If “the opposite of addiction is connection” then give us sober spaces to connect.
If “the opposite of addiction is connection” then give us sober spaces to connect.
British writer Emily Tisshaw explains why we need more sober social spaces, even if that requires government funding, to support people in addiction recovery.
I’m in recovery and sitting across the table from a friend who I used to go on pub expeditions with. This is the first time we’ve seen each other since all those nights of heavy drinking, and this time only she has a beer. I have my Diet Coke. For her, everything is the same – just another Friday evening. She doesn’t notice how unfamiliar this is to me now.
Sobriety slaps you hard in the face. It wakes you up to the painful sting of your own fragile body. It is the voice that says, “It’s time to go home now,” in the middle of a dance party as glitter falls off your face like sparkling tears. Sobriety is a stop sign in a world where bars and liquor stores wait in every street corner.
And it is also the discomfort of being around people who you once spent drawn-out nights with, toking cigarettes and singing along to rap songs you used to love.
My friend doesn’t notice my hand clasped tightly around my drink, nor my eyes darting around. Everything is so uncomfortably loud. It feels like we’re inside a stadium echoing with the sounds of intoxicated louts. When I try to speak, the conversation is disjointed. The sober version of me simply isn’t interested in listening to drunken rambling.
So once my friend happily settles into the company of the other people around us, I leave. Sober Emily and drunk Emily are two very different people, and sober Emily wants to go home.
When I was a raging druggie loon, I was brash, hostile and attracted to danger. But I wasn’t short of friends and I had one hell of a social life.
All of that crashed after my last overdose. I was rushed to a hospital and spent eight long hours in a state of drug-induced psychosis. It wasn’t my first episode – I had been hospitalized several times before for bouts of depression, suicidal tendencies and psychotic episodes – but it was the one that changed things for me.
So I got sober.
But not only did I have to contend with the hole of depression that I once again found myself in (finding natural ways to boost my serotonin was a challenge), there was also this big, empty space where my social life had been. My sobriety seemed to repel people as much as my stale cigarette breath, and I found myself all alone – there was no place I could go to that didn’t involve drinking.
I decided to create my own space: the Sober Book Club. This was in mid 2021, six months into my sobriety and one month before the arrival of summer. In the United Kingdom, like most places, hot weather is fuel for drinking and drug use. Festivals. Pub gardens. Wine in the evenings. All of these things which I had loved now had to be avoided.
I created my book club completely selfishly. I was lonely and wanted people I could talk to. Every time I left my home, it felt as though people in recovery didn’t exist. I wanted a space and community that didn’t revolve around drinking, and there was no choice but to seek that online.
Over time, I received many messages about how much this Sober Book Club benefited its members. And that made me realize that I was less alone than I thought. Maybe the problem was the absence of sober spaces – or rather that the sober spaces that already existed weren’t truly inclusive.
I joined the recovery group Narcotics Anonymous when I got sober, but found that these meetings had too many guidelines that dictated what constituted “proper” sobriety. Participants had to declare what prescription medications they were taking, and relying on certain drugs could be vilified. The focus was always on recovery, not simply existing.
Where were the sober spaces that don’t require mandatory discussion of alcohol, drugs and recovery? Where were the spaces that let people define what kind of sobriety fits their life, or which bring people together regardless if they have a background of addiction or not?
If we had more of these kinds of spaces – which are accepting, flexible and inclusive – then more people would be inclined to explore, and commit to, sobriety.
Some of these spaces already exist. For example: fine art classes or clubs that play Dungeons and Dragons. But these are niche hobby groups, and, while they serve a purpose, they can be hard for newly-sober people to discover because, previously, our only hobbies were guzzling beer and sniffing lines. We need more generalized spaces to socialize and inhabit. Spaces with lower barriers to entry.
I know that, in my own life, I was desperate for a bit of human interaction and relaxation – which is why I went to a pub with my friends, despite being in recovery. I hadn’t started my book club yet, so where else could I go to simply sit and socialize on a Wednesday evening?
Many people in recovery create these kinds of spaces themselves – but there is only so much they can do alone. We need help to build these spaces up, which, yes, can include public funding. If governments want to seriously encourage sobriety and recovery, this element cannot be overlooked.
Governments routinely use public policy to shape our social lives. They invest into restaurants with long wine lists and festivals with alcohol stations. So why not invest into explicitly sober spaces, too?
These spaces aren’t just for people in recovery, who need an escape from numbing potions and crushed up crystals. They are for everyone. Because all of us, regardless of how we navigate seas of raspberry-infused gin, are in dire need of connection to other humans with full cognitive clarity.
There is a great quote by writer John Hari which goes: “The opposite of addiction is connection.” But if connection is needed for recovery, then how do we support it? Many people in recovery are trying to solve that problem, but we need help. So give us the tools and funding to build communities for ourselves, and for others, too.