After The High
finding bliss in the mundane
Lately, I feel content, and it’s almost unsettling. It’s not that I’m super happy, but I’m definitely not angry, sad, or anxious like I was while I was using. I’m floating in a neutral space somewhere in between extremes, and it makes me feel as though I have nothing interesting to say. This was the goal, though, right? To find a balanced life, free from the havoc that substances wrought. But now that I’m here, I’m unsure of how to handle the peace and calm.
I am nearly 11 months sober, and even though I know this is the life I’ve been fighting for, I find I need more time to adjust to its tender simplicity. My mind keeps questioning my decision to get clean: Are you sure this is what you want? It seems eager to return to familiar comforts—a bag, and a bottle and a half of bottom-shelf wine. Drugs and alcohol provided the most efficient means of escape, but I no longer want what is quick and easy. I’ll need to keep walking this new path until it feels more worn in, until the forward momentum of sobriety feels natural to me.
Now that substances no longer dictate my life, I’ve regained my footing, but I’m still clearing away the remnants of my past so I can walk this unfamiliar path with confidence. Balance, or neutrality, is something I’m still getting used to. In the throes of addiction, this stillness would have only heightened my anxiety; I could never sit in it for long before the urge to escape sent me back to the liquor store.
When I was drinking or using, my days revolved around chasing a high. I’d walk my dog to the liquor store at 8 AM to grab a bottle to get me through the day, only to return for another in the afternoon to avoid an evening crash. Once I had a bottle and a half of cheap Sauvignon Blanc in my system, any resistance to texting my dealer down the street would vanish. I was dragging my body through a tortuous ring of hell every day, but it was a hell I knew.
Sometimes, I don’t know if I feel anything at all. Has Wellbutrin turned me into a zombie? I’ve always had a tendency to mistake calm and quiet for boredom or aloofness, and now I find myself questioning if that’s what’s happening. Then it hits me: this is what you wanted, what you’ve been yearning for. My days now blend into a predictable yet blissful routine: I wake up, go to the gym, get paid to write, take my dog to the big park down the street, grab coffee with a friend, enjoy dinner with family, read trashy novels and nail-biting memoirs, struggle with a difficult crossword, play all the little NYT games (except Strands…I can’t be bothered with Strands), drink rooibos tea, and browse through different streaming services before sighing and turning off the TV. I fall asleep without being plagued by self-critical rumination (as was the case in active addiction) — and I look forward to doing it all over again the following day.
If this is boring, then I must love boring. Mundanity and consistency have made what once seemed impossible—like finding work I love, getting fit, and letting go of unhealthy relationships—achievable. Boring was never the enemy; chasing the highs and lows of addiction was. That’s what kept me stuck in place for so long—unable to imagine anything beyond it. Being high was my sole purpose; it simplified every decision, and all my desires always pointed back to it. Now, I’m faced with figuring out where I want to go and what direction to take. It’s terrifying, but also exciting!
I used to think I needed to get high in order to write, convinced I couldn’t tap into anything real unless my pupils were dilated and my palms sweaty. In that altered state, I believed I could finally tear down the walls I’d built around myself. But as time passed, I began to see that my writing was on loop, endlessly spinning around one theme: the baffling question of why I kept returning to substances, even when I didn’t want to.
It was like being trapped in a toxic relationship, constantly going back to someone who made me feel insignificant and small, like a speck of dust carelessly flicked off a shoulder. While under the influence, my writing always led me back to the same questions: What’s wrong with me? Why do I keep ending up in this mess? How do I get out? The emotional extremes of addiction made personal growth impossible, keeping me stuck in the same patterns and unable to envision a life beyond my self-inflicted misery.
In sobriety, I find I don’t need to be on the edge of destruction to write something meaningful. My words are no longer driven by desperation or self-loathing but by a desire to understand myself and the world around me in a more honest way.
As I move forward on this sober path, I’m comforted to find that I no longer seek escape. I find happiness in quiet moments and simple routines, and the small, consistent choices I make build a life I’m proud of. The journey has its challenges, as any new path does, but I’m committed to it as I continue learning who I am without the crutch of addiction. The mundane is no longer something to fear — I’m where I want to be.
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Another insightful and inspiring beautifully written essay. So proud of you ❤️