.

Even after I got married and had kids, that behavior stuck around. Deep frying a turkey? Have beers. Smoking a turkey? Have whiskey. Roasting a turkey? Have a “civilized” glass of wine. All in the name of tradition, relaxation, and celebration.

What a bunch of bullshit it all was.

Thanksgiving in the US is one of the biggest holidays based on family, tradition, and solid values — whatever those are anymore. This year, the divisive election has probably deepened rifts between sides, and the gatherings may be more tense than normal.

For many of us, it’s a nice, long, fat weekend. I typically get together with family, avoid all mentions of politics, and eat turkey and stuffing until I can barely stand. Sometimes we’ll watch the lousy football games, and kick off the unofficial holiday shopping season which now isn’t a season, it’s a lifestyle.

Most of us have 4–5 days off of work, and it’s a time of indulgence and gross overconsumption. Fat and happy, as they say. We eat and drink until we’re much fatter than we were, though not necessarily any happier.

For many years, starting in high school, I’d show up to family gatherings looking and feeling like hot garbage, but nobody ever said anything. Because this was also the environment they were raised in, they chalked it up to me being a kid. I often wonder if they saw right through me and saw the pain I was in but didn’t feel it was their place to say anything. It was commonplace, anyway. Everyone did it.

I spent about 30 consecutive Thanksgiving days either drunk or brutally hungover. Most of the time it was both. Before 2022, I‘d have to go back a long way to remember a Thanksgiving that wasn’t marred by alcohol. Wednesday before Thanksgiving was a holiday on its own, given that the next day would be spent in a sloth-like state, and I had several days after to recover. It only made sense to spend the night getting hammered to ease the stress of a holiday with family.

Except that my holidays weren’t often stressful. They were usually just fun social events. Throughout my 20s, I fell into a cycle of constant drinking and recovery. It’s what we did as a family and as a culture. If you didn’t drink, we didn’t understand or trust you.

Looking back on it, I can see I have become what we feared all those years. Sober people are weird and no fun. When I stopped drinking, I escaped the fray. I changed who I was, and grew and moved on with my life. I crossed a threshold not everyone crosses, and this made me an outsider.

Drinking is baked into who we are as a culture. It’s harder to unlearn than I ever thought it would be, and now, approaching only my third clear-headed Thanksgiving weekend, I find that instead of being used to it, I’m even more upset by it than I was 3 years ago.

I see all the bullshit people tell themselves, and the bullshit they spew at other people while drinking. It’s not easier after this much time, it’s probably harder. I still watch my sister and brother-in-law spin tales of the fun they had at this brewery or that, but now I no longer feign interest. Now I don’t care to hear it. I sit there and stew and listen to their bullshit, seeking desperately to talk about something else. It’s getting harder and harder not to get up and walk out the door when they talk about booze while drinking booze.

It’s not just them, it’s everyone I spend time with who lives that life. I don’t live that life anymore, and I don’t want to be around it. Maybe the day is coming when I just get up and leave. I have the power.

Just two weeks prior to my first sober Thanksgiving, we had lost our glorious Siberian forest cat, Max, and we were still reeling from the loss of his presence in our house. Despite the relative newness of my sobriety, I was able to stay grounded and available to my family when they needed me to be there with them. There was no escaping into a bottle after burying his limp body behind the shed in the rain. I remember that cold November afternoon like it was yesterday, and I’m glad I do. I needed to be there to honor him, not run away from the sadness.

When I first got sober, everything was new. I reveled in the brightness and clarity and novelty of it all. That first year felt like being reborn, and I was proud to share how good I felt, but there was also a cold awareness to it all. Sticking with the rebirth metaphor, it felt very cold and harsh. Almost too bright. Everything was raw. A spotlight was being cast on all that I’d drowned in alcohol, and that included the holidays. I was forced to consider what I had done to myself for all those years.

It forced people around me to look at their own behavior, which they typically don’t like, but this was about me, not them. This idea of going against the grain empowered instead of deterred me.

On Thanksgiving day 2022, we had the best meal I remember having. I was able to savor it and enjoy every morsel. I appreciated having both sets of parents over and having lazy, unimportant conversations with unprecedented clarity and inner peace. No need for wine with dinner, or a pre-dinner whiskey palette cleanser. Since I was a teenager the last time this happened, it felt completely new. And delicious.

Now, closing in on the third such Thanksgiving, it’s no longer new and novel and bright. Nobody asks about my alcoholism, either, which is kind of weird, considering they still drink around me. While it feels like growth, part of it feels like growth away from them. It proves I’ve crossed a threshold into a place they know nothing about.

Still, this is only my third one of these. It’s kind of hard to imagine that for my 1000+ days, only a couple have been this holiday. Same for Christmas or Halloween or Octoberfest or the first day of school.

Part of the appeal of drinking is the illusion of fearlessness. When I was young, I was less worried about having more holidays with the ones I love. I didn’t think about the end of things because it all seemed so far away. I was more frivolous and cavalier with life. Now in what I truly hope is my middle age, I see that my days are not unlimited, and these holidays with my family aren’t either.

Now I see that the fearlessness lies in seeing through clear eyes. Taking control over my drinking and my own life was the most empowering thing I’ve ever done, and it continues to pay dividends I couldn’t have seen years ago.

On day 1063, I’ll be proud to say Happy Thanksgiving to the ones I love without a drink in my hand.

Here’s Max a few years before his death…