Ask a Sober Oldster #36: John DeVore
"Before sobriety I was known as a 'happy drunk,' but that wasn’t the truth. I was, in fact, what I would call a 'reverse Pagliacci,' a visibly distraught depressive who cracked jokes."
This monthly interview series is a collaboration between Oldster Magazine and The Small Bow, A.J. Daulerio’s excellent newsletter and podcast about recovery and mental health, and appears in both newsletters. Learn more about this collaboration in this Oldster podcast/videocast episode.
John DeVore is a writer and editor. His debut memoir, Theatre Kids, came out in 2024. He’s written for Rolling Stone, Esquire, Food & Wine, and others. He writes the newsletter Advice For Men, about masculinity and mental health. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife and their one-eyed mutt.
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How old are you, and how long have you been in recovery?
I am 51 years old. I’ve been sober for 16 years. My last drink was on May 17, 2010.
How did you get there?
I ask myself that question every day. I have a couple of answers: the first is, “one day at a time.” I know that’s not wildly original. I try to resist self-help-y cliches in my writing and life, except when it comes to my sobriety; then I cannot resist them. There is no such thing as an overused, hokey piece of quotable, second-hand wisdom. It’s a journey, not a destination. Progress, not perfection. This too shall pass. Time takes time. Easy does it. I am sober because sixteen years ago I was suffering, and angry, and isolated, and I busied myself with pushing away those who cared about me (a shrinking circle of people at the time).
I made a big choice sixteen years ago, and since then, I have made thousands of smaller, daily choices, and so here I am. Previously, my life was measured in drinks and lies. My rock bottom was a deep, dark, cold hole that I sat in.
I have another answer, and I’m really going to try to keep my answers under two minutes. I am here because I did many things differently—and in some instances, the opposite of how I was living—and one of those things was that I started randomly calling people. Not texting. I wanted to hear their voices. Friends. Family. I’d just pick up the phone and invite them to lunch or a movie or a walk. Or to just talk: “How are you?” And, of course, I’ve learned how to answer that question, too. “I am okay” or “I am not okay” or “I just saw a poodle that made me laugh.” A phone call is a little candle.
I feel like my life didn’t start until I was 35 and sober, and every day since then has been a series of impossible challenges and also joy. Some days are a slog, others a knife fight. I’m not afraid of picking up a drink as much as I once was, but I’m afraid of seeking other forms of oblivion. I want to be there for my wife, my friends, and my brother. I find none of that easy.
What are the best things about being in recovery?
That I am alive and able to love myself, a little bit, and as a consequence of that love, I can show up for the people in my life who love me, and whom I love. Is that too simple? My sobriety is not simple; it can be a struggle depending on the day. But I am happier than I’ve ever been. I don’t feel like tearing my face off and throwing it at the wall like I used to. Even more importantly, I can be unhappy. I can be disappointed or frustrated or afraid and not feel like I should just say “fuck it” and burn the house down.
For years, I was in an “intimacy” group made up of men who had trouble communicating. I didn’t feel like I fit in until the therapist asked if I had trouble communicating with others, and I responded, “Yeah.” Everyone laughed. It was during the group that I was told “intimacy” and “safety” are the same thing, and that all deep, soulful, meaningful human connection springs from safety. I feel safe most days, especially when I listen to my wife breathing at night.
What’s hard about being in recovery?
So here’s what is hard for me: feelings. Emotions. Sadness and joy. It’s hard for me to listen to my mom, who is unwell, and to apply for jobs that never get back to me. It’s hard to be present, and to name my fears and hopes.
I feel like my life didn’t start until I was 35 and sober, and every day since then has been a series of impossible challenges and also joy. Some days are a slog, others a knife fight. I’m not afraid of picking up a drink as much as I once was, but I’m afraid of seeking other forms of oblivion. I want to be there for my wife, my friends, and my brother. I find none of that easy.
I am here because I did many things differently—and in some instances, the opposite of how I was living—and one of those things was that I started randomly calling people. Not texting. I wanted to hear their voices. Friends. Family. I’d just pick up the phone and invite them to lunch or a movie or a walk. Or to just talk: “How are you?” And, of course, I’ve learned how to answer that question, too. “I am okay” or “I am not okay” or “I just saw a poodle that made me laugh.” A phone call is a little candle.
How has your character changed? What’s better about you?
I am genuinely more positive. Not quite a Pollyanna. Here’s another cliché: I have an “attitude of gratitude.” Before sobriety, I was known as a “happy drunk,” but that wasn’t the truth. No one ever saw me fall apart. Curse myself. Sob in the shower. They never saw me scream at broken air conditioners or kick the sides of subway trains as they pulled away. I was not “happy.” I was, in fact, what I would call a “reverse Pagliacci,” a visibly distraught depressive who cracked jokes.
I am less angry now—less afraid—and as a consequence, not as despairing as I was when I drank. I had totally bought into the idea that my anger was my birthright. That men must project strength. Do not feel; get angry because anger is fear with boxing gloves. My temper was like the neck frills of lizards that puff out when threatened.
I remember a bill I received from the IRS many years ago. I was drinking quite heavily then, and prone to putting inconvenient financial requests in a drawer that I could then forget. This was a final bill from the government demanding thousands of dollars I had failed to pay. My response was to get angry. I got so angry I tore the bill in half with my bare hands, and I could not abracadabra it back together.
That pathetic display of power was all I had. In reality, I was terrified and ashamed and grief-stricken. I would eventually settle my debt, after many years, and I will reveal how I did it: I worked and sent a check every month. I had no other option. It’s not like I could have called the government and cussed until I was forgiven.
I also check my ego all the time. A friend of mine once described AA as an “ego deflation program.” I’ve always liked that. Sometimes I think “I’m the best at deflating my ego” and then I chuckle.
My sister, Wendy, died at the age of 46 in 2010, a few months after I quit drinking. I managed to put myself on a plane and help my mother with the funeral plans. Then I wrote her obituary. I spent weeks with my brother, just spending time with him, sometimes in silence. I did it all without a drop of booze. When my father died eight years prior, I drank myself inside out.
What do you still need to work on? What “character defects” do you still wrestle with?
Is “all of them” an answer? There are days when I still indulge in what an old therapist called “negative self-talk” and spiral a little about how I’m not doing “sobriety correctly.” I still get frustrated all the time, too: work, health insurance, family. I am also constantly struggling to maintain and fortify my personal boundaries, which, like my sobriety, is a daily grind. I have to tell myself often that boundaries are a form of self-love and that I should love myself.
What’s the best recovery memoir you’ve ever read? Tell us what you liked about it.
That’s a hard question to answer. The Big Book? That’s The Godfather of the entire genre, right? I don’t know if I have a favorite. I’ve read the classics, like David Carr’s Night of the Gun and Drinking: A Love Story by Caroline Knapp. I recently read Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir, All the Way to the River: Love, Loss, and Liberation, which I found chaotic and incredibly relatable. Oh, you know a good recovery book? Impossible People: A Completely Average Recovery Story by cartoonist/writer Julia Wertz. It’s really great. It’s not a recovery book, per se, but Melody Beattie’s Codependent No More has saved my sober ass many times.
One piece of sobriety writing that was meaningful to me was an essay Roger Ebert wrote on his blog way back in 2012 titled “My Name is Roger, and I’m an alcoholic,” where he admitted he was 28 years sober at the time. It’s a lovely essay that sparked some controversy because he wrote about his experiences in the rooms. I was still reeling at that point, dry but not sober, and Ebert’s essay was basically about how great it is to be sober. He writes about how much he loved bars and barflies and how AA meetings are full of those types of people. At that point, sobering up was deadly serious. And it is serious. But Ebert, movie critic and bon vivant, also argued that it’s the best thing you can do for yourself. And it can even be fun. It’s a famous essay, but it felt as if it were written only for me.
What are some memorable sober moments?
My sister, Wendy, died at the age of 46 in 2010, a few months after I quit drinking. It was a shock, and I still can’t believe it happened. I managed to put myself on a plane and help my mother with the funeral plans. Then I wrote her obituary. I spent weeks with my brother, just spending time with him, sometimes in silence. I did it all without a drop of booze. When my father died eight years prior, I drank myself inside out. There was a moment, a month or so after Wendy passed, when I had this clear thought: “If I can do this— face the death of my beautiful, funny, stubborn, generous sister—without dulling the pain with alcohol, I can do anything without it.” So far, so good. At least, for today.
That’s a sad memory, of course, but I’m proud I could be there for my family. That I was present, and that I felt it all, the sorrow and the weird little moments of grace that happen when people gather to mourn.
Do you know another memorable moment? My wedding, at the age of 49. A surprise at midlife. I never really thought I’d get married. That I’d meet someone who was funny, patient, and loving. I was forced to stand before dozens of people who knew me, wanted the best for me, and listened as I professed my love for Ryan, all of them grinning. Then I had to stand there when it was her turn. Next came the speeches, a small parade of family and friends, and new family and new friends wishing us all the happiness in the world. Finally, there was dancing. So much dancing. Dancing and laughing. The hora! Pink Pony Club! I was so sweaty. Drenched. And I was relieved to be sweating because then no one could tell that I was crying. I was happy. That would never have happened if I were still drinking.
I don’t know if I would have even made it to 49.
I practice an ancient form of meditation known as “talking to myself like a lunatic as I walk around Prospect Park in circles.” I also pray. My folks were religious; I am not. But I pray anyway. I ask Him, Her, or Them to watch over my wife, my dog, and my mom. I ask for patience. I am thankful, so I make sure the universe knows this.
Are you in therapy? On meds? Tell us about that.
I wrestled with antidepressants for many years, mostly out of fear of how I’d react and various social stigmas, but around 2022, I became extremely self-aware of my anxiety and embraced SSRIs, which turned into a journey of sorts. It was a big deal for me to admit that my mental health could benefit from medicine, as I held on to all sorts of prejudices about it. To sober up, I had to learn how to ask for help, and meds were a kind of help I didn’t want to accept. I could do it myself! That was, of course, my ego. I remember one old-timer, years earlier, militantly dismissing all pills, and I really connected with that. Thankfully, of course, there were other sober people in my life who gently suggested I suffered from more than just alcoholism and that I be open to other solutions.
The first SSRI I took flattened me. My primary care doctor, who prescribed it to me, was hilariously upbeat when I told him how awful it made me feel. “Let’s get you off it then!” That was easier said than done; SSRI withdrawals can be brutal. At the moment, I’m on an SNRI, which is slightly different; I think of it as Fresca versus, say, 7-UP. I take 10 mg in the A.M. and 15 mg at night. This medication slows my busy mind just enough.
What sort of activities or groups do you participate in to help your recovery? (i.e. swimming, 12-step, meditation, et cetera)
I practice an ancient form of meditation known as “talking to myself like a lunatic as I walk around Prospect Park in circles.”
I also pray. My folks were religious; I am not. But I pray anyway. I ask Him, Her, or Them to watch over my wife, my dog, and my mom. I ask for patience. I am thankful, so I make sure the universe knows this. I am thankful to be awake. I am thankful for the opportunity to accept responsibility for my words and actions. I am thankful for Eggos and The Criterion Channel, and my best friend Paul, who visited me from Los Angeles last week.
I had a sponsor once who always pushed me to find prayers that aren’t the famous Serenity Prayer, which is sort of the “Hotel California” of self-help prayers. It works. Anyway, I settled on another classic, the “Breton Fisherman’s Prayer,” which goes: “O God, thy sea is so great, and my boat is so small.”
I adore that prayer. My boat is small, but it carries everyone I love.
I’m stealing the fisherman’s prayer.
I am crying. This is so beautiful. And I think I'm going to have to borrow the fisherman's prayer. Thank you, John.