I had my first sober birthday in a decade, here’s what I learnt

Content warning: This article discusses alcoholism and drug addiction.

As a long-time partier and living embodiment of the saying ‘work hard, play hard’, deciding to go sober at the start of this year for my mental health came with more challenges than I ever imagined. 

Up until that point, my journey with alcohol hadn’t been particularly unique. I had moved to Melbourne from Tasmania as an anxious teenager, still reeling from my childhood and desperate to taste freedom. It was a new start and alcohol was the lubricant to make sure I could slide into new friendship groups without a hitch.

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Alcohol soon turned to drugs. I was always the last to leave the house party, returning home as the sun rose, perpetually hungover and never without a raunchy story of my drunken adventures to entertain friends (and acquaintances). 

Until I began making money from writing, I worked in inner-city bars where my substance abuse never seemed dysfunctional. To be a narcotics novice in this industry was a sign of weakness and drinking on a shift was simply a way to numb the barrage of sexual harassment and abuse from co-workers and customers.

The final straw

Earlier this year, after a decade of partying and avoiding any reflection on my actions, came the biggest mental breakdown in my history of battling anxiety, depression and Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD). It shook me from the inside out and demanded I change my habits or face a future I couldn’t bear. 

Since going sober, I’ve been questioning my identity a lot. Who was I outside of my party-girl persona? Living in a country where drinking is linked to almost any celebration, sobriety felt isolating, as if an entire part of my personality had been replaced.

My first sober birthday

My biggest challenge since going sober was a day usually earmarked by mimosas and a splitting headache the next morning: my birthday. I decided to base myself back in Tasmania to ‘dry out’, but as my birthday grew closer, so did the temptation to run back to my old home (and drinking habits) in the city. I put a low-key birthday with family in the calendar and left it at that. As the day rolled around, it unfolded like this:

10am. I wake up groggy, still getting used to my new medication which makes me feel like I’ve smoked a joint before bed. I wish. I peel myself out of bed to begin the day like any other morning since I moved to Tasmania: I wake up, kiss my rescue kelpie Stella, and smoke a cigarette on the porch. 

11am. As the day begins to weigh heavily on me, I decide to wallow, as a birthday gift to myself. I’ve had a lot of trauma related to my birthday, which bubbled up last year too. I drank and partied it away, which I know I can’t repeat. I feel the familiar craving and angst, the ‘skin too small for my body’ frustration. 

12pm. I decide to cope by watching The Walking Dead and rotting in bed. I remind myself that this is a difficult day, I’m allowed to feel complicated emotions towards it. This time last year, I was living in Collingwood, having a classic Melbourne BBQ party with all my friends and girlfriend at the time. Everyone was fashionable, everyone was drunk and we all felt young. I was 26 that day. Today I feel much older.

1pm. I feel sad and lonely. This is how losers spend their birthday I surmise; although I have plenty of friends to celebrate with. Many of them were shocked at my sobriety, I guess they also struggled to see the ‘me’ outside of the party persona. 

3pm. Owning a high-energy pup means I’m forced to abandon my Birthday Rot. I get up, shower and pull clean clothes over my still-wet skin. Immediately, I feel better about my loser-coded birthday. Stella runs through the mud in the park as I chat with my sister, who isn’t much of a drinker due to chronic health conditions. She understands the plight of a sober birthday. Her acceptance of my decision without labelling me ‘boring’ gives me strength.

6pm. My ramen birthday dinner is warm and cosy. My mum and I have come a long way this year, going from nearly a decade of barely speaking to a relationship akin to friends. This is the first birthday I have spent with her in nine years. It doesn’t feel like my birthday though. Maybe it never will feel the same, or perhaps I just need time. 

10pm. The night was wholesome. I retire early and cuddle in my mum’s spare bed with Stella. I feel as if I’ve missed my birthday entirely, but I also feel like being drunk and high in a loud, dirty bathroom stall was the last thing I wanted. I can barely remember being that girl anymore. 

On reflection, I realise now that making it through my birthday was just like all of sobriety’s previous challenges. The only solution is to keep following the path until I find the next version of me and then trust in her strength, even if she seems like a stranger. 

If you or someone you know is struggling with their mental health, eating disorders or addiction, you can contact the following:

Lifeline 13 11 14
Alcoholics Anonymous 1300 222 222
Narcotics Anonymous 1300 652 820