I used alcohol to help connect with other gay people. When I got sober, I had to re-learn how to be myself in queer spaces.

• I always thought I had to drink to be the life of the party and connect with other queer people.
• When I got sober, I had to relearn how to be myself in queer spaces.

Don't ask me why I said yes to a party at a gay bar in New York City on a random Friday night in June. It didn't make much sense: I had been sober for five years, and the bar was filled with bottles of vodka and tequila.

But I was determined to prove I was fun even if I didn't drink. What intimidated me most that Friday night was being perceived as a boring gay by the "twinks" who invited me. And there was a lot to prove; they knew every Ariana Grande song.

I got sober at 20 in the middle of my sophomore year at college. Yes, campus police finding me passed out after I attempted a break-in while dressed as Bugs Bunny may have been a sign that something was wrong. But what actually started me on the path of recovery was when I threw a cup of cranberry vodka on my ex's face.

Every time I drank, I didn't feel like myself. It was as if I were the queer cousin of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: Dr. Rectal and Mr. Pryde.

Even though I have been sober for some time now, I'm still learning how to be myself as I try to navigate what it means to be sober in queer spaces.

I always thought being queer and drinking went hand in hand

I was always desperate to be seen as the party animal. When I was younger, I took notes from the popular girls in high school. They had this magical ability to drink Malibu rum and pass AP bio. I had this magical ability to black out and make my dorm keys disappear.

But I held on to this forlorn identity despite the consequences of my addiction.

At the height of my drinking in college, I didn't know a lot of queer folks. But I had this imaginary pressure telling me that to be accepted by cool queer folks, I needed alcohol. Drinking felt necessary for becoming a full-fledged gay adult.

It became my crutch. All I wanted was to fit in, even if it meant becoming better friends with Andre Peach Moscato than other people.

At first, drinking was fun, but then it was fun with consequences. Then it was just consequences. Once I put down my crutch, I faced the fear of whether I would have fun ever again.

After getting sober, I found that I could still be a fun queer person — but the one who doesn't drink

I quickly learned that I could still be the fun person in a queer bar even without a drink — but I have new limits.

As it turns out, my sober engine can't handle being out until 4 a.m.; I run out of gas about 11 p.m. Trust me, I'll still talk to random daddies and force people to improvise choreography with me on the dance floor to Abba. I'm not boring.

I am a gay person who loves a good drag show and dances in bars that hopefully won't reach volcanic temperatures. If you dare me to pretend to be a French tourist on the dance floor, I'll absolutely do it.

But I reserve the right to send myself to bed.

Going out to shows and meeting other queer people have been a big part of growing up in New York City for me — and club soda has helped

Knights have their shields and armor; I have my cup of club soda. There is no greater gift to this world than flavored sparkling water. I may not crush beer cans anymore, but I sure as hell will crush a whole case of Bubly — if I'm afraid that the carbonation will make me explode via farp: a fart-burp.

If I decide to go to a pregame or even order something at the bar, I sometimes get questions about why I'm not drinking.

"I'm allergic," I periodically respond.

"How are you allergic to alcohol?" the occasional otter retorts.

"I break out into handcuffs," I say.

I typically get a laugh or a slow exit à la "The Office."

Otherwise, my little glass of club soda prevents people from asking questions. In my hand, I hold a force field where I used to hold kryptonite.

I'm here, I'm queer, and I don't need any more beer

I'm now six years sober. Each year feels like I'm learning something new. I still love going out, and I still love meeting and partying with other queer people. But recovery has given me permission to make boundaries.

That random party in June? I had a blast, met some great people, clutched my club soda, and went home at a reasonable time.

I never thought I'd see 21 — let alone 26. I never thought I could be queer and not drink. When I got sober, my first thought to myself was, "If I can't drink, then growing up is going to be so boring."

It has proved quite the opposite. I don't wake up with hangovers in the morning. I don't panic about where I was or whom I drunk-dialed the night before. In fact, I wake up to photos of my queer friends smoking cigarettes with hot guys outside a bar or recepits from late-night tacos.

Getting sober wasn't the end of my queer social life. It was just the beginning.