Alcoholism, sobriety, recovery and Ryan's trip to Peru

This week, a return guest, Ryan Stober. Ryan and I sit down to discuss drinking too much and getting sober complete with a few embarrassing stories.

Ryan shares his struggle with alcohol starting in high school and carrying into his 40s. Ryan and I both quit drinking and reflect on the why and what of it all including what it’s like to be sober in social situations now that we put down the booze. Thank you to Ryan for his honesty and thoughtfulness on the subject.

Watch this episode on YouTube. Follow the show wherever you get your podcasts.

If you are trying to drink less or understand your relationship with alcohol, I encourage you to listen to Andrew Huberman’s podcast on the effects of alcohol on our body and brain. We’ve been misinformed about the toxicity of alcohol in our body and our lives.Huberman Lab: What Alcohol Does To Your Body Brain and Health

If you enjoyed this podcast, listen to Lindsay and Ryan’s conversation about being single over 40.

For impactful resources for individuals and families seeking recovery. Visit First Call.

If you are looking for treatment options, visit findtreatment.gov

An excerpt from my book Overthinking in Your UnderwearNow on Amazon. Chapter 11:Overthinking and Drinking

I’m not so much a high-functioning alcoholic as I am a low-functioning social drinker. Everyone has a different tolerance for alcohol and mine is painfully low. You could have two drinks and operate a forklift, and when I have two drinks, I can’t lift my fork. It’s something I had to come to terms with in my thirties. Shut’er down. Last call. Tab’s closed.

In high school, I have a swig here or a beer there, but I don’t do any heavyweight drinking until college. For an introvert who’s more comfortable with books than bars, alcohol is the antidote for the new sprint of social interactions. Pre-party shots roll into late-night “after bars” and you float on the fumes of Finlandia until morning. I often drink at whatever pace the night or my friend group demands. My hangovers are wicked and the blackouts, worse. Limits are never learned, and I carry that behavior with me as a graduation gift.

Out of college, I don’t drink as often, but when I do, my poor tolerance surges back like a recently tapped keg. After a handful of drinks, I struggle to remember the night before and the following day, I puzzle together memories like Guy Pearce with a stack of Polaroids. It’s terrifying, shameful, and embarrassing—even if nothing of note happens.

But one night something does. I am living in New York enjoying a typical night with friends. Cheers, drink, slur, repeat. I wake up the next morning with a gaping hole where half the night should live. The last thing I remember the sun has only started to dim, but my faculties are out like a light.

After that, it’s only pieces and pictures. The face of a man I don’t know leaning over me. The flare of a flashlight passing over my eyes like headlights on a highway. And pitch granite blackness. That was it. I can’t recall anything else. I speak to a friend who was with me the night before, and she assures me all is well. It was a fun, boozy night, and I left the group to look for a cab as the night ended. Now, I’m home safe, and I shouldn’t overthink it.

A few days later, my anxiety-hangover begins to wane, and I return to my apartment with an armful of groceries. As I head inside a neighbor stops me. She’s a young woman in her twenties who frequently sits outside smoking on our stoop. Before today, we’ve never exchanged more than a cordial head nod.

“Are you okay?” my neighbor asks.

“Oh, hi. Um, yeah, why?” I reply.

“You don't remember, do you?” she says. Nothing rushes back to me, but I know she’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.

“You were pretty out of it the other night,” my neighbor says, stomping her cigarette into the pavement.

“I came outside to smoke, and you were passed out in a cab. Driver was trying to wake you up, flashlight in the eye, the whole thing.” she continues.

I look at my feet.

“I showed him where you lived. We carried you to your apartment,” she says.

I mumble “thank you” or maybe “I’m sorry.”

If I’m being honest, I don’t know what I sai...