Saturday Night

All day I have been drafting a blog post in my head. Here is how I thought it would start:

Historically, Friday and Saturday nights are hard for me when I’m single. And while I’m not single at the moment (very kind and handsome from my unexpected date at the end of May is still in the picture), I am on my own for these two nights (and most every other night). Very kind and handsome man lives in a different city, and he works these nights. So it is just me and my dogs.

But my time in the van, on my own, has shifted this for me. I am now comfortable in my own skin, with my own thoughts, and with myself as my own company. I actually know what I enjoy doing, and what I do not like doing. These two nights of the week used to hold so much power over me, and now I am free.

And then… Saturday night rolled around. Don’t get me wrong. I had a great day. I started with the New York Times and coffee. (I like the analogue paper and get it delivered on the weekends. For some reason, it feels better to read it in print, rather than what some algorithm tells me to read.) I walked to the Eugene Farmer’s Market, which is just amazing. I planned out meals around my CSA and farmer’s market haul. Then got a pedicure and finished my shopping.

My farmer’s market haul.

Then I came home. To an empty house. To cook a lot of food, for just me.

And I remembered why I dreaded Saturday night.

When you’re single and drinking, it’s easy to figure out what to do on a Saturday night on your own. You head to the bar. I made lots of “friends” that way. Even sober, I can easily talk to strangers. And then with even more liquid courage, I’m hilarious and make friends with everyone! (Or, at least, that’s my fuzzy memory.) But I don’t do that anymore, for the obvious reasons (I don’t drink anymore) and the not so obvious (it’s exhausting and does not lead to any actual, meaningful connections). But I have never quite figured out what to replace the barhopping with on these lonely Saturday nights.

The version of this blog post I was writing in my head all day is still true. Things have shifted. I am as comfortable in my own skin and by myself as I have ever been. Over the last seven months, I feel like I’ve uncovered this amazing woman that was always there, and I really like her. I’m actually kind of in awe of her. And I don’t want to lose her as I move into this next stage.

I know that this sadness and loneliness on a Saturday night is an echo from my old life, from a different version of me. It’s not as loud as it was before. But it still reverberates every once in a while. The echo tries to tell me that I’m not okay on my own. That I need someone to love me in order to be okay. That I am not enough on my own. That I am alone because I am too much for anyone to put up with, and that I will always be alone.

I used to drink to quite these voices. And that thought did cross my mind tonight.

But that is just a temporary fix. (That would lead to oh-so-many more problems.) And the fact that these voices are an echo now, and not directly in my ear, says a lot about how far I’ve come. But/and it’s still hard.

And then—perhaps because the Universe knew I needed a reminder—I got a phone call tonight from a friend from recovery, and they had clearly been drinking. These are sad phone calls to get. The Big Book tells us that alcohol is “cunning, baffling, powerful.” It’s also patient. It’s doing push-ups in the parking lot, just waiting for the right time to come for you. This is a disease that our minds try to convince us that we do not have. That we can drink like a normal person. How fucked up is that?

But if I drink, it will kill me. Maybe not right away, but eventually, and it won’t be pretty. These uncomfortable feelings? Turns out that they won’t kill me. It sucks. And it’s lonely and sad. But the feelings will pass. And tomorrow will be a new day.

But so much for being “over” these Saturday nights.