Hi everyone, my name is Ryana, and I’m an alcoholic

Today is day 870 for me. That number still catches me off guard, because there was a time when I couldn’t imagine one day sober. There was a time when I honestly didn’t think I’d live long enough to have a future worth counting.

Now I wake up every morning feeling… human again. Not perfect. Not always happy. But human. And that’s huge for me. Because for a long time, I was just existing — shaking, sick, scared, and ashamed. I’d wake up already behind, already defeated before the day even began. Now, I wake up grateful. And that’s a miracle.

So, I figure I’ll start at the beginning.

I was around fourteen or fifteen the first time I drank. Like a lot of us, I thought I was just being a teenager — testing limits, trying to fit in, chasing that sense of belonging that always felt out of reach.

I grew up watching my dad drink. He wasn’t violent or cruel; he was just… angry and absent in a way. When he drank, it wasn’t one or two beers — it was the kind of drinking that swallowed him whole. And I remember thinking, I’ll never be like that.

So, naturally, I decided I’d just be a “social drinker.” You know, the classic line. I’ll just have a few here and there, I’ll control it. I’ll be normal. I really believed that — like I could outsmart alcoholism.

Spoiler: I couldn’t.

My first drink wasn’t even that remarkable. I remember that warmth that hit my stomach and then my head — that rush of oh, this is it. For the first time in my life, the noise in my brain went quiet. I didn’t feel anxious or insecure. I didn’t feel like I was on the outside looking in. I felt… okay and maybe even confident.

Fast forward a few years to my eighteenth birthday. My sister took me to a strip club. She wanted me to have a “real adult birthday.” I mean, what could possibly go wrong, right?

I got completely hammered. I remember bits and pieces — the flashing lights, the music, the feeling of being untouchable. And then I remember projectile vomiting all over her in the car on the way home.

You’d think that would’ve been my wake-up call. But instead, we laughed about it.

I turned it into a joke & It became a funny story I’d retell. That’s the kind of denial we live in early on — we confuse chaos for comedy. We convince ourselves it’s all part of being young.

But looking back now, that was my first real warning sign. Alcohol wasn’t just something I did; it was already starting to define me.

As I got older, drinking became part of everything — birthdays, heartbreaks, good days, bad days, boring weekdays, and eventful weekends. There wasn’t an emotion I didn’t drink over. If I was happy, I drank to celebrate. If I was sad, I drank to forget. If I was numb, I drank just to feel something.

And it worked — until it didn’t.

I made a lot of poor choices. Relationships that burned out fast, jobs I didn’t take seriously, friends I let down. And through all of it, I never once blamed the alcohol. I blamed the world. I blamed bad luck, toxic people, timing — everything but the bottle in my hand.

Alcohol wasn’t the problem — it was my solution. It was my escape hatch, my reward, my medicine, my identity.

But the truth is, I didn’t know who I was without it. I didn’t like silence because silence meant being alone with my thoughts — and my thoughts weren’t kind.

After years of burning bridges and running from myself, I hit a wall. I’d tried new jobs, new cities, new people — everything except changing me. And eventually, I ran out of excuses.

So, in March of 2020, I joined the military.

I remember thinking, This is it. This is my reset. Structure. Purpose. Something bigger than me. I honestly thought discipline would fix me. I thought if I could just follow orders, I’d stop following the bottle.

But you know what they say: wherever you go, there you are.

My first duty assignment was in Germany — beautiful country, full of history and adventure. I remember stepping off that plane thinking, “This is the start of something new.” And in a way, it was — just not the way I expected.

Germany has a drinking culture like no other. Beer is cheaper than water, and it’s everywhere — Drinking there doesn’t raise eyebrows; it’s normal. It’s social. It’s woven into the culture. And for someone like me, that was the perfect camouflage.

At first, it wasn’t bad. A few beers after work, a night out on the weekends. It felt harmless — even earned. I told myself, I’m responsible now. I have a job, a uniform, a purpose. I can handle this.

But alcohol doesn’t care how responsible you are. It just waits. Patiently.

Late 2021 changed everything. I got injured on the job — badly enough that I lost a lot of my mobility. And that hit me harder than I expected. Physically, I was hurting. But mentally… I was crumbling.

Because I’d always defined myself by what I could do. And suddenly, I couldn’t do much of anything. I was overseas, away from family, trapped in a small room. And the pandemic was hitting full force. Lockdowns. Isolation. Empty streets. Empty days.

And I started to fill that emptiness the only way I knew how — with alcohol.

At first, it was just “to take the edge off.” You know the phrase. Just a drink to help me sleep. Just a drink to help the pain. But the line between “just a drink” and “every drink” disappeared faster than I could notice.

Pretty soon, drinking was my entire routine. I’d wake up, drink to steady my hands. Drink to stop the nausea. Drink to function. Then drink again to stop thinking about how much I was drinking.

Most nights, I’d drink myself to sleep.

I was going through nearly two liters of Skyy Vodka every day or two.

Sometimes I’d try to hide a little for “tomorrow.” But tomorrow always came early.

I remember carrying bags of empty bottles to the recycling bin, ashamed of how I must’ve looked — like I was fooling anyone. I even fooled myself for a while. I told myself, I’m not that bad. I still showed up to work. I still paid bills. I still showered — most days.

But that’s what we call “functioning,” right? Functioning just enough to convince ourselves we’re not broken.

Inside, I was falling apart.

But even then, I didn’t stop. I just drank to stop thinking about it.

That’s how powerful the denial was.

When I finally met my husband in 2022, it felt like hope again. He’s such an incredible person — kind, patient, and grounded. I remember thinking, This is my chance. This is my reason to get better.

But instead of getting better, I got better at hiding.

That’s when it really hit me — I was living a double life. On the outside, I was married, working, and I was “fine.” But on the inside, I was terrified.

I told myself, I’ll quit after the weekend. I’ll stop after the holidays. I’ll stop when he finds out.
But the truth is, I didn’t know how to stop.

Alcohol had become my oxygen.

There’s a kind of loneliness that comes with addiction that’s hard to describe. It’s not just being alone — it’s being surrounded by people and still feeling unseen.

I could be sitting right next to my husband and feel miles away.

You get so used to lying that honesty feels foreign.

And even though part of me knew I needed help, I wasn’t ready to ask for it. I was scared that if I said the words out loud — “I’m an alcoholic” — then it would be real.

So, I kept pretending.

But you can’t outdrink truth forever. Eventually, it catches up.

My first real encounter with AA wasn’t some grand spiritual awakening. It was me, sitting in my car in a church parking lot, half hungover, trying to talk myself into walking inside.

I remember thinking, I’m not that bad.

That line — “I’m not that bad” — kept me sick for a long time.

But that day, something in me was cracking. I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine. So, I finally went inside.

I walked into the small room in a trailer at the church. Fluorescent lights, coffee brewing in the corner, a few people chatting quietly. And then that moment — when someone looked up, smiled, and said, “Hey, glad you’re here.”

It was such a simple thing, but it hit me. No one asked me what I’d done wrong. No one told me to fix myself. They just welcomed me.

But I wasn’t ready.

They started reading from the Big Book, and every few lines, someone said the word “God.” And with every mention, I could feel myself tense up. The word “God” brought up a lot of negative stuff for me.

By the end of the meeting, someone handed me my own copy of the Big Book. I said thank you, smiled politely, walked out — and never went back.

Because at that time, I didn’t want help. I wanted control.

I thought, I can fix this on my own. I told myself, I’ll just cut back. I’ll drink only on weekends. I’ll switch from vodka to wine. That’s a classic one, right? As if the problem was the brand, not the bottle.

Then came 2023. The year my life finally cracked open.

By that point, drinking wasn’t just a habit — it was my heartbeat. I couldn’t get through a single day without it. I’d wake up and immediately feel the withdrawal — the tremors, the panic, the nausea. I’d promise myself, Not today. And by noon, I’d already found an excuse.

It wasn’t until my therapist told me something that completely floored me.

She said, “You’ve been living with an eating disorder for nearly 16 years.”

I remember sitting there, stunned. I hadn’t seen it that way. To me, it was just another form of control — or at least, that’s what I told myself. But when she said it, something clicked.

My drinking made my eating disorder worse. My eating disorder justified my drinking. It was a perfect, vicious cycle of self-punishment and denial. I was starving and drowning myself at the same time.

She suggested treatment for the eating disorder. I nodded, agreed, said I’d think about it. But inside, I was frightened.

Because if I went to treatment, I couldn’t drink. And if I couldn’t drink, I’d have to feel everything I’d been avoiding.

Still, something in me knew it was time.

When I finally decided to go, I remember standing in front of my suitcase, debating whether to bring my Big Book. I still didn’t call myself an alcoholic. I told myself, Yeah, I drink a lot, but I’m not like those people, I’m not that bad.

In the end, I put the Big Book in the suitcase — but I covered it with another book jacket. Because God forbid anyone see that I had it.

That’s how deep my denial went.

The day I left for treatment, I was still drinking. I had three drinks at the airport bar and three more on the plane.

That was my “last hurrah.”

I landed, made it through the terminal, and checked into treatment — still half-drunk, still terrified.

And yet… something shifted.

The day after was July 12th, 2023 — my sobriety date.

I didn’t know it then, but that day would change my life.

Treatment wasn’t easy. Detoxing was brutal. My body fought me every step of the way — shaking, sweating, panicking.

But then, somewhere in that fog, I met a guy named Mark.

Mark had this calm energy — the kind of peace you can’t fake.

He wasn’t “preachy”. He just listened. And one day, he said, “You should check out a meeting called Come One, Come All. They meet every day online. No judgment, no pressure — just people who get it.”

So I logged in.

And that’s when something changed.

People were laughing, sharing, crying — being real. No masks, no pretending. I listened to people tell stories that sounded just like mine.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel alone.

That’s the moment I started to believe that maybe — just maybe — there was a way out.

When I got out of treatment, I was roughly 61 days sober.

I remember thinking, I’ve got this now. I’m “fixed”.
Oh, the delusion of early recovery.

I was still white-knuckling it, holding on to the idea that I could manage my life now that I’d detoxed. But the truth was — I didn’t have a clue how to live sober.

My brain was constantly screaming for that old solution — that drink that could quiet everything down.

And here’s the thing: I didn’t even crave the buzz. I craved the escape. I wanted that moment when the noise stopped.

But now, I had to sit in the noise. I had to feel it.

And I hated it.

I started going to Come One Come All meetings regularly. At first, I barely spoke. I’d just sit in the metaphorical back of the room, heart pounding, hoping no one would call on me.

But something about this room started to soften me.

I remember a woman who shared one time. She said, “I didn’t come to AA to get sober. I came to learn how to stop hating myself.”

And that hit me like a brick.

Because that was me. I didn’t just have a drinking problem — I had a me problem. I couldn’t stand to be in my own skin. I used alcohol to quiet the voice that told me I wasn’t enough.

That’s when I started to understand that recovery wasn’t about willpower — it was about surrender.

That word, surrender, used to make me feel uneasy. I thought it meant weakness. But what I’ve learned since, is that surrender is actually the most courageous thing I’ve ever done.

It’s saying, “I can’t do this alone anymore.”

My sponsor was tough as nails, with eyes that saw straight through me.

She made me start by writing. She said, “Write down all the things you think alcohol gave you.”

So I did — confidence, escape, fun, belonging, courage, peace.

Then she made me write what alcohol actually took from me — my health, my honesty, my joy, my marriage, my self-respect.

Because that was the truth I’d been avoiding.

The steps started to make sense after that.

Not as rules — but as a path.

Step One was easy to say, but hard to live.

Admitting I was powerless? That was humbling. Because I’d built my whole identity around control. But the truth was, control had nearly killed me.

Step Two and Three… that’s where I started wrestling with the idea of a Higher Power.

For a while, I told people my Higher Power was “mother nature.” It felt safer than saying God. But over time, something shifted. I started to feel connected again — to something bigger than me, something that wasn’t judging me, but guiding me. I now believe my Higher Power is “the universe.” And that’s enough for me.

One of the hardest moments came when I started making my amends.

There’s this thing they don’t tell you about Step Nine — it’s not about saying sorry. It’s about changing.

I made amends to my husband, not by giving him a big speech, but by showing up differently. By being honest. By staying sober.

There was a night — a few months in — when we were watching a movie. Out of nowhere, he looked at me and said, “I’m proud of you.”

And I swear, I almost lost it. Because I hadn’t heard those words in a long time.

As the months went on, I started to feel a kind of peace I didn’t recognize.

I remember waking up one morning and realizing — I hadn’t thought about drinking the night before.

And for once that silence was beautiful.

Sobriety didn’t fix my life overnight — but it gave me the clarity to start rebuilding it. I had to relearn everything — how to socialize, how to celebrate, how to grieve, how to be still.

And in that stillness, I found something I never expected: myself.

I learned how to sit in discomfort without running. I learned how to say “no” without guilt.

And I learned that healing isn’t about perfection — it’s about progress.

Early sobriety taught me this:

Recovery isn’t about getting your old life back — it’s about building a new one from the ashes.

When I hit one year sober, I remember sitting in a meeting, holding the custom 1 year chip that my sponsor had gotten me and it felt heavier than I expected.

Not because of the metal, but because of what it represented.
Every sleepless night. Every craving. Every phone call. Every tear. Every time I didn’t pick up the bottle.

That chip was a miracle — not the flashy kind you read about, but the quiet, ordinary miracle that happens when broken people decide to keep going.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to escape anymore.

My relationship with my body has changed, too.

For sixteen years, I lived at war with it. My eating disorder was my first addiction — my first way of trying to control the uncontrollable.

When I got sober, all that pain came up again. Without alcohol numbing it, I had to actually face it.

And it’s been hard — really hard.
But I’ve learned that healing doesn’t mean loving every part of myself all the time. It means not abandoning myself anymore.

When I came into the rooms, I thought I had nothing to offer. I thought I was broken beyond repair.

But people told me, “You’ve got a story. That’s enough.”

So I started sharing and one day, I remember a newcomer came up to me and said, “Hey, what you said really helped me.”

That’s when I understood what AA really is — it’s about staying sober together.

Every time I help someone else, I remember where I came from.
I remember the airport bar, the hidden bottles, the shaky mornings.
And I remember that I never want to go back there.

That’s what keeps me grateful. That’s what keeps me sober.

Of course, not every day is rainbows and sunshine.

I still get hit with cravings sometimes — not for the drink itself, but for the escape.
There are days when my brain whispers, “Wouldn’t one drink take the edge off?”

And that’s when I pick up the phone.
That’s when I go to a meeting.
That’s when I tell on myself.

Because I’ve learned that the second I keep a secret, I’m in danger.

Today, my life isn’t about escaping anymore.
It’s about showing up — for my husband, for my friends, and for myself.

I laugh more. I feel more. I cry more. I live more.

I don’t chase chaos anymore; I chase peace.
And I find it, every day, in small ways — in the smell of coffee, in my dog’s tail wagging, in the quiet moments before the sun rises.

That’s recovery.

It’s not loud. It’s not glamorous.
It’s humble, steady, and sacred.

And it’s enough.

If you’re new to AA — and you’re sitting here wondering if it can work for you — I want you to know something:

I didn’t think it could work for me either.

I thought I was too far gone, too damaged, too skeptical, too stubborn.
But here I am — 870 days sober, and still learning, still healing, still showing up.

AA didn’t just give me sobriety. It gave me myself.

To the newcomers  — I want you to know that I get it.

I know how terrifying it feels to think about life without alcohol.

I remember sitting where you are, wondering if I could actually do this. And I promise you — it gets better.

You just have to keep coming back. One meeting at a time, one day at a time.

And if you’re struggling, please don’t do it alone.

Reach out, share, connect.

You never know whose story might save your life — or whose life you might save by sharing yours.

Today, I get to wake up sober, and I get to go to sleep sober.

That’s the miracle.