It's Okay If You're Not Ready...

To quit drinking and drugs on January 1st, 2025.

Many people spend the first week in January, obsessing over substances, and at this very moment, many people — perhaps even yourself — are agonizing about whether they should spend 2025 sober or sober-ish.

For those new here: On January 1st, 2019, I wrote an essay called “Happy New Year: It’s Okay If You’re Not Ready,” and almost every holiday season since TSB’s existence, I’ve rerun it, with small revisions here and there. I’ll add more nuance to it and cut out some memories that have turned out to be lies. But each year, I’m more charitable with myself — I was trying to survive my first sober New Year’s Eve no matter what. I was doing the best I could, after all, even when I was not. And now I’m trying to pass that along to you. However you choose to approach your sobriety in 2025, please remember to extend yourself some damn grace. Go easy on yourself. Do the best you can, but for the right reasons. You’re doing great, and your life is bigger than a resolution. I have faith that you’ll figure it out one way or another.

I’m rerunning the essay today and the audio version will drop on The Small Bow podcast tomorrow.

The Poem On The Way Out is the one I read whenever I embark on a new beginning: “The Davenport Lunar Eclipse” by Jim Harrison.

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*****

My first sober New Year’s Eve was in 2015. After almost two months in a Florida rehab, I finally returned to my Brooklyn apartment in early December. It was no longer an apartment, though — it was a museum of failure: every room had full ashtrays and thousands of dollars of dead plants. The outdoor deck had a rusty grill and a propane tank I had never filled. The expensive grill cover I bought for it was upside down a few feet away, filled with more cigarette butts. It was a big wet mess.

Under my filthy couch was the top-of-the-line foot massager I’d purchased because I thought it would feel great with poppers and Xanax. (It did.)

But the saddest item was a six-person inflatable hot tub, still in the box. Retail price: $1,259.

I don’t know what it was about that hot tub that sent me into a tailspin, but it did a real number on me. I felt like a real loser. I was no longer a person who was interesting or cool enough to have an inflatable hot tub on their roof. And now I was this uncool, uninteresting low-life facing the holidays sober.

I navigated the first couple weeks opting out of many of the holiday parties I used to attend. I also didn’t go home to Philadelphia for Christmas that year. I spent a lot of time alone in my apartment, scrolling the internet for some sort of relief from the loneliness and agitation. I typed in, “I’m 50 days sober, and I want to run into traffic,” hoping for an essay or an article that would connect me to some stranger or writer who had felt exactly as I had in this terrible moment. But Google rewarded me with the suicide hotline and more ads for rehabs, many like the one I had just returned from. Oh, and there were a couple tabloid stories about the singer Demi Lovato, who was also trying to stay sober. I tried to go to regular A.A. meetings, but the program hadn’t clicked for me yet, so I mostly stayed away. That wasn’t the solution I was searching for yet.

And now it was New Year’s Eve and all I wanted was drugs.

I didn’t care what kind — something to sand down the edges or, better yet, just put me to sleep until March. I wanted to be medicated into a state of guilt-free, dull-hearted bliss.

Before going to rehab, I cleaned my apartment of all leftover drugs and booze. But I was terrible at cleaning my apartment, so I assumed a stray Xanax or some stale weed was lying around somewhere. I half-heartedly searched for about an hour, then got more aggressive, more dramatic, flipping up couch cushions and emptying all my desk drawers. I had one more place to look: an old toothpaste-crusted dop kit. And, after two seconds of rummaging through dirty razor blades and sticky dental floss dispensers, there it was: an orange pill bottle with the white safety cap and that beautiful sticker near the bottom warning me not to operate heavy machinery. There was a brief whoosh of excitement, but I realized it wasn’t anything fun, just a few leftover Chantix pills.

Chantix. The prescription stop-smoking medication.

I tried and failed to quit smoking with Chantix in early 2013. Not the pills I was looking for—but wait.

When I was taking Chantix, I became very strange, sometimes insane. Some of the changes were comical—I developed a ridiculous sweet tooth. I drank a lot of Shirley Temples and chocolate milk with margarita salt on the rim. I also ate many ice cream cakes. Once, I completely cleared out the grocery store freezer of all its Carvel products. I was not smoking, but I was subsisting on the food you’d find at an 8-year-old’s birthday party.

I also became obsessed with online shopping, especially for shoelaces—I bought dozens of colorful shoelaces for “my sneaker collection,” but I did not have a sneaker collection. And while I was manically online shopping, weirdly I didn’t buy any new sneakers. But I did purchase many Moroccan throw rugs from One Kings Lane.

There was also a very dark side to my Chantixing. I got into a loud, shit-talking argument with some random dude who cut the line on me at the grocery store. He could have easily killed me with one punch, but I had Chantix muscles.

And when I’d get drunk, there were some crying fits—we’re talking horrific ugly sobs because I’d get nostalgic about past relationships or the cruel impermanence of the universe. We’re all so small and doomed! It was pathetic.

Now a reasonable human being would throw the Chantix into the trash. Not me, though, not now—I wanted to scrape off the dull crud of early sobriety. I wanted to be a different person tonight, and when I was on drugs, I was happy. Just for one more night, just let me feel happy again—like the best version of me. Confident, relaxed–alive.

Chantix takes two weeks to enter the bloodstream, so swallowing them was pointless. Here was my next idea: smash it all up and stick this Chantix up my ass. It worked for Stevie Nicks, right? I have no problem doing that at all. It would not be the first drug I’ve crammed in there. Besides, what’s the worst thing that could happen? I stop smoking?

I had the pills out on a wooden cutting board, a hammer in my hand, but then I came to my senses. What kind of person thinks like this? A drug addict kind of person. I was a drug addict.

I set the hammer down and threw the Chantix away. I smoked three cigarettes instead.

*****

That night, I went out to dinner with someone even though I didn’t want to be in public, especially in a noisy restaurant full of drunk, happy people. There was a 12-top seated right next to us. They kept climbing over ice buckets of champagne to talk to each other—they were boisterous and crazy. It seemed like everyone was laughing and falling into each other’s laps.

I was jealous. I wished I was at their table. I realized I wasn’t ready to be sober yet.

During the appetizers, I drifted off and transported myself to the previous New Year’s Eve when I had a party at my apartment. It wasn’t a well-attended, happy-sounding party, but there were many drugs. Molly. Cocaine. Xanax. Fancy booze with bows stuck to the bottle.

I had just bought a set of Hue lights. I spent the night before testing all the different color schemes, my feet getting nice and warm on the foot massager, inhaling poppers, chain-smoking, and carefully curating the perfect lighting situation for my party. There was a way to set a timer for midnight so that the lights would change colors rapidly from pink to blue to white, and they would play firework sounds and champagne pops and noisemakers that I could connect to my Sonos speaker system at the exact moment 2014 dissolved into 2015. It would be sensational — everyone at the party will love it.

I also bought a bow tie and wore a white shirt with buttons, my cleanest black pants, and one of my favorite visors from a random golf course I never set foot on. I wore visors back then because I was a real hipster jerkoff, and I thought they made me look cool, especially when I was on drugs. But it didn’t look cool. In fact, at the party, a girl I’d never met asked me if I was dressed as a poker player. I was high as hell pretty much since 10 a.m., so I didn’t care what anyone thought of me.

At some point, I had a dry-mouthed, meandering conversation with a friend as we smoked cigarettes and looked out at the filthy deck. “This is the best time of my life,” I said. I couldn’t breathe through my nose anymore and hadn’t eaten anything all day. “ She disagreed. “You seem lost,” she said. I was offended, but she was right. I went to find more molly.

I don’t remember if there was a ball-dropping moment at midnight or a raucous countdown. I don’t know if I had brunch the following day or if I wished my parents or anyone in my family a Happy New Year. I don’t remember if the timer with the Hue lights and party sounds ever went off. I remember I was high. But I was so high that I didn’t feel high anymore. I just felt awake but also tired. And joyless. It was like someone took a handheld vacuum cleaner and sucked up all my joy.

Now it was a year later and here I was sitting in that noisy restaurant, sipping soda, still joyless, still lost. It was a painful realization. And I thought about next New Year’s Eve. Would I be healed, or spiritualized, or in Brooklyn, or maybe even high again? Either way, I would not feel like this, and I would not be in this restaurant. 2016 would be better.

*****

It was not. It was a historically, comically terrible year for me. I got sued for millions of dollars and along with a thorough public shaming, and my small media company fell apart and was drowning in debt. I also had a minor, uneventful relapse to go along with an uncertain future.

I spent New Year’s Eve 2016 in Los Angeles in my girlfriend Julieanne’s tiny apartment off of Vine Street. She was a couple of months pregnant. At first, I thought that was just another historically and comically terrible thing to have happened, but I softened. Maybe it’s a great thing.

Then, in 2017, it all changed. We had our first child and moved into a bigger apartment. I got a new job. The Philadelphia Eagles won the Super Bowl, for Christ’s sake. And I stayed sober — one entire year. Joy had miraculously returned.

If you’ve decided that 2025 is the year you’re going to stop drinking and stop using, congratulations. But at some point, if you find it difficult or frustrating and you feel like you’ve lost your friends, your identity, and your joy, be patient. You’re not alone, even if you feel like it. 2025 may not be joyful, but I promise it will be different—something will be different, especially if you stay sober.

It’s okay if you feel frustrated. It’s okay if you feel alone. It’s okay if life gets in the way.

It’s okay if you’re not ready — just don’t stick Chantix up your ass.

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HOLIDAY ZOOM MEETING SCHEDULE THROUGH JANUARY 5th

Tuesday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET

Wednesday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET

Thursday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m ET

Friday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET AND *4 p.m. PT/7 p.m. ET

Saturday: Mental Health Focus (Peer support for bipolar/anxiety/depression) 9:30 a.m. PT/12:30 p.m. ET

Sunday: (Mental Health and Sobriety Support Group.) 1:00 p.m PT/4 p.m. ET

* New meeting

*****

If you don't feel comfortable calling yourself an "alcoholic," that's fine. If you have issues with sex, food, drugs, codependency, love, loneliness, depression —whatever-whatever–come on in. Newcomers are especially welcome. We’re here.

FORMAT: CROSSTALK, TOPIC MEETING

We're there for an hour, sometimes more. We'd love to have you.

Meeting ID: 874 2568 6609

PASSWORD TO ZOOM: nickfoles

Need more info?: ajd@thesmallbow.com

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CHECK-IN FOR THE NEW YEAR: LET US KNOW HOW YOU MADE OUT OR WHAT YOUR RECOVERY PLANS ARE FOR 2025

Here's a reminder that we're collecting our submissions for our January Check-Ins. If you'd like to participate, we'd love to have you.

Our first 2025 Check-In runs on Tuesday, January 7th — so we need your help. Tell us what's up with your recovery post-holiday. Tell us about this year. Or next. The good, the great, the awful, the insane. We want it all.

Help us help you help everyone.

The perfect length is 150-300 words.

Here's a GREAT example of two we ran last year.

• "As a self-proclaimed procrastinator (procrastination is a symptom of my fear), I want to prolong any new year intention setting until the actual lunar new year (1st full moon in February), stay in pjs, drink sugary drinks, eat donuts, and throw myself a new year's pity party for 1. However, since you inquired, my 2024 mantra will be "I will not abandon myself." What will this look like, you ask? Healthy, kind, clear boundary setting in all versions of me. One of my favorite New Year quotes to retrieve from the ole' Facebook archives is, "Hope stands on the threshold of the upcoming year and whispers, it will be happier."

• "It's been a really huge and stressful year. I moved across the world. My anxiety has been terrible, and trying to make it better with medication has unfortunately not panned out. I'm feeling pretty off all the time, but trying to do the things that make me feel better and not lose hope. I feel very grateful to be closer to my friends and even my family. My own substance use has been pretty good this year, with fewer hangovers and regrets. However, in the last few months, my husband, who is already in recovery from one drug, has had issues with another drug, which is extremely terrifying to me and is hurting our relationship. The last time he was in addiction, it blew up my life. I hope next year will be a year of stability and healing for all of us."

EMAIL US HERE: tsbcheckins@thesmallbow.com SUBJECT: 2025 CHECK-IN

It will be published on TUESDAY, January 7th.

Anyone who contributes gets a FREE month of TSB's Sunday edition.

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This is The Small Bow newsletter. It is mainly written and edited by A.J. Daulerio. And Edith Zimmerman always illustrates it. We send it out every Tuesday and Friday.

You can also get a Sunday issue for $9 a month or $60 per year. The Sunday issue is a recovery bonanza full of gratitude lists, a study guide to my daily recovery routines, a poem I like, the TSB Spotify playlist, and more exclusive essays.

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Thank you so much for your support!

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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:

The Davenport Lunar Eclipse

by Jim Harrison

***************

Overlooking the Mississippi
I never thought I'd get this old.
It was mostly my confusion about time
and the moon, and seeing the lovely way
homely old men treat their homely old women
in Nebraska and Iowa, the lunch-time
touch over green Jell-O with pineapple
and fried "fish rectangles" for $2.95.
When I passed Des Moines the radio said
there were long lines to see the entire cow
sculpted out of butter. The earth is right smack
between the sun and the moon, the black waitress
told me at the Salty Pelican on the waterfront,
home from wild Houston to nurse her sick dad.
My good eye is burning up from fatigue
as it squints up above the Mississippi
where the moon is losing its edge to black.
It likely doesn't know what's happening to it,
I thought, pressed down to my meal and wine
by a fresh load of incomprehension.
My grandma lived in Davenport in the 1890s
just after Wounded Knee, a signal event,
the beginning of America's Sickness unto Death.
I'd like to nurse my father back to health
he's been dead thirty years, I said
to the waitress who agreed. That's why she
came home, she said, you only got one.
Now I find myself at fifty-one in Davenport
and drop the issue right into the Mississippi
where it is free to swim with the moon's reflection.
At the bar there are two girls of incomprehensible beauty
for the time being, as Swedish as my Grandma,
speaking in bad grammar as they listen to a band
of middle-aged Swede saxophonists braying
"Bye-Bye Blackbird" over and over, with a clumsy
but specific charm. The girls fail to notice me -
perhaps I should give them the thousand dollars
in my wallet but I've forgotten just how.
I feel pleasantly old and stupid, deciding
not to worry about who I am but how I spend
my days, until I tear in the weak places
like a thin, worn sheet. Back in my room
I can't hear the river passing like time,
or the moon emerging from the shadow of earth,
but I can see the water that never repeats itself.
It's very difficult to look at the World
and into your heart at the same time.
In between, a life has passed.

— “Jim Harrison: Complete Poems”

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ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN