A story about how falling in love made me feel like I had relapsed
katie MACK
Seven years ago I was sitting in AA because I was in trouble with my boyfriend, or I guess, he was my ex-boyfriend? I was always in trouble with one ex-boyfriend/boyfriend/ex-girlfriend/girlfriend or another (being queer has increased my chances for more failure opportunities). This was why I was always drying out for one to two months for my third (or fourth?) time in this relationship, and why I was sitting in my fifth AA meeting of the week. Sponsor-less and step-less, I was still well on my way to accumulating another 24hrs sober when a cute white brunette raised her hand yet again to be called on during shares. Because of her persistence, I had a strong feeling that her share wasn’t going to have anything to do with the topic of the meeting, a detail that hindsight can’t affirm or deny because I now can’t remember the topic, only what urgently burst out of her as soon as she put her hand down:
“I’m in love”, she said and exploded into tears.
Like a spit-take, but with her eyes, a monsoon of… feelings?… poured out of her as she desperately tried to explain how the words she just said matched the water stain now gathered at the front of her shirt.
“And he loves me too”.
With unrequited love being my most persistent relationship status, my first feelings of empathy immediately turned to frustration as I thought to myself, “oh please, then WHY are you CRYING”. This cute young thing, three years into her sobriety was sobbing because she was IN LOVE? I was confused and jealous which at the time just turned to annoyance because I couldn’t delineate feelings back then, and probably because of that, this moment in time was bookmarked.
Seven years later, after accumulating two and a half plus years back, I found myself sitting on the edge of my bed taking deep breaths to control my internal climate change, staring at my phone, desperately willing my incredibly thoughtful and caring fuck-buddy (my term, not his) to call. When CVS was the only call that hour, I decided to take matters into my own hands, and FaceTime him.
“Hi!”, he smiled, genuinely happy to hear from me, so I naturally played the opposite.
“oh hey, yeah I didn’t really mean to call”, looking everywhere but at the camera, “but then I did because I remembered… I’m really busy next week with, some, Uhm, work stuff, and I won’t be able to hang out, and I might not be able to for like a while…(…)… sorry.”
After a brief moment of stammering, “Of course, that’s totally cool. I’m disappointed”, his facial expression and body matching his verbal language, “because I was really looking forward to taking you out and spending time with you, but I absolutely get it. How can I support you during your busy week?”, he said, as if reading a meme about healthy relationship responses. Only he managed to make it sound like he came up with this language all on his own. Like the act of caring and supporting came naturally and not manipulatively, triggering for me the scream that was happening internally to become a squeak externally, the crack in the dam allowing the flood to flood, and I began to sob.
For about four months into our eight-month fuck-buddy-ship, I had been popping the bubbles of love that floated up in my stomach every time we hung out. Prior to getting sober, every time I felt a hiccup of love approach, I would declare LOVE over a bottle-of-trauma-bonding-wine and thus would begin the toxic coupling that would lead to the push-pull of an on-again-off-again drama-infused affair. That was until it would get so bad, my drinking exacerbating my abandonment fears, that I would act out in an unforgivable way that would span from shouting matches in public, private physical fights, excessive phone calls, cheating, and other classy avoidant/anxious behaviors, eventually equaling to my brain that I was more or less unlovable. For thirty-three years I was unlovable, each one-night stand hoping to prove that that wasn’t the case, each three-month self-fulfilling romantic whirlwind confirming my fears. All ending in a mountain of booze and bar visits to invariably meet the next ex. And for thirty-three years, I started each love affair with a booze-infused date.
And then I got sober, again, but this time not for anyone but me. This time with steps, a Higher Power (I call mine Kevin), a sponsor, and investing in the identity of being #soberaf. And slowly, weirdly, laughably, I went from hating myself, to sort of not hating myself, to some days even feeling something like proud of myself, as I patiently stripped away layers and layers and layers, coupled with DBT (Dialectic Behavioral Therapy). Equipped with new skills, personal-enlightenment, a team of people on my side, and still pretty horny, my fully sober self decided to invite a non-commitment-centric physical relationship into my life with a willing and consenting partner aka a fuck-buddy. My first and only anything-ship began while I was sober, meaning it began without alcohol and continued without alcohol.
“I can’t see you anymore”, I snotted, shifting the FaceTime camera down so the angle made me look cute-pathetic.
He paused again, and then looked at me through the phone, “I respect your decision, but would it be okay to ask why?”
In my new calmer less dramatic life path, I often found myself literally biting my tongue. I bit down, holding back my explanation that my being in love with him didn’t scare me because I was unsure of his feelings, to be candid, I didn’t actually care if he loved me back. The feelings that weren’t working for me was that falling in love it made me feel… out of control… a sensation I very immediately associated with (you guessed it) drinking and drugging.
What had started out as a thoughtful once-a-week affair, turned into picking up phone calls on the first ring, long late-night laughing walks, truth or dare bowling dates, FaceTime co-working sessions, and eventually daily meme “good-nights”. In other words, this slow burn began to take up time and space, and importance that looked acted, and smelled like something I had worked so truly and desperately against. It began to feel a lot like my obsession with alcohol.
I found myself preoccupied with thoughts of him while other people spoke, checking my phone and Instagram accounts for engagement, and tapping on the feeling of euphoria as I added to our Spotify playlist. It was this exact inability to be present and grateful and this desire to want and want and want more that felt like the just-as-evil-twin to my nemesis drugs and alcohol. Unbeknownst to him, there were even times when I felt so excited to meet I couldn’t focus on anything else, or when he left after a visit I would feel like crying. In short, I was living a healthy communicative rom-com with feelings of Disney princess waves of capital L love and desperately and truly HATING MYSELF FOR IT.
What was happening? I turned to Google.
Turns out love and addiction have a lot in common on a brain chemical level. Drugs actually simulate the feelings of love, and maternal love, making them feel so physically impossible to let go of. They have so much in common that it’s not uncommon at all for people to replace their addiction to drugs/alcohol with people, one of the reasons why communities such as AA recommend taking a full year off from dating other people and sort of date yourself instead. The chemical responses that happen in the brain such as dopamine spikes and depletions, the reward response to certain stimuli, and habits that form around receiving them, are basically the same thing on a chemical level. So, after a hefty sixty-minute google dive on this topic, I panicked: if love and drug addiction create the same internal chemical response, DID I JUST RELAPSE AFTER TWO YEARS AND SIX MONTHS OF CONTINUOUS SOBRIETY BECAUSE OF LOVE??
Luckily for me I now do what sober people do when they feel crazy, I called my sober sis, B. Also luckily for me, she laughed in my face when I asked her if I had ruined my day count by falling in love. She said that even though chemically they are similar, our responses to them and how we interact with them can be very different. Alcohol isn’t a human so there isn’t any way to communicate these fears whereas my fuck-buddy is, so if I can be brave enough to communicate these co-dependent fears and express these overwhelming feelings there is a chance we could come up with a loving plan together. She reminded me that feelings of love and support, although scary, are actually positive and can build a foundation. All alcohol ever gave me was temporary sensations of self-sufficiency. She reminded me that with my skills from DBT I was no longer a victim to my first impulse becoming my first action, so choosing how I wanted to respond to some of these feelings was now an option.
“Love,” B said, “is one of the most sought-after and beautiful parts of being a human. Being a drunk takes you further away from that. Maybe they feel the same, but maybe it’s because your wires are a little crossed when it comes to your association with the word and term love”, she used my contemplative silence as an opportunity to give actionable advice without an argument, “Talk to him.”
–back to our painful phone call—
“… would it be okay to ask why?”
I paused and asked my HP for help. And instead of hanging up, or making an excuse that I have an aggressive case of herpes, or saying my grandmother died, my mouth said, “I’m sorry, let me start again… I really want to keep seeing you, but I have… dumb feelings… that I think might be shifting and I think I need to be honest about them with you so we can continue to have a healthy what-ever-this-is-ship.”
I couldn’t believe the sterile boring non-dramatic sentences that had spilled out of my mouth, but suddenly, crazy I was feeling calm.
“Yeah, I’ve been feeling different about our relationship too”, he said.
“It makes me feel…”
“Crazy?”, he said, “Out of control?”
I paused, but he continued, “Yeah, me too.”
We then made a plan to meet in person in a few days, I hung up the phone, and felt something unfamiliar. Supported? Heard? …Loved? The obsession lifted, and I went about my day productive, able to show up for others, and didn’t even find myself checking my phone for more engagement. Sure it was a little uncomfortable being unsure what might be next, but it felt, manageable.
It’s been two more months since that conversation. We aren’t in a monogamous relationship because upon further examination I’m still not interested in being anyone’s girlfriend or partner, yet. But we did express our mutual feeling of being in love with each other and our desire to keep seeing each other and being in love together. And for the first time instead of desperately trying so hard, I’m trying easy. Feelings that fluctuate of course, but I’m starting to understand that being in love can make my day better, reinforce my choice to be sober, help me to feel grounded, and even provides an opportunity to work on the most important relationship there is: that whole love thing, with myself.
katie MACK is a storyteller who is an actor, writer, podcast creator, and producer. She’s deadly serious about having fun, cares deeply about the work she does, forgets daily that she is only 5’4, practices activism in her life and work, values her community, and is down for all of it. Follow along with her sober journey on Instagram @mackersnyc She’s also the brains behind the Webby Award Winning podcast Fcking Sober the First 90 Days
