Mishka Shubaly

Where do I even begin with this guy?  I'm not sure how I heard of Mishka (dude--after all this time, I don't even know how the hell to pronounce your last name.  Shoe-buh-lee?)  But I did, and I found myself reading one of his Amazon Kindle singles on the plane trip home from Southern Cali (I miss you, California) in late 2013. 

All I could think was *Is this guy's writing playing the staring game with my soul?  'Cuz he gets me.*  

We became Facebook"friends" and Twitter"followers."  He's a damn busy guy--I mean, he's a SOBER modern-day renaissance man--writer, runner, musician, soon-to-be professor--so I'm honored and grateful and all that jazz (seriously!) that he's supporting my endeavors with the collective.  So, without further adieu, I give you, Sir Mishka's post he wrote for his website almost a year ago (reprinted with his permission, obvi).  Scroll down to the bottom (NOT UNTIL YOU FINISH READING THE BRILLIANCE BELOW) for an update on his life.

**

Five Years Sober

29 May 2014

'Twas the night before Mishka quit drinking...

'Twas the night before Mishka quit drinking...

I’m celebrating five years sober today.

The above picture was taken just before I quit drinking. I was at the end of a UK tour with Freshkills. I remember that I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open when this picture was taken, but I can’t recall much else.

In 2009, I lived in a run-down apartment right next to the BQE.

I drove a crappy little maroon Dodge Neon that was falling apart. I had bags under my eyes and a paunch. I had nothing resembling a real job or a steady income. My primary sources of income were working door at Piano’s one night a week (11pm to 4am from Saturday night to Sunday morning, not a particularly fun shift) and working off Craig’s List. I played in three bands: Freshkills, RIBS and Rumanian Buck.

I was comfortable in the knowledge that I had failed as a writer.

And now? I live in the same run-down apartment right next to the BQE.

I drive a crappy little maroon minivan that is falling apart. I have bags under my eyes and a paunch. I have nothing resembling a real job or a steady income.

And everything else is radically transformed. I haven’t had a job since 2011 because I haven’t had to. I own a little house in California.

It’s not just that I started writing again, I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams and became a bestselling author.  I still don’t write every day because I have shitty work habits, but I ought to write every day because people are actually waiting for works I’ve promised them.

My body looks almost exactly the same as it did when I quit drinking, but I know it’s different inside.

I can run. I didn’t just run a marathon, I ran a bunch of marathons, I ran marathons as training runs, I ran 2 marathons back-to-back, I ran a bunch of ultramarathons, the longest of which was 62 miles. It’s impossible to deny it: I’ve come a long way. And I have a long way to go.

I loved all three of the bands I played in in 2009, all three broke up, and all three broke up because of me.

Yeah, I’m sober and I have a pretty decent handle on the whole “not drinking” thing, but I’m still angry and depressed and resentful and irritable and insecure and self-loathing and anti-social and neurotic and detail-obsessed and high-strung.

Some of these were issues when I was a drunk and I’ve made improvement on them. Some of these flaws only got worse when I stopped drinking. And some are new. What’s the solution? I know if I had a couple of beers the next time I go out to a friend’s show, I’d have a much better time. I’d relax, I’d be able to connect with people better, I’d be funnier and more animated and less morose. And everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve would unravel, slowly at first, and then very quickly.

My only option is to stay the course. I need to try every day: try to relax, try to enjoy, try to be more patient, try to let go.

The smile says it all.

The smile says it all.

I say I’m “celebrating” five years sobriety but that strikes me as an odd choice of word. I’ve chosen a rocky path and I know I have more difficulties ahead: what’s to celebrate? And how do you “celebrate” sobriety—a tall glass of seltzer and a marathon of Law and Order: SVU?

This is how I understand my illness: there are two people inside of me.

One guy values his friends and family, still has a dream or two, is interested in the world and wants to do stuff: to engage, to participate, to express, to create. The other guy wants destroy the first guy, he wants a drink before even getting out of bed because fuck it and fuck you and fuck the world.

I’ve done a decent job of neutralizing the other guy these last five years.

It’s not always an epic battle of good and evil, usually it’s just a battle to find a matching pair of socks and get out of the house… but yeah, some days it is an epic battle of good and evil.

So I’ll celebrate this progress and celebrate the hard road ahead of me in a fitting way: by tackling the toughest ultra-marathon I’ve ever encountered.

The Peak Ultra in Pittsfield, Vermont is 53 miles of torture. I had trails of crusted blood down the back of my legs from the biting flies when I finished, and I started shaking uncontrollably not long after.

It took me nearly 14 hours to complete the first time I ran it 3 years ago and I swore I would never do it again. I’m going to do it again.

I know I’ll never totally defeat this other guy because, well, he is me. But I can show him who is in charge. I can grind him down, I can knock him back on his heels, I can wear him down, and I can make him suffer. Wish me luck.

**

Now closing in on six years of sobriety, not much has changed.

 I'm a little happier, a little more comfortable, and also a little more stressed as I'm finishing my first full-length memoir.  I welcome it all, the good and the bad, as I don't have any fantasy of living a perfect life or being a perfect person.  AA still holds no appeal to me.

 

My sobriety is my creation, and I own my sobriety the same way alcohol used to own me.

 

--Mishka Shubaly