Put me in a room with a truly regulated person, and I'll apologize for existing within four minutes.
I mean, I'm S.O.B.E.R., not sober—there's a massive difference.
To me, Capital-S Sober means you drink herbal tea, process childhood trauma in a sunlit room with a therapist who costs more than my rent, and own house plants that aren't currently crisping to death on a windowsill.
S.O.B.E.R.—Somehow Operating, Barely Emotionally Regulated. It means you didn't drink, but you may have cussed someone out in traffic, you've glued your shoes back together for the third time this week, and under your ADHD hood, it's just two raccoons fighting over a bagel.
So what? S.O.B.E.R. is a million times better than being drunk and loaded. Perfect was never the goal anyway. There is real happiness, peace, and healing in my S.O.B.R.I.E.T.Y.—and I'm completely okay with that.
