Nearly eight years ago, my physician lit into me at my annual physical. Like, finger-wagging-head-shaking laid into me. He was using a tone I’d never heard. And everything he said had this slow-burn cadence to it. “It is inconceivable to me that you have somehow put on 59.5 pounds over this past year. That takes effort. That’s five pounds a month, Michael,” he admonished. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but it needs to stop.”

What I was doing was guzzling an entire bottle of wine every night after work.

By myself.

Alone.

(And if we’re being honest, towards the end of the year, it was more like a bottle and a half of chardonnay before bed.)

So, I harumphed out of his office and did what any chastised drinker would do. I pouted, went home, crawled in bed, and proceeded to go on a three-day bender.

By myself.

Alone.

When I emerged from my slovenly, sweaty cocoon, I then did what any self-respecting gay man would do. I immediately burned my sheets and duvet and proceeded to order expensive new ones.

And then I vowed never to drink again.

Ask any alcoholic, that never works—

—except when it does.

I’m living proof.

After my epiphany, I confided in a friend that I was a hungover, hot mess. (And by confided, I mean, emotionally vomited upon. That blathering phone call is seared in my brain.) That friend—who was also in recovery—said something so profound to me that day that I will never forget it. “The key to recovery is three simple words. Just. Don’t. Drink.” he said. “It sounds so basic, so rudimentary. But it’s saved my life I don’t know how many times. When you drink, bad things happen. So, your goal, moving forward is—say it with me—‘Just. Don’t. Drink.’”

If I’ve said this three-word life mantra once, I’ve said it thousands of times.

If I’ve shared this three-word life mantra once, I’ve shared it thousands of times.

I started writing—openly and candidly—about my sobriety and ongoing struggles. For me, it was solely for catharsis and to keep myself honest and accountable.

And, then a funny thing happened. My sober journey (and subsequent musings) had a weird ripple effect. Friends, Romans, countrymen started reaching out and picking my brain. Many would ask if I thought they had a problem. “If you have to ask, you have a problem,” was my pat answer. (Sorry, I’m not big into coddling. Sue me.)

I started walking acquaintances into their first AA meetings. I would send two to three “Hey, checking in …” texts per day. I furiously started praying for people I barely knew who were newly sober. (Uh, I’m not a religious person.)

And if got triggered or thought about slipping, I’d write about it. Warts and all. Did I sometimes regret writing about it? Yup. Many of my postings on social media were hyper-personal and left me reeling and feeling vulnerable. (Nausea = the weirdest truth serum.)

Looking back, they were some of the best things I’ve ever written in a public forum. They resonated with people who found themselves on the same strugglebus I was riding. Heck, Lisa Gutierrez at the Kansas City Star even wrote about my ongoing near-misses and meltdowns.

Last month—which was ironically National Recovery Month—a friend of mine sent me this text message:

“365 days ago, I was lost, scared, hopeless and very sick. My life was falling apart and I couldn’t talk to my wife, daughter, or mother about my problems. But I could talk to you, and your words 1,000 percent kept my head above water. I will forever be grateful for your presence in my life and in this world. Thank you for your persistence, encouragement, and support. Love you, buddy!”

Y’all, I lost it. I ugly-cried. I ugly-Oprah-cried.

It meant “Just. Don’t. Drink.” became someone else’s battle cry. And it saved their life.

Words matter. So does being honest with yourself.

While I’m not sure how/when/why I became an accidental sober whisperer, I’m glad my oft-rambling missives continue to make a difference. As the holidays loom, I’m forever reminded that my sobriety still hangs by a thread and I need to continue to be mindful every day.

Sobriety ain’t always pretty, but it’s always, always, always better than any alternative.

Trust and believe …

… and … just. don’t. drink.