Laura McKowen

Last week I gave notice at my job. This May would have marked three years there—my title is Vice President, Marketing. Which means nothing except perhaps that I’ve put a lot of energy into work for fifteen years, the entirety of my “career.” 

People choose to drink. People do not choose to get addicted. Do you have any idea how important that distinction is? Do you know how many people will never speak up about their addictions because they think it is something they’ve done to themselves? 

The truth was, I had no idea how to connect to men without it, and this was a big reason I kept doing it long after I knew I shouldn’t. For as long as I could remember the two things had been inextricably linked.

Happy Birthday, my sweet Alma. It’s been a long time since I’ve posted a letter to you. In the first couple years of your life I did them more regularly, as they were the easiest and only thing I could write about honestly and naturally. That’s the neatest part about loving you: it’s never been a question. 

My question is about being public in your writing about your struggles with addiction and getting/being sober. Do you worry about your daughter being affected socially by your being “out” as a sober alcoholic?

I am loving hearing about people's 'progression' as time passed. Did you feel better overall at 6 months than you did at 2 months? Have things gotten better and better? 

Hey, you. I have an idea. In 2016, let’s tell ourselves better stories.

Let’s not tell ourselves the story about how we can’t, or won’t, or don’t deserve, or aren’t ready. Those stories are so obviously tired, and quite boring.

I thought everything about sobriety would be a downer, and by “downer” I mean “death sentence.” Aside from ditching the ‘please-just-kill-me-now' hangovers and the shame of the ‘oh-god-what-did-I-say' texts I was sure the rest of it would be a serious B-version of life. 

Three years ago when my husband moved out of our home, I couldn’t picture today’s scene. I hoped for peace, forgiveness, healing, but couldn’t have imagined the particulars: the specific smell of his apartment, piles of folded laundry I’ve never seen, the familiarity of his energy.