The thing I’ve basked in most since moving to Chicago from Columbus is the anonymity I have here. No one knows me in Chicago. I’m just one person in a crowd of many. One ant in the army, a pretzel in the party mix.
I know that’s unusual to say; don’t you want to be where everybody knows your name?
Well, therein lies our answer. I liked that no one knew me in Chicago because it made getting sober a lot easier. There were no expectations for who I was and how I would act.
No one in Ohio made me drink, of course, but it was hard to say no to “just one” when I had created the habit and reputation of being a party girl. I didn’t want to let anyone down, and you convince yourself you will by not drinking. At least when you’re a drunk. Codependency comes so easily for us!
I recognize that none of that matters and I what I needed to break through was why I had convinced myself I was Good Time Gina and couldn’t break free from that self-perpetuating idea. Nonetheless, moving to a new city was a relatively easy way to stack up some months of sobriety and then use them as the foundation for strength to even claw my way to that realization.
In Chicago, I didn’t care if anyone liked me. My move there wasn’t about them. It was about rehabbing a love and rehabbing myself.
Nearly a year and a half later, both of those things have come to fruition. No regrets, clearly, but I do find myself thinking sometimes, “Oh wow, I don’t really know anyone here except the person I came here for and the friends I met at work.”
That happens naturally as you get older. You settle in. Find one or two people who are worth your time and mostly just stick to them.
But I ain’t dead yet. And now that I know how and trust myself to hang out without wanting to drink, I’m ready to do it!
Getting myself to do that has proven difficult though. I think I’m an introvert who’s excellent at playing an extrovert. Which means, I make a lot of plans and never follow through. Then there’s that pesky monthly wave of depression.
Oh, and also, not being drunk means drunk conversations now bore the shit out of me. I want to talk the good stuff. Not share party stories. I’m so bad at small talk now.
So imagine our surprise and, really, glee, when last Saturday Justin and I went out for an all-you-can-eat sushi date (gross in theory, delicious in reality) and found that a pair of our friends already had the same idea.
While we put our name in for a table, we heard our names being called from another one. We’d been “planning” double dates with this pair for as long as I’ve been living in Chicago, but we had yet to make it happen.
“Come sit with us!” they waved.
I think our first instinct was to politely decline and say something about not wanting to interrupt their date–or ours. I’m glad we did nothing of the sort. For the first time since I’ve moved here, it was really nice to not feel anonymous.
There was wine and gin on the table, BYOB, but I didn’t want any of it. I didn’t even think about it being there until we were out the door and on our separate ways, enveloped by the Chicago night. Alcohol finally appears to me in the way I think healthy drinkers see it: As secondary to the party as the food. It’s awesome when it’s there, but it’s not necessary.
Is this what coming out of a self-imposed hibernation feels like? I’m finally warming up to the city’s flesh and bone inhabitants, de-thawing into a wonderfully vulnerable little puddle that wants people to come and play.
As we shared dinner, sushi and stories, we discovered both of our date nights had been stalled in various ways to put us here, in the same obscure restaurant, at the same strange time, in a city where more than 2.7 million people could be roaming about.
What are the chances?
Here’s to no longer asking questions like that.
And saying yes more often with follow-through, no matter how shaky I feel.
Thanks for the kick in the pants, universe. And also for the sushi.
