I wish I could remember what 200 days of sobriety looks like, feels like, or what I think about it. I know what I think about it— “That is a lot of days.” You see, when you’re drinking and using from the time you wake up until the time you go to sleep, 5 minutes of being “dry” is a lifetime, and what may feel like a few of those, too. I know that, not a whole 24 hours, but from the time I went to sleep to the time I woke up and decided I would do nothing, was a huge step. It was scary. I had no idea what to expect. I didn’t have AA. I detoxed at home, not knowing that I shouldn’t do that, considering my level of daily intoxication. I can think back and say that everything got really slow. I got really slow. I did one thing at a time. And the entire time, well aware of what I was feeling and that I was feeling it. But my degree of “insanity,” as they call it in the rooms, helped a lot.

You see, I romanticized my addiction. It’s not that it was cool. It’s that it was my way of life. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a job; it’s that I was going to school, getting a degree, and living while using regardless. My use numbed a lot of ill feelings about myself. About the things I had done, what I had tried, what had failed, where I was, what I let go of, what I never tried, and so much more. I didn’t compare myself to people I went to school with; that would have hurt even more. They didn’t cross my mind, actually. I go back to middle and high school because my drinking and using “career” was long and extensive. I began very young, lied about it, made things seem fine to everyone around me, especially my family, but had nothing to show for it in my own life, except that I could do things for myself. I can pay my own bills, my own car; I can rent an apartment for someone and not live in it. I can pick up and move, save people from being on the streets, and so much more, all while I was destroying myself, my sanity, and everything else along the way.

I remember feeling my skin boil from the inside out. I don’t remember DT’s; maybe I had them, but I felt like I had ants inside of me, and it was not pleasant. I would take shower after shower, wash my hair, lie in bed, try to sleep, but not be able to sleep. I asked myself so many times what was happening, and scared out of my mind because I was taking medications, didn’t know how that would interact with the detoxing, but remembered why I did it. I was sitting at a friend’s dinner table when something came up, and I got up quite abruptly and said, “I have to go.” One of the girls came to my car, “I forgot my cigarettes.” “Here.” I left, and I did everything possible to disappear from that world. See, I can’t remember when it happened, not sure if simultaneously as I got up and said I had to leave, or right before, and it was the flash of a thought, but I looked at everything around me and said, “Is this really the life you want for yourself?” I thought to myself, “No.” And that set everything off. Something asked, something wanted to know, something cared, and I didn’t read into the question. It was so clear, so bland, objective, so “this is a yes or no question.” All I could do was tell the truth. It wasn’t about the people; it was barely about the things. I am not going to sit here and blame what I used as the culprit for jumping into my system and causing addiction. No. I did that all on my own. And so, I made the decision.

As for my romanticized ideas, they did help me. I romanticized my addiction. I also romanticized my detox. If you’re going to do it, live through it. Experience it. That’s what I would tell myself. That doesn’t mean put yourself in harm’s way. Your health needs to come first—detoxing is a health issue. But that’s what I did. I said okay, now I get to feel what I’ve seen. Yep, movies helped. They showed me what to do and what to expect in the process. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t “yay,” or “I’m here.” None of that. I think back, and I think nothing happens by mistake, no coincidences, so maybe it was for me to be able to do it and not get caught in some wildfire and burn to death in the process.

I can’t make sense of what 200 days felt like. I felt inadequate. I had many dreams. I no longer romanticized my life; all I did was compare, see how others had a life, and see how mine was in shambles. That’s, though, 200 days into Alcoholics Anonymous. That was me comparing and not seeing the similarities. That’s not what my sobriety looks like now. Two hundred days into the dry detox, though, were waking up early, doing yoga stretches, meditating, working, going to school, going to the studio to paint until 10 P.M. Then home, doing relaxation yoga, and meditating. Then sleep, wake up, repeat. My food intake included 2 sunny-side-up eggs in the morning, 1 slice of vegan cheese, and a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil. I rarely ate at work but had soy nuts for emergencies. Dinner was tofu, cabbage, white tuna, salmon, and water. I still had coffee for another week during detox. After a few days, I had to stop. The caffeine was too much. I smoked cigarettes. That was gone quickly, too. I felt everything. The smallest thing would strike up some kind of, not craving, but a horrible feeling of what it felt like when I was drunk and high. I didn’t like it. I was paranoid as all life. I never wanted to be there again. And that made me stop and live as methodically as I could.

That’s what a few hours was like. What two-hundred days looked like. What life looked like until February 28, 2004, around 7:30 P.M. That’s when the accident happened, and life changed. Today, it’s… It’s magic. Ask me why. That’s the best question anyone could ask me today. “Why?”