I Lied About My Sobriety Date

Dave Frank

Chief Content Officer

I have two sobriety dates: my first one, and my second. Truth be told, I don’t actually remember the exact date of either.My first date was the day I declared myself sober, and my intention to stay that way. I couldn’t tell you exactly when it was, but I remember it was around January or February... maybe? A something-teenth of April, I believe.

I dedicated so much time, effort, and energy into “getting sober.” I went to meetings, I participated in events, I worked the steps of my program, and I spent a LOT of time with my sponsor. As far as I was concerned, I would never go back to a life that hurt me. Shortly after, I relapsed. Pure and simple. “Then-me” would have had a really long explanation for how it was or wasn’t a relapse, but it was—especially if the qualification for a relapse is abandonment of your choice to be sober mentally, which it was.

I eventually came to the conclusion that I would fake it and pretend nothing had happened. I would keep my original sobriety date, keep going to meetings, keep hanging out with my sponsor, keep working my steps, and tell everyone how happy I was that my sobriety date was the something-teenth of something.

But it didn’t stay like that. For years before sobriety, I never did anything to completion, to the best of my ability, or with complete honesty. And now, the thing that was supposed to be “making a new me” was also on that list of cut corners and deceptions. Most things outside of sobriety I was perfectly willing to just let be that way, but I had tasted something true and pure—and I hated the idea of lying about it.

There was a lot of bargaining in my mind on how to keep my original date. “Maybe if I sneak into the meeting room before or after anyone is there, I can erase my old sobriety date, put my new one, and no one will notice when it’s time to celebrate my anniversary! ”Yes, that was a legitimate thought I had.  I would rather burgle my sobriety date out of a little book for a 8 person AA meeting than be honest in saying that I fucked up.

I couldn’t do it. But what I could do was tell my sponsor. I told him about what happened, and that I didn’t really consider it a relapse—just a one-off. It shouldn’t be any issue moving forward; I just wanted him to know. I planned on keeping my original sobriety date, but I thought it was important that he knew about this.(Can you hear the self-righteous thinking yet?

All he said was, “Okay.”“...Okay?”

“Okay. If you think that’s what’s best, go with that.”

He knew what he did. That little seed he planted grew into doubt about my own half-assed attempt to turn a lie into the truth—and it worked. It wasn’t long before I realized how ridiculous this all sounded. And instead of working on how to keep my sobriety date the same, I worked on trying to figure out why the hell I cared so much.

I figured it out. Because in my mind, relapse was failure. If I couldn’t go into recovery knowing it would stick, it just meant this was all another failure on my end to do something right. How am I supposed to be an inspiration to others in recovery if I can’t even do my own recovery right? How will others with MORE sobriety than me take me seriously if I can’t even make it a whole year?

Numbers. High scores. Self-image. Winning. It was all a flurry of the most un-sober thoughts I could possibly have—surrounding the one thing that was supposed to be keeping me from being like this. In my attempt to not be the person I used to be, I used all the tools that person would have used. Damn it.

Eventually, I came to terms with it and worked on setting things right. I changed my date in the sobriety books (in three different meetings) in front of everyone. I shared the experience in detail at meetings. I was open with friends and family. It felt good. It felt right.

You know what the biggest discovery was during this process? How many other people had also relapsed. People I admired. People I looked up to in my circles of sobriety. People who, I felt, had a MUCH better grasp on living sober than I did. In fact, if I had been paying more attention to their stories instead of how I told my own, I probably would have realized they’d discussed it on numerous occasions.

That’s what happens when you focus on yourself too much—you miss the things right in front of you.

Since then, some of my greatest role models in sobriety have shared their stories of struggle and imperfection. Many have told me they appreciated hearing how someone can still find a path to sobriety, even after making mistakes.

That was what I missed: the importance of truth in your story. The entire idea of being able to heal and recover in a community is only as strong as the belief that it’s possible. If every single person around me had a perfect recovery, I might never have had one myself. Maybe they wouldn’t have recovered either without seeing examples they could relate to.

I have a new sobriety date. It’s in June? July? Somewhere around there. Another something-teenth, I think. Truth be told, I don’t really know—or care—at this point.

I spent a long time trying to get a high score in a game that doesn’t keep count. If I am sober and happy and honest about my story today, I have won.

Your story is exactly as it should be. It’s been built, brick by brick, from the influences around you—and it will influence others in the future. Someone out there needs to hear your story as it is, because someone’s story is already just like yours.

I have two sobriety dates, and I don’t know either of them exactly. But I know my story, inside and out. That is a victory you cannot quantify.

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