In September 2017 my husband and I bought a house which essentially needed bulldozing. The sizeable bungalow used to be a property filled with bedsits for lodgers and having failed to sell at auction (even property developers didn't want to touch the thing) we snapped it up as our 'forever home' project. Potential/location blah blah blah.
Having gutted half the house over Christmas and New Year we're now living in a sort of semi-finished shell with beautifully decorated rooms together with random stud walls and the unfortunate remains of the original squatters den. My dad calls the hallway toilet the 'Trainspotting bog', and yes it really is that vile. I assume he calls it that from its appearance in the movie however I imagine he's attempted to climb down it while wasted at some stage. Both my parents are heavy drinkers but my dad is a different breed entirely. The man drinks like a fish yet has never had a hangover in his life. A medical miracle defying the odds of science. A human cat with never ending lives. A total liability yet devastatingly lovable. A man who buys a limited edition Jaguar for his 60th yet doesn't have a pension.
So yes, the house is going to keep us occupied for a number of years as we don't have the money to do it all in one go but as of late we've had a burst of progress and I *finally* have a new room to decorate, hurrah!
This one is special too as it's going to be my very own space of serenity. For the first time in my life I will have a proper grown up office and I'm insanely excited about it.
The reason why I'm thankful for living in a tip is that it gives me something to do. Despite juggling a busy work and social life I am finding it incredibly hard to spend time at home and not drink. For so many years my home has been my refuge, my base camp, my hidey hole. A place for me to stash booze and guzzle as much of it as I liked - with no one watching and casting a judging eye.
Even when Rob and I would stay in and drink 'together' I was still able to put away more than he ever realised. In my final months of fuckwitery I had resorted to only buying white wine in green or brown bottles so that I could leave them half full in the fridge door...of water, not wine. Thing is I'd neck all the wine in one sitting - likely starting on a Tuesday - and top up the finished bottle so it would only look like I'd had two glasses. I'd then pour a little bit down the sink every other night until the weekend so I looked like a sensible, respectable and controlled drinker.
Rob only drinks beer and has always hated wine (he doesn't even like smelling it), so he never cottoned onto my brazen stunt which disguised the fact I was swigging from warm bottles I'd hid at the back of a disused cupboard Wednesday to Friday. He once queried where a jar of Moonshine (a novelty purchase from the States) had gone and I told him I was having a burn up of old wood in the garden and needed it for lighter fuel (OK Bear Grylls). In real life I had buried the bottle in the bin a few weeks prior as I found the 60% proof substance mixed very well with slimline tonic and got me sloshed very quickly.
I digress. But yeah, my home has always had my back when it comes to drinking. "Look, Em, a dark and disused cupboard that would be perfect for stashing a few bottles. Rob will never know!". If Blix, my inner booze demon, didn't live in my head he'd definitely be at home in the trainspotting loo.
So now the option to slump on the sofa with a larger than large glass of Sauvignon Blanc is no longer available I'm desperately trying to fill my time with distractions.
As I settle deeper into sobriety at 58 days sober I'm realising that my hands need to stay busy. Be it blogging, cleaning, eating (eeeesh, so much eating), I can't possibly let my hand rest on the fridge and reach for one of Rob's beers (they still occupy the entire lower chiller compartment and I'm considering asking him to banish them to the garage fridge as I find myself staring at them. A lot).
But now we have a new room to decorate and I'm buzzing. In February when I last decorated I hated every minute of it. The dust from sanding would get in my wine glass, the paint would clog up my nails which would look gross on a night out - gripped around my wine glass - and evenings spent doing DIY would inevitably chip in to pub time. Now it's a different story.
I can take my time over the sanding, ensuring the base coat is perfectly smooth and really drag out the fiddly yet therapeutic process - knowing every minute I spend focusing on improving my home is another side-step away from drunk old Em on the sofa.
Yes the house has a bloody long way to go but I'm so grateful it's giving me things to do as opposed to being perfect and clean and tempting to drink in. Don't get me wrong, I'd love for the bastard to be finished (!) but instead of viewing the renovations as an inconvenience I'm going to embrace them as a very welcome distraction from the wine witch.
And I can't think of anything better than squirrelling away in my cosy new nook - documenting my sobriety within freshly painted walls (I've always loved the smell) and googling countless stories about recovery and self-help (yes I am absolutely obsessed with other people's journeys and reading at the moment)!
Before we started to turn the room into an office it was an ex-lodgers manky wet room, covered in mould, damp and other horrific remnants that I'd rather not think about. Ewwww. The tiles would squish down into rotten floorboards as you stepped on them and the toilet was practically falling off the wall. If old drunk Em was a room in our house she would have been this wet room. Ruined by years of neglect and cracking under the slightest bit of pressure. State of her!
Now the space is being transformed into a haven of productivity and good energy at exactly the same time as I decide to go sober. Coincidence, non?! I think so :)
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