A Year Without Alcohol: Where are the Roses?

Somewhere toward the end of the 1980s and on the heels of a surprise rise up the Billboard charts, a hippie band from the '60s was finding a new generation of fans. I attended my first concert of theirs at an open air ampitheatre apparently designed just for them -- a time capsule back to the days of peace, love, and rock and roll.

Intermingled with the requisite psychedelic-inspired tie-dyes and flower-power daisies was pervasive and instantly recognizable skull-and-roses symbolism that had become synonymous with the band.

As a recently former English major, I had brushed upon the intertwined symbols before, but never in such concentrated numbers on blatant display. 

The band held quite a bit of mystique for me that resulted in an expectation for a certain level of complexity in unraveling and interpreting the ever-present contradiction between the skulls and bones, roses and ribbons.

There was none. 

It was all right there on the surface. Skulls and roses. Death and mortality. Beauty and elegance.  The macabre and the morbid. The fragile and vulnerable.

Annie laid her head down, in the roses.

She had ribbons, ribbons, ribbons in her long brown hair

Now almost two months into my experiment with sobriety, I'm wondering where the roses are. 

What I currently see is this: The dark days are fewer. Not so many skulls. The anxiety and fears are softened and easier to allay. The mornings are a little lighter and more welcoming.

However, the bright side isn't noticeably brighter. There is no obvious nor remarkable change to my baseline. Life is mostly still puttering along. No flashes of insight or deeper meaning. No sudden pop in creative output or professional success. 

Faded is the crimson from the ribbons that she wore

And it's strange how no one comes round any more

Gone are the dive bars, breweries, and backyard beers. Gone is the spontaneity of closing the office early and taking a six pack to the beach. Gone are the boozy afternoons on the porch lazily watching the rain fall or the fog roll in.

Am I more energized without the booze, or more exhausted without the abandon?

My days are a sine wave of sorts -- a straight horizontal line overlaid with an oscillating curve of peaks and valleys.

My midline hasn't moved since giving up alcohol, nor have the crests been amplified. The troughs have shallowed, though. The bad days aren't quite as bad. They don't dig as deep and don't last as long. 

That's two months in.  And yes, it's a net positive for sure. 

I was expecting more.

The majority of lists of out there about the positive effects of giving up alcohol paint a pretty damn good picture.  You'll lose weight. You'll be happier. Your career will take off. Your relationships will grow. 

I read only yesterday that one blogger had yet to meet "a single person whose life got worse after drinking.  Everyone’s life improves — drastically," she wrote.  (Emphasis mine.)

Wow. Not one? Could I be the first? The pioneer? The exception to the rule? The anomaly among anomalies?

My experience so far is different from the ubiquitous life changing testimonials. The positive effects for me have been much, much more modest.

The skulls and bones, specter of death, and risk of loss are manageable and less severe. Alcohol has barbs on it. Without it, those things cut more mercifully and surgically.

But the roses. The beauty. The elegance. The mystery.  

Are they revealed, perhaps, only by navigating around the thorns?