Thirty days sober.
Thirty more to go…
The thought sits heavy on my chest as I swing my legs over the side of the bed and plant my feet on the cool tile. My body feels different from the way it did a month ago. It’s less swollen and sluggish. The tremor in my hands that haunted me during the first few days here—a shaking so violent I had to grip the edge of the sink just to steady myself—has faded completely. My eyes don’t look empty when I catch my reflection in the mirror. The grief is still there, but I’m beginning to recognize myself again.
Physically, I feel stronger. Emotionally, I’m a bundle of exposed nerves. It wasn’t a surprise. They warned me about this in my first group sessions, when I could barely sit still, my skin felt too tight for my body, and my thoughts were ricocheting inside my skull non-stop. They told me that alcohol wasn’t just numbing cravings, it was numbing everything.Once it’s gone, you’re going to feel all of it.They weren’t wrong. Everything is sharper, from the birds outside my window to the scent of disinfectant in the hallway to the ache in my chest that never leaves.
Thirty days sober means a month of not being able to dull the edges of that emptiness; I have had to live fully aware that Rosie is gone.
I shower, letting the water run hot enough to scald my skin as steam curls around the bathroom and fogs the mirror. With my hands braced against the tile, I close my eyes and let the water drum over the back of my neck as I think about how thrilled she would be of the number thirty. She loved milestones and celebrating progress, and probably would’ve baked me a lopsided cake to mark the occasion. The thought of what I’m missing and making her proudcauses my throat to tighten, and I turn off the water before I can spiral.
After breakfast and morning check-in, I head down the hall toward Dr. Patel’s office for our weekly one-on-one appointment. Sunlight streams through the wide windows that line this side of the building. Dr. Patel’s office door is slightly ajar when I reach it. I knock lightly before pushing it open further.
“Come in, Easton.” Her voice is soft but steady.
After stepping inside, I shut the door behind me. Her office doesn’t feel clinical, not in the way I expected it to when I first got here. A slightly worn bookshelf runs along one wall. The other holds a couple of framed prints of abstract blues and greens, and a small plant rests on the windowsill.
I take a seat in one of the chairs near the window as she takes the other. Lacing my fingers together, I twist them anxiously as I brace my forearms on my thighs.
“Thirty days today,” Dr. Patel shares with a small smile.
“Yeah.” I dip my chin.
“How does that feel?”
I draw in a deep breath and exhale it slowly. “Like I climbed halfway up a mountain and just realized there’s another peak before I can reach the summit.”
She tilts her head slightly. “That’s honest.”
“I don’t know whether that’s supposed to be a good or bad thing.”
“It’s real, Easton. And real feelings are what we’re working with.”
I shift in my seat, and my knee bounces before I manage to force it to still.
We’ve spent the last month talking about triggers, routines, and how I used alcohol in a futile attempt to manage my grief after Rosie’s death instead of actually dealing with losing her. Lately, that focus has narrowed, but it still circles back to her.
“To maintain your sobriety outside this center,” Dr. Patel adds, folding her hands in her lap, “you’re going to have to face your grief directly. Not manage it. Not suppress it. Actually face it.”
My jaw tightens. “I am facing it.”
“Are you?”
I open my mouth to argue, but close it just as quickly. The truth is: I’ve been surviving it, barely enduring it. I acknowledge it in controlled environments—therapy rooms and group counseling sessions—and am forced to let it consume me late at night when the lights are off, and there’s nowhere left to run. But facing it? No, I’m not.
“That’s what the drinking was for,” she opines gently. “To avoid the gravity of what you have lost. Now that the alcohol is gone, the grief is going to demand your attention. If you don’t learn how to process it, how to cope with it, the torment will pull you back to what numbed it before.”Maybe a handful more peaks before that summit…“We’ve talked a few times about Rosie’s journal and how important it is to you. Can you tell me why?”
I stare at the floor for a moment, my eyes tracing the faint pattern in the carpet before finally answering her. “It sounds silly, but reading her deepest thoughts… It’s like I still have her. Like I can still talk to her.”
“That doesn’t sound silly at all.” I glance up, surprised, as Dr. Patel’s expression softens. “I actually think it might be helpful.”
“Helpful?” I repeat, my brows crinkling in confusion. “How?”
She leans back slightly in her chair. “You’ve described the journal as a lifeline. A way to feel connected to Rosie. That connection doesn’t have to be one-sided.”
“I… I don’t understand.”
“I want you to use it to talk to her. She wrote to you sometimes,” Dr. Patel continues. “You’ve told me there are entries addressed to you. Things she couldn’t or didn’t know how to say out loud.”
