A dear friend shared with me a description of quitting drinking that I absolutely love (sorry, she said she read it somewhere, and I don’t remember where – if you know the origin of this concept, can you drop it in comments?).

Drinking is like going to a house party where the house is starting to catch on fire. It’s a super fun party, and everyone is having a great time. You’ve partied there a bunch of times, and always love it. Then, one by one, people start sniffing the air and leaning over and saying, “Do you smell that? I think this house is on fire.” Being sensible people, they exit the house. 

But it’s the funnest party ever, so you stay. And you stay until the walls go up in flames, and you stay until the roof is ablaze, and you stay until you realize that if you don’t leave now, you will definitely die. So you run out of the house, where your sensible friends hope they will find you. They are relieved to see you.

You stand in the yard watching the house engulfed. You are sad this has happened to this fun house. You had a lot of good times there. You will miss the house. But you know you can never go back there. That house is absolutely gone. 

I do miss drinking, plenty. I’ve made good friends over drinks, I’ve had some epic nights, and I’ve made some great, if hazy, memories. I’ve turned to alcohol to celebrate, and to mourn. When I was contemplating giving up drinking, it felt like there was a lot to give up. If that feeling had continued into sobriety, I’m not sure I could have stayed clean.

But the feeling of giving something up was quickly eclipsed by the certainty that I had gained the whole rest of my life. Alcohol is a trickster, convincing you that the only way to have fun is in the party house. In actuality, there is fresh air outside of the party house, and the love of the people who were anxiously waiting for you to exit, and a night sky full of crazy stars. I would even say that the experience of watching the lively flames of the house, knowing you are not in it, is its own kind of joyful experience – I have appreciated where I came from, knowing that I made it out alive.

I know now that returning to drinking would be running back into that burning party house. Not only would I be putting myself in mortal danger – nearly all my friends have exited the house, and there’s hardly anyone left there to party with. I was one of the last to realize we were on fire. I didn’t want to leave the house because I knew I would miss the house. And I was right, I do miss the house. I do not miss the house enough to think it was a good idea to stay, not by a mile. 

There are a lot of recovering alcoholics who can’t look back with any fondness on experiences they had when they were drunk. This can be because the depths they finally reached were so bad, everything good or bad is completely soured, like a psychotic ex you wish you’d never met. This can be because looking back on the good times makes them want to return, and they know that’s a mistake. I can for sure reminisce about the good times drinking and smile. As Ken Middleton wrote in “Why It’s Okay to Remember Your Drinking Days with Fondness,” this can be a great model for the drinker who wants to quit but is afraid they will miss drinking: I quit without having to lose everything. I quit while I still thought it was real fun. I even miss it sometimes. But life sober is infinitely better than addicted life ever was, even taking into account all those fun times.

In fact, I am so much happier outside of that house that I’m running around to my friends (well, the internet) standing outside saying, “Do you see how that house is burning? I’m so glad I’m not in there!” You could even say I’m shouting from the outside to a few people still in there saying, “The house is burning! You need to leave!” I hope they can hear me. I hope they discover being out of the house is the gift of life itself, just like I’ve discovered.