I’m 1 Year Sober So Let’s Recap My Last Drunk
Starring an excessive amount of eyelashes and a hot tub
To listen to Kristen narrate the story, click the play button below.
Names have been changed to protect the privacy and identity of people who likely don’t want to be associated with my train wreck stories.
I wake up feeling like my head is being squeezed in a vice grip. Like a watermelon. Dear God please no, not a hangover. Shit, my stomach is upset and I need to pee.
I peel myself out of the bed I fell asleep in, without my husband. Where is he? I’m in a guest room in England, 5000 miles away from my home in Guatemala and I need to puke.
As I stumble to the bathroom I can’t stand up straight. If I do, I fear I’ll projectile vomit all over the carpet in this lovely house that isn’t mine. As I reach the door, it squeaks. Damn, now everyone will hear me. But I don’t care because just as I reach the toilet I’m on the floor with my head in the bowl. I can’t be sick right away, that would be too easy. My stomach gurgles and twists, shudders and aches, before finally releasing some of the gin and tonic from the night before.
Violently.
Once I’m done I lift my head to see eyes. Hundreds of them. Looking back at me. There are what feels like a million sets of false eyelashes surrounding the area above the toilet. As if there are a plethora of strangers sitting there judging me in what is not my finest hour.
The couple who live here, Steve and Elisa, are my husband's best friend from high school and his long-time girlfriend, who is an esthetician. That explains all of the scrutinizing eyes belittling me with their synthetic attitudes. It feels like they’re staring at me and laughing as if to say, “You stupid, dumb ass of a girl. You’re 55 years old with your head in a toilet on another continent. Grow up.”
I ignore them and violently hurl myself towards the bowl.
365 Days Later
I wake up to my cat screaming at me “Get up you asshole, I’m hungry!” We do this dance most mornings but she’s smart enough to know when it's the weekend. Usually. As my eyes begin to open I realize, I’m one year sober today.
Yippee. Said with less than emphatic enthusiasm.
I’ve done this before. Once. I had a six-year sobriety run from 2010 to 2016. But then gradually, like a steady drip that turns into a problematic leak, I fell off the wagon.
I’m happy but also cautiously optimistic.
And I could still go for a rum and Coke.
Because I turned my sobriety into a brand, Not Even Wine With Dinner, I feel like I have to post, write, and share about it. But it feels uncomfortable. Itchy, like a beautifully crafted wool sweater your grandma made with the cheap wool from the 5 & 10, not the soft alpaca you’d get at a fine knitting store. It’s a lovely piece but it doesn’t feel good.
I am proud of this accomplishment, very proud. But I have to be honest that there are things I miss about drinking. I miss cocktail culture, bars, swizzle sticks, the clinking of ice in the glass, the warmth of a good spiced rum slowly rolling down the back of my throat, getting a second wind at 10 pm, and the taste of good Belgian beers.
What I don’t miss are the consequences. The hangovers, the regret, the shame, the guilt, the lost days, the headaches, the toilet time, the arguments, and the embarrassments. Not. At. All.
I promised myself I would share about this date but I won’t gloat about it. You’ll never see me holding a piece of paper that says “__ Years Sober.” I can speak. I don’t need to hold up a sign. That particular trend I don’t get. It’s not for me. But for the rest of you, grab your Sharpies and knock yourselves out.
The best way to celebrate and honor my anniversary is to recap my last drunk. To recall the details, relive the pain, and remember exactly why I had to stop, again. This is how progress is made. Not by throwing a party, but by taking responsibility for my actions and promising myself never to do them again.
366 Days Ago
We met our friends for dinner at a very fancy Turkish restaurant in Newmarket, England, a very high-end town dedicated to the world of horse racing. As the evening began, I ordered a gin & tonic at the bar as we waited for our table. I think to myself, I’ll just have one or two. That’s how it starts.
Throughout dinner, courses came and went and the gin flowed beautifully. I quickly bypassed my self-designated one or two and was well into four or five by the main course. Once I reach this point I typically don't stop. My brain has a switch that flips on and there’s no flipping it back.
We had a great time eating, laughing, taking photos, and having deep conversations about how we planned to change the world. All while eating foods that I honestly don’t remember. I loosely recall a giant board of meats and some hummus but the rest eludes me.
I’m sure it all ended up in the toilet.
Once we got back to their home I was completely hammered. I don’t recall what brown liquor Steve had in the house, rum or bourbon, but I was trashed enough that it didn’t matter. It was alcohol so I drank it.
Elisa was tired. She excused herself and went to bed. I should’ve done the same, based on my husband's pissed-off face, but I wanted to stay up and hang with the dudes. Bad decision.
As they reminisced about childhood shenanigans I got bored and went on my own adventure. But before heading out, I did the sensible thing and asked Steve if I could bum a cigarette. He’s a chain smoker and I haven’t smoked since 1998.
Let the games begin.
I take my cig and wander the backyard looking for their peacock. Yes, they have a peacock. The first drag is the hardest, I cough and sputter for a second, take a swig of my drink, and then take another slower, more methodical drag. Much better. It doesn’t take long before I’m back in the swing of smoking.
As I continue my journey I stumble upon a large outdoor room where I hear a noise, a bubbling noise. Score! I found a hot tub. I wander back to the house to get what is likely my 8th or 9th drink and another cigarette.
As I enter the house and inquire about the hot tub I see my husband's disdain for my behavior but he knows better than to try to confront me. It won’t go well. Steve says the hot tub is ready to use and to enjoy myself. I annoyingly beg them to join me but they prefer to continue their boyhood reminiscing about what girl did what to who when behind what barn.
I’m outta here.
I stumble back to the hot tub, remove a significant amount of my clothes, and get in. Still drinking and smoking, I stay long enough to have my own little party before getting bored and retreating back to the house where I consume at least four or five more cigarettes and a couple more drinks.
It’s like I’m making up for lost time.
As it’s time to retreat to bed, my husband and I head to our room where he proceeds to tell me how I should’ve gone to bed when Elisa did. He’s embarrassed without saying he’s embarrassed. We spew some ugly words at each other and I storm off into the other guest room hoping he’ll follow me and beg me to come back to bed with him.
He doesn’t.
I pass out.
As I wake the next morning not only do I notice my husband isn’t there but I’m in a different room. A purple room. I’m pretty sure the room they put us in was gold but hey-ho, I think I’m still drunk.
Once my husband wakes up and realizes I’m a total shit show he acts sympathetic but proceeds to join the couple for a breakfast of sausage sandwiches. Nothing could turn my stomach worse. He eats while I continue to visit the room of judging eyeballs.
Once I force myself to get dressed and crawl downstairs to the car, we take a very long, tumultuous 45-minute ride back home. I am curled in a roly-poly style ball in the front seat with a hoodie over my eyes praying to God that I make it home before hurling again.
The plan that day was to visit some family for a day-long barbecue. It had been planned for weeks and everyone, myself included, had been looking forward to it. My husband went, had a fantastic time, and I stayed behind puking in a 30' caravan the remainder of the day.
Another day lost.
This had to stop.
Epilogue
Day one of year two. Nothing changes.
I have the same feelings, the same struggles, and the same addiction. I am an alcoholic. When you’ve drunk for decades, stopping doesn't mean you used to be an alcoholic. It means you’ve quit, hopefully forever, but the remnants of what you’ve done, where you’ve been, and the chemical effects in your brain are very much still there. At least that’s how I view it.
I had a six-year run of sobriety and fell off the wagon. Because of this, I am cautiously optimistic about my future. I watched my sister drink herself unknowingly into an early grave and much of this was trauma-induced. I know that the demons of alcoholism can creep in at any hour of any day and try to hit you with a sneak attack.
The difference now is that I’m trying to be blatantly honest by sharing my stories past and present. It's a way to be transparent and accountable and to let others know that this is not easy.
Sharing my truth is a way to keep pushing forward and to heal from past hurts. When we hide behind a mask, it doesn’t protect us from external ridicule, it deepens the relationship with our inner critic. The one that isn’t so nice.
But I promise you this, sobriety is okay. It’s acceptable even when it feels like it isn’t, and it’s healthier, happier, sexier, more productive, and even fun.
And most important, it is possible.
Stay safe, stay sober xo
©2025 Kristen Crisp — All rights reserved
Kristen Crisp resides in Guatemala with her husband, two official cats, and several unofficial freeloader stray cats waiting for a vacancy. Our mission, www.feedingfaith.org helps impoverished and malnourished families in eastern Guatemala. Check us out for more information or to donate.
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