This isn’t a New Year’s resolution, nor is it just another snobbish dry February. It’s the climax of a much longer process.

I quit drinking.

Thinking back, I realize it probably started almost a quarter of a century ago. Back in high school, I volunteered with a local animal protection group. Our leader was a straight-edge devotee—or at least that’s how we all saw him. As a hardcore/punk fan, I was drawn to everything connected to the scene. I was fascinated by the underground missionaries preaching strict autonomous living. But of course, I was drinking and smoking like everyone else. That’s not an excuse—just a fact.

Things only got worse at university, where I eagerly adopted the romantic pose of a decadent artist. My teachers, many of whom clung to the fantasy that creativity requires self-destruction through promiscuity and alcohol, encouraged this mindset.

I’m not moralizing here, just being realistic: if you grow up in Czechia, become a fan of alternative and underground culture, and then decide to study film, it’s almost inevitable that you absorb all the obsolete romantic myths. You desperately want to act like an outcast, maybe to hide the fact that you’re actually privileged (as every university student here is, since the educational system still faithfully reproduces social inequalities).

And yet, the ghost of my straight-edge role model never quite left me. I vividly remember how his courage to renounce all drugs and promiscuity confronted the snobbish quasi-artistic pose I had surrendered to. That memory was burned under my skin—always ready to resurface when I least expected it. How could someone live such a morally radical life when everything around us pushed in the opposite direction?

Thirteen years ago, after surgery and an incurable diagnosis, my life changed profoundly—or at least it did for a few years, when I avoided alcohol and cigarettes. But at the first major life crisis, I slipped back into old habits. Like Nietzsche’s eternal return, combined with yet another health diagnosis—this time a mental health one.

I smoked my last cigarette six years ago. That’s not such a long time, but I’m proud that I’ve managed to fully engage with the art world without indulging in this stylish, almost obligatory addiction. I know there’s no such thing as an ex-smoker—only smokers on the wagon. With alcohol, I suspect it’s the same. But thankfully, times are changing. Not drinking and not smoking is becoming more normal, even among artists.

In recent years, I’ve met many inspiring people—great artists—who are abstainers. That old straight-edge scar under my skin started to ache again. And then, this winter, I got another warning from my doctors. They didn’t even mention alcohol specifically, but suddenly, everything clicked into place. It felt like a sign I could finally read—better yet, a sign I could see soberly.

So, I quit drinking, just like I quit smoking years ago. I’ve chosen sobriety as my creative path—not only for health reasons but also as a kind of subversive act. I hope this decision can bring me some inspiration for my ongoing meditations on autonomy. Maybe, it can even help me be here for others and become a better human being.

Right now, I’m translating Towards a Less Fucked Up World by Nick Riotfag for our art magazine, Dílo. No coincidence, of course. It’s just more proof that the hypodermic mark left by my high school activist leader is still there, sticking out. In the text, Riotfag reminds us of a painfully obvious truth: alcohol helps sustain the sexist and patriarchal culture we live in.

He wrote:
“It makes perfect sense that intoxication would be linked with masculinity. Intoxication often reduces the ability of people to empathize with others—an integral part of being an oppressor.”

I don’t know how this new experiment will turn out, but so far, I recommend everyone to pause and think about the connection between oppression and anesthesia. It’s a completely new angle for someone who grew up in a nation so proud of being fucked up all the time.