Guest Contributor – Alysse Bryson
Giving up alcohol. The day was May 1st, 2006. I was coming off a weekend bender where I attempted to control my drinking. My last drink was consumed on April 30th.
A few weeks prior, I had visited Residence XII in Kirkland, WA, an all-female alcohol and drug addiction treatment facility, for a complete evaluation. This was my third evaluation in 30-day period between March and April, with various specialists and treatment centers. The difference this time? I decided to tell the truth—the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Newsflash! Addicts are super liars, so this was shocking. At this point, I’d realized no one was going to teach me how to drink normally. I felt defeated and instinctively knew I was at a tipping point where things were about to spiral completely out of control.
I had a 16-year drinking and drugging career. I even referred to myself as a professional drinker. Ironic, because I don’t recall ever being paid to drink. Were there consequences? Countless. More than I could list over those 16 years. And that’s just the stuff I can remember. I was a blackout drinker, so there are plenty of things I don’t recall—or have permanently blocked. My close friends even gave me a nickname: B.O.B., short for “Black-Out Bryson.” I wore it like a badge of honor. There were also things I hadn’t lost… yet. I still had a job, my son (he was 9 at the time), a place to live, a little money in the bank, a car, and a valid driver’s license. I felt as if I were on the brink of losing all of it, and I was desperate.
During the evaluation, I bared my soul. I kept nothing back. The result? They strongly recommended I seek inpatient treatment for a minimum of 28 days. My mind flashed to the Sandra Bullock movie 28 Days, and I panicked. Live with strangers? Abandon my job and my son for a month? These people were CRAZY. And what’s this about keeping a plant alive and getting a dog? (#IYKYK) I was barely keeping myself alive.
That was a no-go for me. I was in pain, but not that much pain. I quickly asked about other options. Like, how about a pill? Or maybe I could start seeing a regular therapist who specializes in addiction? Was there a TED Talk I could watch? Hypnotherapy, perhaps? I can be very persuasive when I want to be. I pleaded for any alternative to a 28-day lock-up.
Reluctantly, they offered me an outpatient program: three days a week, three hours a day, in the evenings, over three months. “Sign me up!” I exclaimed, already scheming what excuses I’d use to skip at least one session a week. Committing to this seemed more manageable than going away for 30 days. I can do this, right?
“How soon can you start?” they asked.
Mmmm, let me think about that. It was mid-April, and I was a single mom working full-time. “How about June?” I suggested. Once school was out for the summer, my son could go to stay with my parents, and I could visit him on the weekends. Basically, I started project managing my rock bottom.
The intake counselor, seeing straight through my bullshit, asked, “How do you plan on staying sober between now and then?”
Scrambling for an answer, I came up blank. She then asked, “Can you control your drinking?”
That’s it!
And there it was! The BRILLIANT idea I was looking for: Just control my drinking. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? “Oh yes, I should be able to do that,” I replied slowly. (I’m a terrible liar.) She then asked me how I’d do it. I fumbled through excuses like, “I don’t have to drink every day,” or “I’ll only drink two,” or some other nonsense. Then she asked if I’d ever been to an AA meeting.
“Yes, I have, and those sad meetings are not for me,” I said, picturing the stereotype I had in my head: homeless, toothless alcoholics drinking all day and night, regardless of consequences. Clearly, that wasn’t me. She explained they held a women-only 12-step meeting at the center every Tuesday at 7:30 pm called Sober Gals. She hinted I might find several women there who were “more like me.”
I filed that away and left the appointment resolved to either not drink or only have two. Nothing or two. Two or nothing.
Here’s the problem: I could drink nothing, kind of, but then I’d become highly agitated, and my life still felt unmanageable. Or I could drink only two. Because if I had three, I couldn’t stop—not until I ran out, passed out, or blacked out. So, two was the magic number. When I managed it (not more than twice), I was still miserable, and my life remained unmanageable.
This is how I spent the last two weeks of April 2006: testing myself by not drinking, drinking only two, not drinking around my son, not drinking before 8 p.m., never drinking in the morning, and switching up what I drank. No matter what dumb rule I made, it didn’t work. I was out of ideas.
I didn’t know it at the time, but Sunday, April 30th, would be the last day I drank alcohol. Honestly, I wish I had known it was going to be my last drink, because I sure as hell would have made it a better send off. But that sad story can be saved for another time.
That brings us to Tuesday, May 1st, 2006. Coming off that rough weekend, I had called in sick to work for two days in a row. In between sobbing sessions, I paced back and forth, chain-smoking while my son was at school, just trying not to drink. The Sober Gals meeting kept gnawing at the back of my mind.
Were these women going to be like me? Did they have all their teeth? Did they bleach them? What brand of yoga pants did they wear? Did they binge-watch Sex and the City and imagine their lives were better than they actually were? Would they judge me for the dark things in my life? Would it just be a big cryfest? Would they try to hug me or hold my hand? I had so many questions and zero answers. Pain is a motivator, and like it or not, I was very motivated.
I remember pulling into the parking lot, inspecting the vehicles (they were mostly luxury), and avoiding eye contact with anyone walking into the building. Sitting as close to the door as I could, I pretended to check emails on my raspberry-colored Blackberry until the meeting started. I sat in a cold metal chair as close to the exit door for the next hour, listening to women I’d never met talk about things they’d done, seen, or had happen to them—things exactly like what I’d done, seen, or had happen to me. Every. Single. Woman.
WTF is happening?!?!?
Every woman who spoke pierced through me like a top-notch cutting knife slicing into a perfectly cooked steak. Tough exterior, tender inside. It was at that moment I accepted, deep down, that I am an alcoholic.
Overwhelmed by emotions, I bolted out of the meeting as soon as it ended. I didn’t stay to hold hands or put my chair away. I sprinted to my car, holding back tears, chanting in my head, “Do not cry in public. Do not cry in public.” Driving home, I was a potpourri of emotions—crying, yelling, screaming, laughing, and shaking my fist at God.
“I have to give up vodka? Are you F#*%ING kidding me? If that’s the case, then give me one more sign!” I screamed, heading north on Interstate 405 in my white Chrysler Pacifica. Loud as ever.
At that exact moment, an audible DING went off in my car. The dashboard displayed two simple words: Perform Service.
Jesus take the wheel. God was in my dashboard. This was my burning bush moment. It was indescribable. So much so, I had to pull over on the highway and sit with my feelings. I cried. I laughed. I ugly cried, and snot flew everywhere. “Well played, Big Guy upstairs. Well played.”
Perform. Service.
Sure, my car needed an oil change, but those words carried a deeper meaning. Sitting there, letting it all out, I wiped my tears and mascara, looked back at the dashboard, and saw I had about a quarter tank of gas. Then I heard, as clearly as if someone was sitting next to me in the passenger seat: “You can give it up now before you’re on empty. Next time, it will be different. Do you want to lose everything, including your life?”
I haven’t had a drink since that day.
Please know, it hasn’t been because I haven’t wanted to. There have been countless times I have wanted to. As it turns out, just because I think I want to do something, doesn’t mean I actually have to do it.
The past 18+ years have been an incredible ride—incredibly hard and incredibly rewarding. My life looks entirely different today than it did in 2006. If you had told 30-day sober Alysse all the things that would transpire in the coming decades I would have never EVER believed you. I have found much of heaven, and I have been rocketed into the fourth dimension. Over the years, it set in that I was given the gift of sobriety. Now it’s my job to make sure I keep it. And the only way I have figured out how to do that is to give freely of what I have found and to keep trudging the road of happy destiny, one day at a time.
Alysse Bryson is a strong woman in recovery, an innovative media maven, a marketing guru, and gal about town. With her humorous outlook on life and fierce determination to succeed, Alysse has significantly impacted the world of media and advocacy.
Previously the Publisher of Seattle Met magazine, she spent nearly a decade immersed in the magazine lifestyle before transitioning to a dynamic role as Director of Business Development for KING 5 Media Group. Currently, Alysse serves as Vice President of Community Development at WORKP2P, championing innovative solutions as a nontraditional media company specializing in large-scale global events and logistics.
A proud Pacific Northwest native with over 18+ years of sobriety, #ODAAT, Alysse is also the founder of The Sober Curator, a top recovery & sober lifestyle digital magazine and hub. When she’s not working, Alysse enjoys traveling, street art photography, and spending time with loved ones.
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