Checking in at eight months sober

It's been longer than usual since my last post. I was contemplating attributing the delay to a busy work/interviewing schedule...or social goings on that were distracting me from writing.

Truth is I haven't felt the need to write. I created the blog to help me through the tough times - a space that I could offload to, anonymously, and without judgement or embarrassment. An illuminated screen I could admit my secret (and quite obvious) drinking problems to without the need to justify, explain or apologise.

Since returning from Mexico at the end of February I've ticked off some pretty big life moments. One of my best friends got married - which was lovely albeit hugely stressful. I met her at university so the day doubled up as a reunion of eight of my funniest and booziest friends. Although one of them took a serious dislike to my sobriety and decided to hound me about it for the whole day. I'm not kidding - 2.00 p.m. until 1.00 a.m.

It was fine, and I think other people were getting more annoyed than me having to put up with the repetitive statements and belittling throw-aways. Yes it did my head in, but I feel like I've been sober for long enough now to simply block out the dross. Not that I experience it often, and actually this guy was the first to take issue with me being sober, but I genuinely couldn't have been less bothered about his opinion.

It didn't come as a big surprise though. He's the wind up of the group and has been spectacularly annoying for years, so I anticipated my sobriety fuelling the majority of his acid-tongued jibes.

The wedding was on March 2nd, and the following day I turned 32. So I've had a birthday since my last post which was blissfully different and lovely. Last year Rob organised an overnight stay at a luxury spa and I remember travelling to the hotel hungover and full of headache. When we arrived in the afternoon he proudly revealed he had booked me a facial before dinner - I love facials - but instead of being excited I actually thought 'shit, I reek of booze and need to try and get rid of the smell.'

After the beautician worked her magic she commented on my skin being dry and puffy - an obvious side effect from too much drinking. I playfully combated her feedback with 'it's my birthday and it's been a heavy few days, lol!' No, Em, your skin was shit because you had a drinking problem. Honestly, it was so shit. Spotty, blotchy and swollen. The lady doing my facial was being beyond polite with just 'dry' and 'puffy'.

So this year I enjoyed a very civilised lunch with my husband, mum, brother and nieces, something I would never have agreed to as a drinker. 'An afternoon shindig with kids.?!...For my birthday? Boring and not boozy enough!' would have been my typical response. It was amazing though, and after my brother left to take the girls home my mum, Rob and I went to the bar to carry on the conversation.

She actually asked about my booze-free birthday (as I've never enjoyed one sober) which was nice. I shared some insight into my life without drink and people seemed to be listening. My mum even congratulated me and said she thought I was amazing which again...nice. The only comments I'd previously received from her were ones of judgement and surprise. 'Oh, you were drinking that much. Oh dear, that's no good Em.'

And it's true! When you drink - no judgement at all. But when you quit...oh boy. Prepare to be labelled an alcoholic and called all sorts of things. When you get rid of your drinking problem you immediately appear to 'have one' for some reason. It's crazy!

I've checked my Nomo app today and I'm 249 days sober. Over eight months in and really feeling like this is...me. This is the life I should have been living a long, long time ago. Yes there's been a couple of annoying moments over the past few weeks but I genuinely feel like something has clicked.

I'd love to be someone who bashes out beautifully inspiring insight and posts that go viral every other day but I'm just not like that. I do feel like I've neglected the blog a little as of late, but it's not here to add pressure or nag my day-to-day existence. Getting through life is hard enough without feeling like 'shit, I need to write something funny or my followers will begin to hate and leave me!'

What I'm trying to say is that today is the day where I want to talk and recap on hitting the eight month sober mark - which I am beyond BEYOND proud of as is my husband. Rob completed Dry Jan with ease, so much so he extended it to Dry Feb and had his first drink of 2019 at my friends wedding on March 2nd.

I've never asked him to cut down or not drink in front of me. There was a time during the early stages, I think around the three month mark, where I was contemplating asking him to move the beers from the indoor fridge to the outside one due to my excessive gawping at them.

I never had to as they just didn't bother me after a while, but actually now I've stopped to think about it he has really cut down. He told me the other day that he no longer says 'Em isn't drinking at the moment'. He now says 'Em doesn't drink'. It was so funny watching him tell me - he seemed really proud and I think finds the whole thing very novel! There are so many reasons why I feel lucky to have Rob, but his whole-hearted support of me quitting booze will mean more to me than he will ever know.    

So despite the job hunt still persisting I'm feeling OK and more 'with it' since my last post. Some days can be riddled with stress and others are just a breeze. There are so many 'black cloud' moments in sobriety and you've just got to dig your heels in and wait for the buggers to pass. Trust me, I never thought I'd hit three months sober, let alone eight, yet here we are :) More challenges to come I'm sure but for now...eight feels absolutely sodding great.

Mexico complete. Job hunt continues. I'm exhausted.

A few days ago I landed back at Gatwick after a week in the Mexico sunshine with four girlfriends. I realised on the train home it was the first time (in what felt like forever) that I was on my own and could properly reflect on the experience.

To avoid the length of this post spiralling into orbit I thought it best to summarise my experience in a short, concise sentence, as it turns out surviving an all inclusive trip to Cancun was/is the least of my worries.

In short, I smashed it. Over seven months sober and not even one tiny desire to get back on the booze. Even when I accidentally took a sip from my friend's vodka-fuelled diet coke (despite the barman reassuring me it was only a diet coke as I ordered) I momentarily freaked but regained control and took myself home. I didn't stay and think, 'fuck it, I've had a taste now let's get back on it' which is absolutely what the old Em would have done and did do on countless occasions. I became upset, understandably, and quickly started to hate the environment I had put myself in. So I left, went back to the hotel and was asleep by the time the rest of my mates fell through the door steamed out of their heads.

It was a brilliant week and a major challenge overcome, but now I'm home I've realised my anxiety is through the roof. Now more than ever I want a drink.

It's strange, because in Mexico my desire to drink was zero despite being constantly surrounded by alcohol and drunk people. But now, home, and back at my desk, I'm realising that one of my most hated triggers has resurfaced and is driving me mad with worry.

For the past three years I've run my own events company but essentially operated as a freelance consultant within that period. I don't employ anyone else, it's just me, and it's been that way since I left my old PR agency in 2016. 

I love what I do but at the moment I'm not bringing in enough money working for clients on a retainer basis, and given we'll be re-mortgaging our house this September to raise money to complete the renovation it's really important my earnings are good. And by good I mean at least triple what I'm paying myself now. 

So I've made the decision to go back into full-time permanent employment and make the company dormant. I thought I'd be more down about it but actually I'm a little relieved. Running a business is really tough and I couldn't be more over living off a shitty wage. Plus with Brexit and the recent uncertainty of the British economy people are simply tightening their belts. And yep, in my line of work a glamourous event or well thought-out PR campaign is certainly a disposable thing.

I've been on the job hunt since November so for essentially three months now and have had four interviews. The first I got down to the final two and they decided to give the job to the other person as they had industry experience I just couldn't compete with. The second two I hated and wouldn't have accepted even if I was offered (which I wasn't in the end). And the fourth. Well, that happened yesterday and is the sole reason for me wanting to dive head first into a beer bottle. 

It's because I absolutely loved the interview, loved the company and can really see myself doing well in this job. I told myself to not get too 'emotionally attached' but it's difficult not to when you're so into something. I'm a huge obsesser and have been my whole life. In love, clothing, food...and previously booze. If I'm craving something I need to scratch the itch otherwise I'll drive myself crazy. Em want. Em have. Ug.  

So yeah. The interview. 24 hours have passed and I've received an email from my recruitment agent saying her client has one more interview to conduct on Thursday then he'll be making his decision Friday/Monday. Great. I am literally going to have the week from hell until I hear.

I really want this job but given the above I'm convinced I now won't get it. If they felt the way I do about them surely they'd bin off the final candidate and offer me the job right now? Or maybe there's someone they prefer already and I'm not even in the running?

Argh. The interviewing game is horrific. And what is the one thing I used to do when the going got tough at the office? Have a huge, fat glass of wine. 

Typically I'd arrange to meet a girlfriend, usually Sam, and would pummel a pack of 20 while guzzling vino after vino to try and suppress the stress. Obviously a great move at the time but this behaviour would often lead to a stinking mid-week hangover and depression worse than death. 

So today, Tuesday, two days until Thursday when someone else may or may not steal my dream bloody job, I'm thinking about the taste of wine and how the first few sips seemed to make everything else just seem....better.

I hate that I feel this way but I need to write about this. I'm fully consumed with black clouds and my thoughts are occupied entirely by drink. My chest feels like it's being crushed and exploding all at the same time. 

The reason I've worked myself up so much about this job is because it really is perfect. Good pay, great location, amazing travel prospects and really well-suited to my skill set. I know there's a chance I could still be offered the position but lets look at the facts: They're seeing another candidate which to me translates as they're either shit hot on paper or the company is seeking more than what I can offer. and two. I've been rejected three times before and it'll probably happen again. My interview is going to be eclipsed by some freak unicorn candidate and I'll be back to square one. 

And square one is terrifying because I'm simply running out of time to source a job that I can grow to love, which pays well and that I've done for six months minimum (including any jarring probation periods) before producing my pay slips to the bank for our re-mortgage. I just don't think I'll find something that tops this role if I don't get it.

But as I've said, the above factors make me feel a lot less confident about being offered the position so I need to get my head back in gear and begin to rationalise my options. Or should I say option, singular, which is to dust myself off and start all over again.

And despite my booze demon, Blix, begging me to have a drink to make the pain and torment disappear I know it won't fix anything. Even if there was the guarantee of 'sip this and you'll get the job'... would I do it....? Probably not. As it would simply be the beginning of the end again.    

I am a firm believer that everything happens for a reason so we'll wait and see. I really, really pray that some good news lands soon though. These black clouds are all consuming and I really *really* need some light to break through. 

My biggest worry right now? A girls' trip to Mexico in 10 days...

So I know I've alluded to this on a few occasions now but with 10 days to go I need to get this weight off my chest. Or at least try.

Roughly eight months ago and before I quit drinking, my friends and I decided to book an all inclusive trip to Mexico to celebrate one of my best friends getting married. We're throwing her an official hen party in London this Saturday but wanted something a little more...extra.

We managed to get a great all inclusive deal at one of Cancun's most popular 'group' hotels and I can't quite believe we fly next Saturday. I'm obviously looking forward to the holiday but so much has changed since we booked.

Firstly, the trip is less than a month away from my friend's wedding and I'm a bridesmaid. The dress is super tight and really unforgiving so forget the standard all inclusive food blowouts and week-long grazing. I'll have to stick to the fresh fish and salads to keep on track with the size eight bridal diet!

And secondly, and my more pressing concern, is my drinking. Or lack of. Aside from spending a week in Majorca with my husband in July this will be the first time I have undertaken a 'proper' long-haul holiday sober. It's not a secret, my friends know I haven't been drinking, but really? One week in Mexico - all inclusive and fuelled by booze - am I actually going to cope with this one?

The way I'm feeling now reminds me of two previous occasions where panic took over and I couldn't think of anything else except failure. Getting off the plane in Majorca and realising I was stepping into something completely new and unknown (i.e. my first sober holiday with Rob) and secondly, my recent trip to Jersey when I was verging on a panic attack from the thought of meeting an old friend for drinks yet they didn't know I'd given up drinking.

Both occasions turned out to be OK, I didn't die, but it seems I've got no better at compartmentalising my fear and stamping out my inner booze voice. Blix is in full swing this week - back with a vengeance after a seemingly dormant couple of months. 'Em, just driiiiink! You'll be in Mexico and everyone will be drinking except you! They will think you're so boring! You will have the worst time!'

These words have been on repeat in my head since the turn of the New Year when Mexico hype started to increase in our group chat. At one stage I even had to ask my friend to stop asking me if I was going to drink. She felt really bad and apologised, but then I felt even worse for asking her to stop asking me! Stupid really, but I couldn't bare another booze-related question fired at me.

I get it though, because before I quit drinking I was exactly that person. For example for my hen party back in 2015 nine of us flew to Vegas for five nights. It was incredible, however one of my friends was five months pregnant and I was constantly worried about her enjoyment levels. I genuinely couldn't understand her wanting to come if she couldn't have a drink? What was the point in doing Vegas if you're not going to have a drink? That's what I thought all day everyday.

And how sad is that? Because now I realise she came because she loved me, and she was/is my friend, and wanted to come on my hen party and enjoy Vegas just as much as everyone else. Sure, there were a few occasions where she called it an early night, but seriously - I couldn't believe just how brilliant she was looking back. At the time I just cared about being able to drink and no other thoughts crossed my mind. I know it was my hen do but still. I was there but completely absent minded - story of my life.

So Mexico. Less than two weeks. Next Saturday. 10 days away. Eeep. The other day I started to Google the hotel facilities as I became freaked out about the concept of no gym as I've been told solo road running in Mexico isn't exactly a safe thing to do, obvs. Turns out the gym overlooks the beach and has a selection of treadmills, cross trainers and weights to keep me busy. This is good news as I love a fresh start and early morning gym session on holiday. I know there are people out there that will think I'm absolutely insane saying that, but waking up in a hot country with nothing to do except exercise, swim and tan hugely appeals to me.

So I guess this is part of my Mexican sober mission, focus on the balmy early mornings and crashing waves while working out. One of my favourite bloggers, Girl and Tonic aka @laurievmcallister, was holding a Q&A on her Instagram the other day and I asked her for advice on tackling the trip six months sober. She reminded me that I'm sober for me because it's the right thing for me, and to of course get stuck into the amazing freshly-made alcohol-free cocktails.

Her advice helped me to remember that yes, I have made the decision to be sober because alcohol literally ruins my life, but I think my game plan needs to extend beyond mocktail hopping. I'm secretly hoping my friends will want to talk about my non-drinking as I'm prepared more than ever to discuss the reasons behind my decision to quit alcohol.

A lot of them know I've been over booze for some time, but out of the girlfriends I'm going to Mexico with only one of them knows the extent of my drinking habits. Perhaps it will come up in conversation, perhaps it wont, but at least I feel a lot more prepared (and comfortable) talking about my sobriety now.

Plan of attack? I'm thinking one day at a time. Or #ODAAT as coined by social media. It really is the only approach as over thinking it will get me nowhere. Actually it will probably bring me back to the verge of full-scale breakdown and we know (from Majorca and Jersey experiences) that this isn't a fun place to be by any means.

I guess sobriety is a constant work in progress, and even though I'll hit my seven months alcohol-free anniversary the day before we fly I'm still very aware of the traps I could easily fall into. A part of me still wants to consider getting on board with the girls, sinking multiple Coronas and countless cocktails and fags like the good 'ol days. But where will that scenario actually take me? I'll just end up getting wasted, won't be able to make it through the night, will go to bed early and wake up with a raging hangover and will actually want to die. The failure and disappointment would kill me.

So that is the thought I'll be keeping in my mind as I make it through one day at a time - the sliding door alternative universe. The hell hole that is a life with booze. And if I do it and decide to drink I wont be able to leave my decision making behind in Mexico. Oh no. I'll bring that demon on the plane home with me and I'll find myself back at square one. Back at sober day one in a dark, damp, rainy UK. It simply can't happen.

Since writing this post I actually feel better about the whole situation knowing I have a small yet significant plan of attack. And if I'm getting tetchy I'll just go for a swim...apparently the hotel boasts the longest swimming pool in Cancun at a quarter of a mile long. I'm pretty sure swimming the length of that will help me to forget about the grog.

Day 200 - Finding my voice

Yesterday I hit 200 consecutive days of sobriety. I didn't make a huge deal of it, I just checked into Nomo whilst lying in bed with the hubby and gleefully showed him. 'Look Rob, 200 days without a drink, what do you reckon?' He squeezed me and told me he was proud, then within five minutes was troll-snoring in my ear and disrupting my serene celebration-for-one.

It's taken a good 24 hours, but my achievement has only really started to sink in. Bloody hell, 200 days! Me! Moi!

Looking back, my first month of quitting drinking feels strange and so long ago (even though some days feel like I quit only last week). Despite everyone thinking I was entertaining a brief detox I knew that this time was the beginning of something permanent. My whole attitude towards drinking had shifted and I couldn't bare to let alcohol control my life anymore.

As the months progressed I didn't talk about my sobriety, ever. And still to this day most of my close friends and family (even my husband) don't know the true extent of my disastrous relationship with drink. I know what you're thinking, if Em was that bad how did her hubby fail to notice her dependence? Why wasn't there ever an intervention? 

The truth is my hubby told me all the time to cut back on booze but I used to shrug off the remarks and keep up the bad behaviour. I was never an aggressive drunk, but I often drank myself into a trance-like state and would regularly wake up with zero recollection of half the night. I wouldn't change my behaviour in front of Rob either. If anything I drank more as he was usually the one buying the drinks and I knew he'd be there to carry me home. Strong look. Nights spent with friends over good food were the worst too. A license to inhale bottle after bottle of red wine until black.

I did well to keep my struggle a secret for so long, but a part of me just thought my coping mechanism was normal. I'm legally allowed to buy alcohol, everyone drinks and turning into a slurring zombie is just part of the privilege, right?

Towards the end I was hiding much of my mid-week consumption from Rob and my friends (as I've mentioned previously) as I knew it wasn't 'normal' anymore. Out of sight cupboard sips and burying bottles deep into the bin became 'my thing' within the last three months of boozing. It was the only way I could take the edge off without drawing attention to my dependence. I'd do it and wouldn't think twice. Everyone drinks at home, what I'm doing is fine. 

Luckily I woke up to the fact that alcohol wasn't, and isn't, OK, and on July 8th 2018 I threw my hands in the air and shouted 'bollocks to it, I'm done' - literally - as I was going through the hangover from hell on a bus replacement service back from the heaviest hen weekend of my life.

Since that day the obstacles have been constant but I've found the whole process as rewarding as it has been difficult. Actually no, the benefits far outweigh the negatives but I have to be realistic and say there have been some tough-as-shit days where I've just wanted to curl up into a tiny ball and plop myself into a magnum of champagne.

But one thing I have noticed about hitting 200 days is the increased...bravery (?) I'm feeling when discussing my sobriety. For example, I've been invited to a weekend-long hen party in March and on the Sunday I'm entered into the Reading Half Marathon. I did consider quitting as the getaway is for one of my closest friends - but running and hockey are helping hugely with my recovery and I'm worried that if I start cancelling plans that are good for me I'll quickly slip back into old naughty habits (and drinking).

So I messaged my friend and explained that I wasn't leaving the party early just 'for some race', but because my new routine needs to take priority and if it doesn't I'm scared that something bad will happen. And that's the absolute truth. I'm petrified of my old ways creeping back in despite my zero-tolerance-to-booze approach. I thought about keeping the message brief but I decided to share more than I have done before - letting her know that I've had to change my lifestyle dramatically for the sake of my health, and that booze-fuelled events are difficult and sometimes I need to leave early. She sent me the nicest message back and was chuffed I was going for one night let alone two.

It's in situations like this I realise that I allow my sobriety to be much more stressful than it absolutely needs to be, and 100% of the time I'm secretly freaking out about what other people will think of me if they find out how deep-rooted my booze issues are. Maybe it's hot gossip behind closed doors, maybe it's not....who knows and actually who cares? (OK I do). But seriously, why do people still act so sodding surprised when people become dependant and addicted to booze when its rammed down our necks all the effing time?

Sleek, sexy, martini-drinking, mini-dress dancing party fun times? Gimme! Yep, bit of me. Lets drink alcohol, we'll look turbo cool and feel fit AF. Tough week? Yes Tesco, I do need that special offer litre of vodka to take the edge off. Every little helps? Damn right, I'll help myself to that.

Nah. Not anymore. Years of drinking booze has affected me in ways the advertising companies will never promote. And over time it's wormed its way into my bloodstream and convinced me on almost every occasion that life isn't worth doing unless alcohol is involved. Christening? Where's the after party? Wedding? Gimme cocktail hour. Standard Tuesday night? Let's spice this up with a vino! Re.lent.less.

People with drinking problems aren't homeless. People with drinking problems aren't strewn across park benches covered in urine. People with drinking problems ARE PEOPLE WHO SUFFER FROM THE SAVAGE EFFECTS OF BASTARD ALCOHOL. Sorry for going a bit shouty there, but at 200 days I kind of feel like I need to be.

It's taken a while, but I'm starting to feel OK about discussing my long-term intentions. I guess it's because I mainly feel that six months sober is a serious achievement - and actually in the early days I was petrified of failing and chucking in the towel. No one took my abstinence seriously. They all thought it was a mini-health protest soon to be eclipsed by an epic session on the grog. And that's fine. Because that's what happened countless times before.

My booziest friend helped me quit

Six months into sobriety and I'm regularly being told by my husband that my willpower is amazing and how proud of me his is. To be honest I think abstaining from drinking has little to do with willpower...it's simply a result of booze turning me into a creature from the deep, and I don't want to be that monster any more.

But something significant happened to me before I decided to call time on my disastrous relationship with alcohol, and that was one of my best and booziest friends, Sam, moving away. I've wanted to write about this experience for a while but whenever I put some thought into the subject I end up daydreaming about our fun times - always bolstered by booze and fags - and begin to wonder what it would be like to just do it again.

Some of the best memories I hold are attached to Sam and drinking. Late night raving in my living room to Haim, 2.00 p.m. sauvignon blanc sessions down our local. We lived within walking distance of each other and were/still are child free, so our (abundant) spare time revolved around spontaneous drinking, dirty all dayers and boozy couples' date nights.

Last March she surprised me with an amazing day out in London for my birthday, and I remember laughing hysterically at our first drink landing at 3.00 p.m. We thought we were so sophisticated having brunch and visiting a museum first before diving into beer. We then got on it and drank solidly until 1.00 a.m. - with neither of us remembering the 1hr 15m train journey home.

So when Sam announced that she and her hubby we're moving to Canada for two years in June 2018 I lost it. Well, not literally, but I sort of went into mourning. My best drinking bud is leaving me - How the hell am I going to cope? We often joked about how great our separation would be for our livers, but back then I didn't care. I relied heavily on Sam for the good times and I knew I'd be lost without her.

But roughly two weeks after she left town I had the hen do in Brighton which was the event that called time on my drinking, and without even realising, my quest for sobriety was suddenly fair game. When I mentioned to Rob I was going to 'take a break' from booze he immediately quipped 'well Sam leaving the country will be a massive help!' And he was right. I'm not sure if I would have taken quitting seriously if Sam was still in reach.

Thinking more about the whole situation, I don't think Sam will ever realise (unless she reads this which is unlikely as no one knows my blog exists!) how much her departure has helped/saved me. You see Sam and I were the same, we loved drinking, loved drunk smoking and because we had each other it was something we could do all the time. But because of this - and the love that we had for each others company - I don't think we ever realised just how much damage we were doing to our bodies.

And on top of Sam, and when she wasn't available, there were other friends I'd meet for boozy smokey fun times too -so the cycle, as always, was seemingly endless.

I'm not sure how different life would be now if Sam hadn't moved away. I do wonder about it often, and if my sober intentions would have been laughed at and thrown out months ago. The thing with Sam is that she would have hated my decision to go sober but would have supported me all the way. Maybe she would have joined me for a while? Actually no, stamina has never been her strong point. In truth... I don't think I would have even considered sobriety if Sam was still on tap.

So what about people who want to quit booze but their Sam equivalent isn't conveniently moving over 3,000 miles away? I can't say I have any recommendations, but what I do know is the time I spent away from doing the things I used to do has hugely helped my recovery. I'm not saying bin off your amazing friends and live as a hermit, but maybe if you've tried to give up alcohol and the same behaviour/people are your repeat reason for caving then maybe it's time to sit a few plays out.

I know everyone's journeys are different, but during the early days of my sobriety I felt an increased strength as the days and months amassed. It's like you accrue energy and determination with every new sober day banked. I still use an app called Nomo which is such a simple way to check in and count your days - I'd recommend it to anyone who, like me, responds well to continuous streaks and visual aids.

Just being able to see '193 days' sober is a huge incentive.

Sam knows I've given up booze, it isn't a secret, but like many of my friends and family I think she believes that it's just a phase I'm going through. We talk all the time, but every now and again she slips in a question about my non-drinking which I find increasingly funny. I know she's quietly freaking out.

About three weeks ago Rob and I booked our summer holiday and we've decided to road trip up the West Coast of America late-June and then fly to Canada for five nights to spend time with Sam and her other half. As a four we get on really well, so it's going to be an insanely fun trip that will conclude approximately six days before my one year sober anniversary.

Perhaps my final major test? Who knows. But I'm excited to spend time with Sam and for once remember everything we get up to.

January: The month of belonging

My first sober January has been truly fascinating and we're only 15 days in so far.

Now that the gluttony and over-doing-it of December is old news, my friends and family all seem to be turning their attention to Dry Jan, detoxing and general low key-ness. Cue my big excited smiley face, hovering above them like the Teletubbies sun baby. A seasoned expert on all that is great and good about sobriety and quickly ushering everyone through to my secret little sober club.

THIS is Sober Symposium, come and join the party!

OK, so I'm getting a bit carried away. But I really feel quite pumped about this typically dark and hated month as my loved ones continue to turn to me for advice and guidance. I know the bubble will burst as soon as February lands, so for now I'm riding the wave and revelling in this warm and fuzzy sense of belonging.

You see, January (for me) is a very cleansing month and always has been - even more so when I drank myself into oblivion. Last year I was absolutely on my knees come Christmas Day from countless benders and booze-induced chain smoking, and by New Years eve the husband and I were in a taxi home just after midnight as I was a rancid combination of sick and hungover. I didn't know if I was more of one thing than the other, but I struggled to keep the 12.00 a.m. Champagne toast down and wanted nothing more than to curl up and die.

The arrival of January 2018 was a relief but I was riddled with pain and anxiety. I'd really overdone it (by my standards - eeesh) and started the year feeling like shit, but finally I'd made it. I'd arrived at the detox door and was banging hard to be let in.

It's weird looking back. My decision making was always governed, no - dominated, by alcohol. It was top of the priority tree and every branch that stemmed from its poisoned trunk grew as a defeated after thought. Every decision I made outside of work (and many times within it) started with 'well I'll want to have a drink so...'.

But January was different. It gave me a snippet of hope that I could be a better version of myself and I always bought into the idea. However as booze was my default reward for good behaviour I'd quickly slip back into my old drinking ways once I'd sweated out the last of the festive hangover. I'd tell myself that I'd done the right thing by having one or two weeks off the grog and then stupidly supplement my reduced food intake with 'good' alcohol calories. 'That's it, I'm being healthy and only drinking clear spirts with slimline tonic until further notice' would be my favourite New Year announcement. A Caesar salad and chaser of gin - seemed a perfectly healthy approach in my eyes.

If only I knew what January, and every other month, could feel like if I'd removed alcohol from the equation sooner. Every half-arsed attempt at swimming to the surface would end with booze dragging me back down to the depths of despair. And I really was in despair, so never will I sit here and give myself a hard time over not realising the errors of my ways a little earlier on. I was spellbound by the stuff without even knowing it, and that's exactly what alcohol does. Blink once and 15 years of socially acceptable alcohol abuse will rocket by. You're in the trap without realising (Allen Carr's Stop Drinking Now book explains this theory more).

So January 2019, how do I feel? In comparison to previous years I feel good, like I'm in the right place, but still mindful of the fact I'm new to sobriety. Six months is an amazing achievement (whoop) but I do think about alcohol all the time and have some huge social events approaching that will require my undivided strength. Like my all inclusive week in Mexico on February 9th. I'm trying not to think about it otherwise my stomach flutters will get worse and I'll be on the floor in a ball of panic before I've even left for the airport. Although I can't help but think about it... you get the picture!

But anyway, back to the title of this post and my new sense of belonging. I was babysitting for my nieces on Saturday and my brother commented on how I look like someone who hasn't had a drink in six months. I laughed and asked him to expand, and he said 'I don't know, you've just got this glow'. Chuffed by his comments I started to think about the other January 'goings on' that have been solely attached to my sobriety.

My husband has decided to join me in non-drinking and has committed to Dry Jan, although he's running a half marathon late-February and has said he has every intention to continue his efforts until this point. I really hope he can make it this far although I know, as booze is his reward at the end of the month, he may well be inclined to throw in the towel once alcohol is back on the table. It's exactly what I used to do. I'm loving him off it though and I think he is too. Our weekly food shops now incorporate tonnes of interesting alcohol-free concoctions (as he's in the excited and novel 'buy everything' stage) and he's adamant he's not missing it... but I think the fact that his mates are all in hiding too is massively helping.

It's actually one thing I'd majorly recommend if you want to quit drinking but don't know where or how to start. I made sure that the first month of my sobriety was as plan-free as possible, and if anything in the diary made me feel worried or nervous I'd simply cancel/reschedule/hide. True, I didn't help myself by going on holiday 40-odd days into sobriety (however that all worked out fine! - couple of posts about it here) but as this was something I was doing with just my husband I was able to control the situation a lot more. A boozy get together in a pub with mates within the first few months of quitting just wasn't a possibility for me.

I think it's all about identifying your triggers which for many come in the form of party-animal mates (I will talk about this more at some stage) or certain locations/activities - like dropping in at your local on a Saturday or hosting a wine-fuelled dinner party at home (my old fave). I read somewhere (and I think it's a well-known quote) that you can't heal in the same environment that poisoned you. Or words to that effect.

I really feel this summarises sobriety quite well - how would I ever have saved myself from drowning if I kept putting my head under water? It's absolutely OK to remove yourself from situations that no longer feel safe. It's by no means a permanent solution either (I'm now much more comfortable in restaurants and pubs than I was when I first quit) but if it is, who cares? Taking yourself away from the danger is key - it got me through the early days and my friends are still my friends. Nobody died as a result of me staying home.

And for many of my friends who are doing Dry Jan, and even those who aren't, my 191 days of consecutive non-drinking is quite a fascinating talking point. I'm not sure why, but for some reason I just feel like January is a good month to discuss my experience of quitting - but really talk about it, you know? I'm not expecting this month to revolutionise the way in which my friends and family drink, but if anything I think my general openness to talk about abstaining from booze is falling on ears that are actually tuned in and listening.

Sobriety can sometimes feel like a very lonely and isolated place, and just when I was starting to feel like maybe I should just drink in Mexico to be fun and feel included, January reminds me that not drinking is a thing, it's my thing, and a week on the piss in Latin America just isn't worth it.

Six months sober!

I couldn't think of anything clever or cryptic to write for the title of this post so I just went with the crazy truth that I've hit six months alcohol free today! Writing this down and saying it out loud baffles me...it really does.

The summer months leading up to my decision to quit booze seem so long ago but like they happened only yesterday. The 2.00 a.m. benders chugging whatever I could get my hands on until black. Bunking off work for lie-ins that would surpass midday, and once surfaced my eyes could barely handle the soft noon light peeping through my bedroom blinds. Countless 'do you remember what you did last night' comments from my husband, which would send shooting pains of anxiety straight to my heart and make me hate myself for days. Pathetic drunk conversations. Wasted money. Burnt lungs from chain smoking. Embarrassing bloodshot zombie eyes covered in smudged black eyeliner and eye bogies. Clothes bursting at the seams (literally) due to excessive weight gain.

Turning 31 in March 2018 seemed to mark the beginning of the end of me. It was roughly four months before I decided to give up alcohol and I was in a terribly dark place. All of the above fuelled by drink after drink after drink eventually took it's toll, and I was knackered. Haggard, sad and knackered. I've touched on it lightly before, but I will never refer to myself as an alcoholic as I just don't feel it represents me or my situation accurately. But I do know that I was dependent on booze and it had me tight within its grip. So tight toward the final stages that I was absolutely verging on a mental breakdown.

When I sat down and took stock of all that was great and good in my life I realised it was all being affected, hindered and suffocated by alcohol. Why had I been tolerating this beast for so long? Why was I letting it wreck me without doing anything about it? If I cut myself I'll grab a plaster to ease the pain and heal the wound. Yet torture and suffering from drink? I'll just accommodate the swine, glug more and do nothing to patch up the damage.

The drunk-now-sober authors I've read often refer to booze as having a bad partner in their life, that they desperately want to kick out of bed but are still head over heels in love with - despite the constant abuse and shaming. I can understand how having a relationship like this with alcohol must be exhausting, but for me it was literally like a bomb exploded. A switch just flicked that made me say you know what, enough's enough. This isn't working for me any more. Once I had identified the cause of my pain it was an easy decision for me to kick the bastard out.

I can't encourage you enough to do the same if you're fed up with how alcohol is making you feel. Taking the power back is the best thing I have ever done, period.

So six months on. Where am I now? Long story short I'm in a really good place. Yes there have been some hugely difficult moments attached to abstaining which are detailed (and will continue to be talked about) on the blog, but aside from the mental and physical battles I've faced with my booze demon, Blix (literally. After an open bottle of white wine was left in our fridge after Christmas Day I grabbed it and went to take a swig but stopped mid trance, screamed and poured it down the sink. It was a tough day), I feel incredible.

There has been a seismic shift in my physical appearance which I'll talk about first. Yes I know this blog is still very anonymous (I promise I'll muster the courage to out my features one day!) but I can't express enough just how GOOD being alcohol free makes you look. Before I started to address exercise, I noticed so many improvements just from binning the booze. My eyes became brighter, my face seemed to deflate and the unsightly red blotches and spots I used to get at the tops of my arms disappeared pretty much instantly.

When I started to exercise and re-introduce sport in August 2018, roughly six weeks into sobriety, my body started to transform. I was a keen runner even as a drinker, but I seemed to be injured a lot and could never crack sub-nine minute miles at my very best pace. Since picking up hockey again which I play twice a week, and maintaining a running schedule which sees me run a minimum of 3.1 miles five days a week (now at eight minute miles, yay!), I'm managing to build muscle, tone everything, and for the first time this morning I looked in the mirror and thought yep, I'm pretty happy with this. A HUGE moment for me.

Before I quit booze I used to stare vacantly at my reflection and cover up the bumps with baggy jumpers and uncomfortably tight jeans. After absorbing the disappointment I'd then start to feel ashamed about the soft bits. I'd punish myself by not eating yet sink over half a bottle of wine a night and then allow the pizza and chocolate and carbs as a reward for being 'good' that day. In the build up to Christmas 2017 Rob made a comment about me wearing the same pair of trousers over and over again, and that he'd take me shopping for some new clothes if I desperately needed. I was so embarrassed (!) and at the risk of sounding like Regina George from mean girls they were genuinely the only thing that fit me back then. I didn't eat properly for a week and managed to shoe horn myself back into my black pair of skinnies as punishment. The cycle was endless.

I'm yet to stand on the scales, but when I weighed myself before I quit drinking I'd hit 10 stone. For the whole 5ft 3in of me it's the heaviest I've ever been. A weight I used to cry at. I will do the weigh in soon (end of Jan is marked!) but I'm pretty sure I may be edging back towards my wedding weight (which was 8st 5lbs) which is an exciting thought. I felt amazing then and I'm starting to feel amazing now....sobriety really is an incredible thing.

I have to be honest and say the mental side effects haven't been as noticeable as the physical improvements but I've always been quite a strong-minded person. Despite becoming increasingly depressed on hangover days I've always managed to put in a shift at work and remain happy with my life, yet for others the mental benefits of sobriety far outweigh the physical. For me it's definitely the other way round, but one thing I will say is the clarity is unbeatable. Just waking up on a Saturday morning to a fresh head and supple limbs is enough to make me never want to drink again. And wanting to crack on and be productive with my time as opposed to diarising hangover days and doing absolutely shit all is nothing short of life giving!

If someone would have asked me seven months ago 'fancy giving up booze forever?' I would have laughed in their face, genuinely! I used to pity the tee-totallers I'd meet, especially those who actively chose not to drink instead of giving it up for health or addiction reasons. What a bunch of losers! Who would actively choose stone-cold soberness over technicolour party fun times?!

Truth is the past six months have been the happiest and healthiest I've ever experienced. And looking back it was just the booze talking. I wasn't happy or enjoying myself before I quit. The only part of drinking I enjoyed was the feeling from the first one or two, the instant relief a couple of sips of wine would provide after a heavy day or stressful few hours. I'd never stop there though. I'd then hit drink three which would induce cigarette cravings, and then drink five which would increase my volume levels and arrogance, then drink eight which would slur my speech and make my eyes flicker. Anything after that would be black. And that, my friends, was the torturous monotony of my drinking.

The way I relax now is simply through me time. Unpolluted, fresh-air me time. I no longer need a glass or two to 'take the edge off', as my edge fell straight off as soon as I packed in the grog. I feel more calm, together and just generally more...zen! It's the only word I can use to describe it. Finishing a bottle of wine before bed and waking up with a stinking hangover gives me the shivers now, and if I can bin the bad stuff well in my eyes, anyone can.

In one month's time, and the day after I turn seven months sober, I'll be on a flight to Mexico with four girlfriends - Cancun bound for a week of all inclusive hen do madness. I haven't thought about it much but I am, in truth, starting to feel a tiny bit apprehensive about the whole thing. My aim for the rest of Jan is to write as many positive stories about my sobriety as I can, and no doubt recap on some face melting moments, to help me prepare for what will be my biggest challenge yet. I feel strong, but remain realistic to the fact that my triggers could one day get the better of me if I become complacent at any time.

Right here though, on the 8th of Jan, six months sober feels absolutely epic and who knows where the year will take me. 2019 I'm ready for you.

Anywhere else but here

Quick panicky post.

I'm currently sat in the lobby of the Hotel de France in Jersey and I'm nervous. Nervous that I'm in another country (technically, although it still feels like home) and all I can think about is alcohol.

I flew over this morning to spend time with a client and we had a really successful meeting. Job done. But the second half of the day is about to start and this is where it gets a little more stressful.

One of my very good friends lives in St Aubins and she's collecting me at 2.00 p.m. to journey back to hers where we'll spend the day together before heading out for dinner. I'm catching the 7.00 a.m. flight back to Gatwick tomorrow morning and I'm looking forward to spending some quality time with one of my bezos (not Jeff).

The downside though, is that I haven't stopped thinking about alcohol since I arrived at the airport at 5.30 a.m. And the reason is because I haven't yet been to an airport sober. As I was walking through departures I felt a sense of...holiday. You know the one, make it through security Em and jump in the nearest bar. It's an airport, they were invented for crack of sparrows-boozing! Look, everyone's doing it!  

As I made my way to the first floor of duty free I spotted two ghosts of ready-to-fly Em. The first was with all her friends pre-holiday - cackling and guzzingly Coronas in the musty surrounding of spoons - en route to a girls' long weekend in the sunshine. The second ghoul was quieter. My solo traveller-shadow tucked away in the corner, pretending my glass of Sauvignon Blanc was absolutely acceptable before 6.00 a.m. My airport attendance, for business or pleasure, always revolved around departure lounge boozing. 

So as I sat in Starbucks lovingly clutching my matcha almond milk latte I became restless. And frustrated. And aggy. I hadn't actually prepared for the airport feels and it started to piss me off. I can't put into words why... but waves of regret mixed with hysterical apprehension started to wash over me.

Sure I could make it to midday without having a drink, why wouldn't I, but for the love of GOD I wish my brain would stop defaulting to holiday mode:

1) You're at an airport Em. Have a drink, go on. You used to do it all the time and never had any issues.

2) You're going to be in another country and meeting up with gorgeous fun-loving Abbie who you used to drink champagne with all the time. No one at home will know. Go on, let you hair down.

My mind chatter was/is killing me.

So I have a choice.

1) Drink and become a drinker again. And not hit five months sober which is due to land on Saturday, 8th December (TWO DAYS).

2) Take a deep fucking breath, protect my sobriety and have the balls to say I'm not drinking.

It's days like today which make me realise that I'm still weak and entirely vulnerable, and that my non-drinking rationale is very much dictated by the situations I'm in and the boundaries of familiarity.

It's becoming a common theme. First-time sober happenings - like my being at the airport without drinking and now meeting up with an old friend overseas - is really pushing my self control to the limit.

My body isn't craving booze, but my mind is going bonkers for it.

I'm going to shut my laptop and attempt 15 minutes of meditation in the middle of the bloody lobby. Why not. I've been doing a lot of reading on mindfulness and how just a tiny bit of 'time-out' can resolve even the most scattiest of brain bitching.

I've given it a go for the past two mornings and have no idea if I'm doing it right, but I'm hoping a subdued period of concentrating on my breathing can calm me the eff down.

I just want to fly home now :(

Taking back the power

Last week (and in my previous post) I discussed a work event I had approaching. A swanky works do up in London which in 2017 saw me drink the bar dry and chug my way through a pack of 20.

This year would have been the first time I tackled the party sober (having attended for the past three years) but to my (initial) disappointment my fear of alcohol kept me indoors. First time its happened since I quit in July.

I should have made the journey. I really should have. But the scale of this event teamed with my above-average anxiety made me follow my intuition and send a sick note (email) instead. Bad liar, I know, but the situation would have been too intense and right now I can't be dealing with unnecessary pressure.

The event was on Thursday, so naturally on Friday morning I gave myself a hard time. Really ticked off that my confidence was low, I mentally and quite literally kicked myself for letting alcohol get the better of me. This was a big-time invitation, Em. You should have showed up and made an effort, shit head.

I did the math though, and the odds were seriously crap. 

1). There was no way I could drive. Central London + rush hour = bullshit so I would have taken the train. My designated driver safety blanket left at home. No bat mobile to whisk me away from danger. 

2). I didn't have a plus one. So I would have been on my own. And my previous coping mechanism was multiple trips to the bar to look busy. So this would have been very unfamiliar and stressful territory. 

3). In the past this event has served ultra premium drinks including Crystal. So yeah...

4). My guard just felt down. And there was absolutely nothing telling me I could attend this event and execute it sober. Every bone in my body is loving sobriety but there are traps and hazards everywhere. If I take my eye off the ball just once it could smack me in the face and break my nose. I know this. And this event had warning signs all over it. 

So in addition to the 'what-to-wear' moans and 'ooh-the-weather's-bad-which-will-give-me-shit-hair' grumbles I decided to follow my (now considerably flatter) gut and stay indoors.

And yes, the self-loathing lingered for roughly two days but you know what? I actually feel the opposite of weak now. I said no. And for me that's a huge deal.

There would never, EVER, have been a time that drinking Em said no. The promise of a free bar? Sign me the hell up! Attending solo? No one judging me - lets get shit faced!

But this time I took a step back. I listened to my booze demon, Blix, begging me to attend and treat myself to 'just one festive drink without anyone knowing' and I duly absorbed the chatter. I then calmly and systematically identified the danger. I pictured Blix giggling and laying booby traps eagerly awaiting my arrival. Then, as the hours ticked by and his nervous vulnerable victim didn't show, he sulked enormously and got booted out by security for not showing a valid invitation.

Here's what matters: alcohol is no longer making my decisions for me and the above is proof of that. At first I felt like booze had won in this situation, but in reality it got lambasted with reason and sense and go fuck yourself-ness.  

And who cares if I'm off the guest list for next year? I did what was categorically right for me now. If I would have showed up my attendance would have been solely for the benefit of others and the evening could have gone horribly wrong as a result of my needs coming second. 

Putting my needs first in sobriety is vitally important and I feel it's a big contributor to my success rate. By doing so I'm ensuring my odds of reaching tomorrow morning sober far outweigh the odds of landing on day one again.

Cheers to saying non! Merci beaucoup.   

A time for reflection

This time last year I was in town at an event pumped with complimentary champagne. The celebration was at London's Natural History Museum and I didn't have a plus one, so the only way to survive the evening was to turn up tipsy and leave drunk, without (hopefully) making a tit of myself. Take full advantage of the free Champagne, Em, obviously.

There's no real 'oh my God' scandal with this story but I've been thinking about it a lot recently so decided to share my thoughts. I guess it's because of just how different I am, a year on and almost five months sober.

In truth I thought I was living the dream. Invited to a highly exclusive event to drink the finest fizz and sample world class cuisine? Bit of me! But underneath the excited and slightly nervous exterior was an addict preparing for lift off.

A) I was alone, no plus one. Despite feeling slightly on edge about this I turned it into a positive. No one to keep track of the drinks I was putting away. I could chug as many as I wanted without receiving judgment or rudely out-drinking my counterpart. Big plus.

B) I could buy a fresh packet of cigarettes and smoke as many as I liked. This would give me something else to do between lapping the bar and small talk.

C) I ensured I got the train so the free bar was mine. Mine for the taking.

Never at any stage did I stop to think how the evening could benefit me commercially, or how I could use this as a chance to network my ass off among some hugely influential and very affluent people. Nope, I just thought about the booze. Priority numero uno.

Roughly 20 minutes into my arrival I was two flutes and a cigarette in. By the fourth flute and second cigarette I was tipsy verging on drunk but still able to speak without slurring my words. This usually kicked in around the 7/8 drink mark so I needed to ensure I found the host to thank him before I had too many.

Luckily I did, but I was six flutes in by this stage and had only digested nicotine. The evening food was fiddly to hold so I decided to allocate my hands to my clutch bag and Champagne glass instead. Eating was hassle so I binned it off.

Roughly an hour and a half into the night I spotted my colleague, the host, and shuffled into his line of sight. We managed to hold a momentary chat and I thanked him for the invitation. Job done, he saw me, now lets get some more booze in me before heading home. As the conversation came to a close he shook my hand and leaned in slightly. 'Emily, you're a beautiful lady but cigarettes will ruin you.' He then smiled and bid me a good night. I nervous laughed, smiled back and stepped aside to let him pass.

Bollocks. Anyone else and I wouldn't have cared about a comment like that but this guy was important. I wanted to impress him and I clearly failed. I dusted myself off and went back to the bar before heading outside to smoke another. I smell now so may as well keep going.

It also occurred to me I hadn't checked my make-up in a while (having been occupied by the free bar and all...) so I whipped out my compact to find mascara smudges under my eyebrows and a huge eye bogey escaping my left peeper. Reeking of fags and looking like shit, strong look. 

It was a dismal performance and I left with absolutely nothing accomplished. But this didn't phase me. Why would it? I stepped into the cold London air pissed as a fart and en route to Waterloo where M&S gins in tins would be waiting for me. Two free bottles of Moet consumed and an hour train ride home for me to sink a few more bevs. Perfection.

Until my hangover arrived the next morning. It was raging. So I gave myself the day off and didn't achieve anything for the rest of the week.

The event is taking place again this Thursday and I received my invitation last week, which is why I've been thinking about it so much and whether or not it will be a good idea to go (with alcohol and cigarettes off limits I'm working myself up over the type of experience I'll have). I wont have something to do when the chats dry up and I'm left holding an orange juice.

It shouldn't even be a question really. To make the guest list at an event like this is a huge deal, but here I am weighing up whether I should go because it'll be different without booze or fags. I will have to be present and occupy my time another way. I will have to do the event...properly.

The conversations I'm having with myself seem crazy but I'm not sure I'm in the right frame of mind to see this one through. Blix, my booze demon, is cranking the anxiety dial up day by day - but I'm hoping there's still time for me to calm down, make a plan and do the right thing: attend.

Let's hope my previous post can inspire me to tackle this one head on. I really hope so.

Sober survival skills: My first hockey social

On Saturday night (17.11.18) I turned 132-days-sober and attended my first hockey social since joining the team in the summer. I was bricking it!

As everyone knows team sports are synonymous with boozy socials, so the pre-Christmas get together had been making me feel on edge for quiiiiiiite some time. Namely because I was the newbie of the team and really really didn't want to miss out. If you're invited to a Club social they're a seriously good way to bond with your team mates away from the pitch, so you go.

Excited chat had been on the up for a few weeks and I was becoming increasingly nervous about the outing of my sobriety. We train every Tuesday and play matches on Saturday, so on the morning of the social and after a 3-0 away win at Bicester the team were fired up for a celebratory night out.

'You're coming tonight Em aren't you? Can't wait to get bang on the booze and let loose...your first social is gonna be epic!'

18-year-old booze-hound Em would have felt right at home. 31-year-old sober Em omitted a nervous laugh, secretly recoiled in horror and became immediately sweaty-palmed. Enter Blix, stage left. Eurgh, they are going to hate you. As soon as they find out you don't drink you'll be an outcast. Why not have a couple so you can properly fit in? It'll make you more popular!

Piss off, wretch. But he did have a point...

As a result of becoming a non-drinker in July I decided to pick up hockey again, a sport I love and one I was seriously good at in school (I made England's regional squad at the age of 17). At university I found booze (or did it find me?) and the rest, as they say, is a blurry, wasted history.

My passion for hockey got doused in alcohol by a toddler-sized Blix, who then took a lighter to my energy and drive and set fire to every good intention I had attached to sport. My ability went up in a big puff of (weed infused) smoke and I turned into an overweight, binge-drinking, recreational drug-using student. Blix fed off my fear and evolved into an equally fat, dominating bastard. Little did I know he'd acquire squatters rights for another 13 years.

The first thing I noticed when eliminating alcohol was the abundance of time I was given back. I didn't notice it during week one, as my first fully sober day started on a Monday so I kept my head down with work. But by week two, and come the weekend, I was pleasantly surprised by how much time I had to play with. Towards the final stages of my drinking I even diarised hangover days. If anyone, including Rob, asked me to do anything after a heavy night out they could forget it. My diary would read 'HD' and I'd know a day on the sofa eating pizza was accounted for.

So when I rediscovered Saturday mornings I decided to fill them with a regular...thing. To help me stay on track in a way but also to give my weekends more purpose. It sounds strange to say, but I had to seriously adjust to weekends without alcohol. In the beginning they seemed empty and purposeless. If I wasn't lumped on the sofa recalling a banging night out then what was the point? My time was spent wasting time. 

Luckily this feeling became obsolete when I started to realise I could actually (and wanted to) do stuff. Hangovers weren't holding me back anymore, and for the first time ever I started to seize...time. (I feel like I'm saying time a lot here).

Hockey came at the absolutely right time (!), and after a few practise sessions over the summer with my local team I was invited to train for the winter season. This immediately translated in my head as = 'Tuesdays and Saturdays, something to do except drink. Good work, Em.'

Yet I knew, deep down, my struggle with alcohol would resurface when the social invitations started to circulate. Bang on cue, roughly two months into my shiny new sporting life, the anxiety began to rocket.

After the initial panic had washed over me I started to rationalise my sobriety. Yes, this was going to be a very high pressured and unfamiliar situation but surely there was a way through it? I just had to work out my route and swerve the pitfalls.

If you're familiar with my blog you will have read an earlier post where I touch upon predicting sobriety's unpredictability. It's become a bit of a mantra for me as there have been a few occasions now where I could have been caught with my pants completely ripped off, but due to a bit of forward planning I've ensured nasty drink-related surprises remain at bay.

Little things, like ensuring you have interesting alcohol-free drinks to hand when your favourite wine is being passed round a table. And making sure you remain the designated driver when tempting and convenient offers of hotel rooms or crashing at your mates get dangled in front of your nose.

So this is what I did to ensure the Sunday would land me on sober day 133.

1. I drove. And I didn't get myself involved in taxi conversations. Instead I quietly mentioned my intentions to drive to team mates I felt closest to (who jumped at my offer of a lift) which ensured I had a car full and a firm role for the evening.
2. I took a couple of alcohol-free 'just in case' beers. I know AF beers aren't for everyone, but I genuinely like the taste of beer and they really work for me. The social was at the Club house and I didn't know if they'd have anything remotely interesting and alcohol free behind the bar. The barman was only too happy to open my two Big Drop IPA's and sweetly motioned to the stash of cold yet dusty Becks Blues in case I wanted a few more. What a champ. I felt prepped and ready to mingle.
3. I swatted up on my responses. Surprisingly I didn't get asked too many times about my non-drinking (AF beers are a God send for pretending) but there were about four occasions I was cornered. 'Leave your car here! Get on it, Em!' I simply responded, 'drinking doesn't work for me guys and I hate hangovers. I'm much more fun without it!' Convo end! :)
4. I gave myself a curfew. Once midnight hit I was out of there. And out of there I was - leaving my team mates drunk hugging at the bar and downing shots of Jaeger. I sloped out at just the right time and made it home for just gone 12. It was magic. 

In truth, I had worked myself up over the hockey social in the same way I did my first sober holiday. I was reeling with doubt and panicking about the impending temptation to drink. Losing the plot over losing control.

But in the same way I overcame the fear on holiday (by arming myself to the eyeballs with sober-inspired literature) I ensured I was armed with my SOS (save our sober) tools: My car, my AF drinks, my responses and my curfew. Those seriously simple things enforced an inner strength that really pulled me through. Plus my team mates didn't give a flying shit about my sobriety in any case!

Now I'm approaching my fifth month in recovery I'm learning that hiding from social situations isn't necessarily the best thing to do (for me anyway). I mean sure, there are invitations I absolutely flat-fuck-off refuse because I know I'll hate the vibe (I was batting Halloween house parties away like the plague), but there are booze-heavy experiences I still want to be a part of that simply require a little more stamina and deeper dug heels.

I whole heartedly believe that preparation is key - and if you undertake a bit of early strategy (like I did sharing my intentions to drive) I'm confident your risk will reduce just like mine did, and your night will run smoother and with limited stress. And if anyone gives you grief just ignore the swines.

My mum, aka the brandy vommer, has a favourite saying which is 'Fail to prepare, prepare to fail' and I think it may be mine too. There's a lot of truth in it and you can apply these words to almost every situation whereby you want there to be a positive outcome.

I'm certainly starting to overcome elements of anxiety attached to 'outing' my sobriety, and actually Blix's bastard voice is feeling less and less like a controlling power. Today, I'm relieved that Saturday night is over and done with, and to treat myself I've diarised doing absolutely sod all this weekend. I guess like I used to, just without the insidious hangover :)

Plus I'll be attending hockey practise tonight without a care in the world - no embarrassing toe-curling heart-stopping stories for me! Whoop whoop!

Four months sober and feeling rock solid

I'd like to talk about an announcement I made around the two month sober mark. I was having a conversation with someone and they were quizzing me on my sober 'spell' as they 'cutely' called it.

The chat was completely unbearable and I could tell the person asking me questions about my sobriety wasn't interested in anything I had to say. They'd perfected the whole head tilt, pity smile and slow nod combo to a tee. To be honest I hated discussing my sobriety anyway (in the baby steps days) and still continue to drift away from conversations that either single me out as a non-drinker or are being steered by total dimwits.

So back to the discussion with said twit - it needed an escape hatch, pronto. After a few squirmy minutes of uncomfortable question answering I boldly announced that I was only staying sober for 100 days then would be wholeheartedly back on the booze. Just to shut down the incessant chat centring on the supposed 'dullness of life' sans booze. "Oh my God, Em. How do you do it? I mean, YOU? You love a drink! I'm so excited for day 100. Let's get a celebratory drink booked in when you're normal again!' Chortle, snarf, scoff. BORE OFF.

I quickly made my excuses and scurried off to the toilet where I had time to breathe and sit alone for a brief while (which is now kind of turning into a habit in pressured social situations. I'm starting to grow fond of my solitary bog breathers).

I felt overwhelmed on this particular day and started to get a bit panicky about my sobriety causing me problems (making me feel like an outcast, a fraud etc.), so I decided that a 100 day pact was actually pretty sensible. I knew, deep down, that my non-drinking wasn't a trial - or an experiment - or a fad diet. I absolutely knew it was a change of lifestyle and I couldn't let myself fail again. But at day 60, setting a 100 day limit seemed to help with the panic somewhat. It provided me with a post to set my sights on and I realised this is something I actually do in day-to-day life anyway.

AND <~ (big and), it made people relax. I saw a notable change in their attitudes when I packaged my non drinking up as a 'limited period of time-thing'. Permanent sobriety terrified them, but a 'stint' was much more manageable. Kind of like a 'phew we can still be friends with her' reaction.

But markers, Markers are peppered throughout my life and I've only just really realised. Like when I'm running, I'll look ahead to the distance and focus on something. It could be a road sign, petrol station, parked car - anything in the distance that'll make me go, 'right, reach this point, Em, and then continue to the next goal.' I'm sure there are others that use the same technique, but I find it's a brilliant way to pass the time and push your distance further.

So in the same way I'm setting myself sobriety markers, as I did with 100 days, but markers which I know will be surpassed, yet the people I'm telling them to won't.

Now I've reached four months sober I've immediately set my next milestone - six months - and feel seriously pumped about hitting it. I know the questions are going to fire thick and fast in the lead up to Christmas, but I'll simply say I'm gunning for six months sober and festive drinks can't be a part of that plan. When people start to realise (and get used to) my sobriety being a thing of permanence I'm hoping they'll become bored of asking.

And I guess it sounds like I'm kind of ashamed and reluctant to admit my sobriety, which couldn't be further from the truth. It's just that I'd like to get a few more months of being alcohol free under my belt before I start telling people I'm a non-drinker. I don't know why, but it just feels the right thing to do. I'm now learning to be more gentle with my mind and body after years of abuse through booze...so following my intuition is something I will absolutely be doing.

If I had to summarise my sobriety in three words I'd say... exhausting, turbulent and affirming. In a nutshell: I am knackered from discussing my non-drinking with blockheads (and yes I used to be one), the road has been rocky and on occasion dangerous, but the journey as a whole has affirmed my genuine commitment to wanting to get clean and poison-free.

I'm so proud to reach four months sober and I'm already looking forward to seeing in the New Year with my six month chip.

Funerals and cancelled plans

On Friday, 26th October we said goodbye to my Nan at the Forest of Dean Crematorium. It felt like a long time coming and huge relief once over as we'd been waiting for this day for almost five weeks since her passing.

For the whole of this month I've felt unsettled, restless and drained - knowing my Nan is cold, still and just...lying there I guess. I know I paint a really morbid picture here but waiting for a funeral is the shittest thing ever.

I put myself forward to drive as the service was in Hereford, approximately two and a half hours from our home, which I felt was the obvious thing to do given my recent shunning of alcohol. We were offered a room at a local hotel...but a part of me felt like this could encourage some bad and out-of-character behaviour given the circumstances.

Although I feel so strongly about my decision to become a non-drinker being 100% the right one, I am always nervous about dealing with new and unfamiliar situations that may lead to increased stress and momentary weakness.

Like going on holiday for the first time...Jeeze! I couldn't stop freaking out over the impending situation and morphed into the tightest ball of bad energy and self loathing. If you fancy a read part one of two is here.

And the time one of my best friends flew back from Canada to celebrate her 30th birthday and I showed up to the bar clutching my car keys and crying hysterically. OK, so that didn't happen, but I pretty much felt like this on the inside. Up until this point (her birthday was only a few weeks back) I had avoided the Saturday night bar scene like the plague. Not that I'm out clubbing every weekend, but invites centred on extensive cocktail menus, loud music and obnoxious drunk people have been screwed up and set fire to with a match since I stopped drinking. I made the effort on this occasion but took serious joy in leaving the party.

So a funeral falls into this bracket of 'first time' events, and a fear of the unknown washed over me - actually no, crashed over me - as I made the lengthy drive to the ceremony. I knew that refusing the hotel room was the best decision I could have made. It eliminated any possibility of me being coerced into 'just one' to celebrate Nan's life, or a glass of red to relieve the stress and pain of her passing. If I removed my responsibility to drive home I would have been open to unnecessary pressure.

As a result of not drinking the day was far more successful than I ever imagined. I stayed in control of my emotions, I embraced family members with genuine compassion and enjoyed introductions to twice-removed cousins and long lost Aunts. I even managed to avoid an argument with Rob which would have erupted should I have been five glasses of vino in.

The day was just better. Infinitely better than an afternoon fuelled by booze and hate.

On the drive home I did feel slightly drained and wanted nothing more than to sit in silence and reflect on the sadness that absolutely was, but my Bro and Aunt had hopped in for a lift so we chatted more about my Nan's life and it helped to pass the time. Knowing that I'd be returning home to good sleep and a fresh head in the morning was everything I needed.

The next day Rob and I had plans to meet up with his friend and girlfriend for dinner in the evening. They're a lovely couple but sometimes I feel that socialising on a weekend, sans booze, can really feel unnatural, hard and just...shit. However I'm typically one of those people that hate hate hate cancelling so will usually put up with situations just to remain a good and reliable person.

Yet this weekend was different, and I decided (for once) to share how I felt with Rob - that socialising with his friends was the last thing I wanted to do - or felt capable of doing - given the funeral compounding my stress and anxiety levels. Luckily he didn't push back and we spent the night at the cinema instead, sat in silence watching a film which required little to no attention span which was utterly ideal for my fragile state of mind. It was bliss. And I'm so glad I said something as opposed to going with the flow.

At 113 days sober I'm learning that sobriety is mine, and yours, and absolutely no one else's - so never put yourself in a situation whereby you're pleasing others just for the sake of being a 'good' person. Sure, some days you'll have to put in a shift, but if you need to turn down a hotel room so you can exit an event early, or cancel boozy dinners with acquaintances that will make you feel inadequate then just do it.

Life is hard, but with alcohol it's so much harder. I'm so grateful for my sobriety this weekend, it's really pulled me through and I feel infinitely better for it.    

80 days sober - the truth

It genuinely feels surreal writing this post. I've woken up on day 81 of sobriety and I'm desperately missing alcohol. The good side of alcohol that is. The side I see everyone else enjoying like a normal, proper adult. The party side. The party I'm no longer allowed into.

I need to be upfront and honest about it as the whole point of this blog is me writing about the good, the bad and the ugly to help me get through the dark days and celebrate the good.

In short, non-drinking is a rollercoaster of emotions and this is my main learning at 80 days sober. Some days are spectacular, making you feel like your body is glowing and you're the bi-product of a unicorn having sex with a fairy.

Whereas as other days are bad and lonely and challenging, and your shoulders feel like they're carrying the weight of the world and then some. And all you want to do is dive head-first into an Olympic-sized swimming pool of mojito.

I can't shift the feeling of guilt and remorse too. I'm convinced I've screwed my husband over by trading my cool, glitzy drinking life for one of sobriety. He married a drinker, and now I'm not a drinker. All his friends are married to or dating drinkers who look fit in their 'look at my swanky food and drink' Instagram posts. Why can't he have the same? Who am I to deprive him of that fun? It's only a matter of time until he trades me in for someone who drinks so his life can be fun again.

STOP, EM.

See? The above is my train of thought right here, right now and it's ridiculous isn't it? When I write it down and see the words I want to punch myself in the head and shout GET A GRIP, WOMAN. Or seek out Blix and his evil whispers, smashing his stinking gnarly body against my bedroom walls until his bones are shattered and he bleeds to death. I feel like a trapped landlord, powerless to evict my bastard tenant who has unlawfully acquired squatters rights in my brain.

I really wanted day 80 to be a field of sunshine and pink clouds, but it's more like a damp and dark disused warehouse and I feel pretty lost here.

As I've mentioned in previous posts, sobriety cannot, and I repeat - cannot, be sugar coated. The benefits are real, don't get me wrong, but the effort is constant and tiring and exhausting. And there are situations that have nearly brought me to breaking point and I've only been saved by my surprisingly rock-solid will power.

I don't know how, but I have surpassed day 80 - and I'm unsure whether to be proud of that or...resentful? I kind of feel both. Am I really going to live the rest of my life without the booze buzz? The first sip of wine that instantly erases tension? Nose tickles from the cold bouncing fizz of a decent champagne?

So I've made myself salivate from writing that paragraph but it's true. I'm actually gutted that I'll be trading those moments for a life of sobriety, but then what follows after the fluffy fun stuff? The loss of control, the zombie eyes, the weight gain, the arguments, the bad skin, the 'sick' days off work, the life chaos, the anxiety, the depression, the darkness. I could go on and on about the cons yet it takes me no more than 10 (maybe even five?) seconds to list the pros of drinking.  

I've been stuck in a desperate loop for over three years - trying to cut down by having a week off here and there and failing miserably. And actually within the past year I haven't bothered to slow down at all and my consecutive days on the booze were getting ridiculous.

But now I've got 80 days of abstinence behind me and despite mourning the loss of my old party life I'm much more realistic about my situation now. I am absolutely not someone who can moderate - I know this. If there's a pack of biscuits in front of me I can't have just one, I'll have to eat the whole pack so they're gone. If I'm enjoying a new hobby or sport I'll buy so much active wear and binge participate like a crazy person. If I'm into a series on Netflix I have to watch the whole lot in one go. Tapping out after one or two episodes will drive me insane. A little bit here and wee drop there just isn't me - I have to be all in as it's the only way I can scratch the itch. The tap just keeps on dripping if I feel my business is unfinished.

Same with booze. If a bottle is open I'll finish the lot. And if there's more than one bottle I'll keep going until they're all gone.

So I think that's actually the real reason behind today's mood. Not that I'm desperately craving the boozy good times (which lets face it don't exist any more), but that I'm coming to terms with the fact my new sober life doesn't accommodate certain behaviours.

Yes there are so so so many things I'm missing now I'm sober but the only question I can ask myself is 'what's the alternative'?

In the early days of my sobriety, say within the first 30 days, everything was new and wow. Attending a wedding sober? Piece of piss. Enjoying a hangover-free weekend? Life giving! But it was novel and a shiny and not really any different to the times where I'd 'given up' alcohol before and then slipped back into drinking as a reward for doing so well.

Day 80 is hard core for me and sobriety is no longer an experiment. It's starting to become a lifestyle and today very much feels like a blue or red pill moment. I could still choose to live in the matrix yet I know, deep down, that facing up to reality is the only way I'm going to fix this. And subsequently fix me.  

Just one or two is fine...right?

It's Sunday, 23 September 2018 and I'm 77 days sober, reflecting on what has been one of the busiest working weeks of my year culminating in a very boozy dinner party last night.

I've previously talked about situations I seem to find more pressured than others - for example I'm actually pretty fine navigating weddings sober (which I thought would be the most difficult) but cosy dinner parties at home seem to be the worst.

We hosted two couples last night so there was six of us including Rob and I. As opposed to the dinner party I tackled a few weeks back (which had been planned well before I went sober) this night had been organised only a few weeks prior. Rob had asked me if I fancied hosting a get together and I said yeah, absolutely! What I should have said was I'd prefer not to babe as I'm finding dinner parties exceptionally tough at the mo and they kind of make me want to curl up and die. Hurrah!

But I don't want to be that sober person who irrationally ruins everyone else's fun (I am totally living in fear of that right now), so I suck it up and pretend another dinner party off the grog is well within my skill set.

A few hours before kick-off I received a message from one of our friends asking what my favourite wine is. I read it and thought you know what, I'm just going to drink tonight. It'll be much easier to drink and I wont have to endure the raised eyebrows and pregnant whispers. After the week I'd had juggling difficult work events and a visit to see my poorly Nan I wasn't in the mood to play hide-and-seek with my drinking.

So despite being fully determined to pack in my sobriety I decided to (out of habit) implement a little trick to add weight to my decision making. If I'd pass this test I'd be back in the drinking game.

I began to hypothetically predict the night's events should I delve into the vino - just to see what the outcome would be and the fun I'd have along the way! After all, I've nailed over 70 sober days, I can handle my booze now and I know when to stop! Yeah I'd never managed it before but it's different now, I'm different now. Now I'm in control.

Here's what would have happened:

5.30 p.m. I open a bottle of red and pour myself a glass while getting ready. Oh how I've missed thee sweet nectar.
6.30 p.m. I continue drinking through dinner prep. Red wine on the go and simmering home-made paella, how fab is this! I'm sophisticated again!
7.30 p.m. Guest arrival - I'm 3/4 of my way through my first bottle. Loose and relaxed, welcome one and all to the best dinner party of all time.
8.00 p.m. We sit down to dinner. I'm a bottle in and loving life. But everyone's drinking tonight so it's A-OK!
8.30 p.m. I'm free pouring wine to myself and my guests. We're all drinking, lets get on it. Everyone is having wine too so my personal consumption is unnoticeable. Win. I love dinner parties.
9.00 p.m. My teeth are purple and I'm drunk. Probably two bottles in by now. But it's OK, Rob's down the other end of the table and hasn't noticed any of this.
Side note: He has noticed and has been noticing all night.
9.30 p.m. I'm slurring and don't know I am, but I'm loving the fact I'm on great, drunk form and everyone's drunk too!
Side note: I'm a bottle of wine ahead of everyone else and I'm by far the most drunk at the table. I can't hold a coherent conversation and I haven't checked my make-up since our guests arrived. I look and act pissed and my sophisticated self begins to unravel, quickly.
10.00 p.m. We move to the snug to watch the boxing. Anthony Joshua is fighting so we pour more drinks, this night is going great!
Side note: My brain starts to flicker and prepares itself for black out. I have roughly half an hour left of consciousness before the night turns black. 
10.30 p.m. I'm three bottles in by now and I'd like to say I'm loving the fight and looking after our guests needs. But I'm 100% sure I fall asleep on the sofa in a ball of dribbling mess. 70+ days of sobriety have lightweighted me into oblivion.
Side note: I won't remember anything past 10.00 p.m. when I wake up now. 
11.30 p.m. Our guests leave. I wake up and take myself to bed. Despite my impromptu nap it's been a great night, right?
Side note: Rob has to wake his crumpled heap of a wife and drag her off the sofa to bed. I attempt to start a fight about how judgemental he is when I've only 'had a few' and probably lay into him for letting me undo all my hard, sober work. We then fight and I pass out.
03.00 a.m. Wake up dazed and gasping for water. Throbbing headache. No recollection of the night ending.
08.00 a.m. Wake up fully with a stinking hangover. 76 days of sobriety erased. Apologise to Rob - have no idea what for but he's mad and disappointed.
11.00 a.m. Dominos Pizza opens. I order my weekend calorie allowance in one sitting. I haven't had pizza in nearly three months! I deserve this!
Side note: I am so bitterly upset. I'm back to square one and I'm a fucking failure. 
12.00 p.m. I'm drinking again now, so I may as well have a hair of the dog to cure my hangover?
Side note: I need alcohol. I can't do life without it. May as well get pissed again to deal with the self loathing. My name's Em and I'm addicted to booze. 

And so it starts again. The dark tape on repeat. The merry-go-round of doom. A life controlled by Blix and his soul-crushing advice.

My predictions shook me and I was quickly 'back in the room'. I decided to ignore the text about the wine - and I know that sounds rude - but I simply didn't know what to say. I didn't have the power to muster a reply so I closed the screen and left it.

Fast forward to 8.30 p.m. in reality and our guests are having a great night. The paella is a huge success and I'm on my second glass of non-alcoholic red wine and no one has noticed. I didn't announce it when people walked in, I just simply poured them the real deal and looked after myself. I know my obsession with people judging my non-drinking is irrational but tonight...I'm kind of realising that my sobriety is far from the focus. We're talking, laughing, eating...no one knows my wine is fake and I'm loving it.

To get through the group dinner top-ups I make my wine last and ensure I add a little more when I nip out to the kitchen to get beers for the non-wine drinkers. So when our friends come to pour more wine at the table my glass is pretty full and I politely decline as I wouldn't want to mix reds.

We move to the snug to watch the boxing and everyone is merry and in a great mood. I'm fully present and decide to switch drinks to Becks Blue (yet to find an AF red wine that still tastes good after two glasses). I do get a few strange looks but I say I'm really trying to cut down and no one bats an eyelid. I even get a few 'good for yous!' and again, people just carry on with the night.

It gets to midnight and our friends receive a text from their cabby saying he's broken down and can't collect them. So I mention I'm fully capable of driving and we pile in the car - laughing about the last time we were all in a taxi and I ended up breaking Rob's hand by slamming it in the door (a tale for another time!) - but it's lovely. My head is clear and I'm helping my friends get home. It sounds so stupid to say...but sobriety is making me so much more capable.

I return home and it's 1.00 a.m., Rob heads straight to bed and conks out in a drunken haze but I decide to give myself a head start in the morning. I head to the kitchen and put on some jazz music as I clear the plates and load the dishwasher. The house is now so peaceful having been a buzzing ball of good energy little over an hour ago. I finish the final inch of my non-alcoholic wine, kiss the empty bottle goodnight and pop it outside to be recycled.

I feel warm and fuzzy from the exhaustion and so happy I've accomplished yet another high pressured dinner party situation (which was entirely different to the first, and in a good way).

There were two big-time sliding door moments on Saturday night and I am so glad I stayed strong and remembered the outcome of scenario one which was drenched in booze. No matter how many times I try and convince myself I can handle just one or two I know, deep down, this is not the case any more.

This is why I've tried so hard, on so many occasions, to kick the habit but have never managed to escape the tightening grip of alcohol. I simply can't dip in and out, so now it has to be out. All out.

I love you Sunday, 23 September. You are my 77th day of winning and I am so, so happy to have you.

Weird dreams and fangovers.

So I'm 61 days sober! Yay! And feel like shit! Boo! That's only because I had an off the scale dream last night and woke up with a raging hangover this morning. Well, fake hangover. Fangover? What is WITH them?

I've nearly finished Clare Pooley's book, The Sober Diaries, and I absolutely bloody love it. Despite Clare being a little older than me I can relate to her on so many levels. Except she has kids, is solvent, and hit the top of her career ladder aged 30. I'm 31 and launched my own business 2.5 years ago - so I'm still absolutely skint and remain embarrassingly tucked under the tax threshold (for now - PMA and all that). There are so many 'Ah me too!' moments in her book though and I love her for that reason.

So since returning from holiday a few weeks back I've made a pact with myself. Instead of scrolling through social media for hours on end (literally) gawping at nonsense before dropping off to sleep, I will read. Proper, papery, reeking of intellect books that will enrich my life and give me purpose. And the whole cosy-cup-of-tea-in-bed-with-a-book thing makes me feel infinitely more intelligent than my husband who prefers to play football manager in his pants. 

I haven't been able to put Clare's book down since I bought it a week ago. And without giving too much away, the pages document her journey of sobriety from day one through to 365 (I think, I'm currently on day 270 something). It's Christmas day and Clare is at church with her daughter. She's debating taking the communion wine and that's all I'll say as I don't want to be sued for copyright or anything! But if you're new to sobriety or simply enjoy reading other people's accounts of it (I can't get enough) then buy Clare's book and check out her blog Mummy was a Secret Drinker. Both sources have really helped me through some dark days.

Anyway, deciding to put the book down after reading about communion wine turned me into a crazy person last night. And I had two, very vivid dreams. The first was about cheese. My mum and I were eating blocks of it in my kitchen and it was laced with black pepper. It was some new peppery cheddar hybrid and she told me to tell me brother as he loves peppery cheese (?!) Is peppery cheddar even a thing? If not maybe it should be, it tasted really good in my dream! My kitchen cupboards were made out of the same cheese and my mum was also dressed as a mouse. Okurrrrrrrr.......

And the second dream felt like it was happening on an entirely different day. Rob and I were in our kitchen (no cheese this time) and I was perched on the work surface drinking a huge glass of red wine like I used to. He was asking me why I'd given in as I was doing so well, and I told him that it was communion wine and that it's OK as Clare 'drank it'. He then asked how I got it and I confessed I'd stolen it from our local church (the same one we got married in), so he called Father Richard and said I'd broken in and the next thing I knew I was being carted off by the fuzz in the back of a police car! Rob was shaking his head in disappointment as the sirens took me away.

All very odd, and not the first time I've dreamt about booze, but this morning I felt absolutely rotten, like I'd had a bottle of the stuff. I woke up at 6.00 a.m. with a hot foggy head and was gasping for water.

I've been doing some reading today and apparently there are a variety of reasons why addicts will experience drunk dreams even though they're ecstatic about their recovery success. So it seems my necking red wine was inspired by events that had happened to me that day. Yup. A trigger.

But instead of feeling like 'Oooooh, that tasted good. You enjoyed that didn't you? Why not have a drink tonight, it's Friday after all' I felt very uncomfortable and panicky - like I'd let myself down and I'd been stripped of my purpose.

My biggest fear at the moment is actually drinking accidentally. Halfway through our holiday I left Rob at the hotel bar to order a nightcap while I nipped to the ladies. When I came back he handed me my sparkling water and I went to take a sip. It occurred to me that the glass was half full and very flat. So I sniffed it and went wide-eyed - like...terrified Ainsley Harriet wide-eyed - when I realised it was alcohol. By complete accident Rob had poured his mixer into the empty glass reserved for my sparkling water and gave me his double Bacardi. The fool was drunk and got his glassware confused. We laughed it off but my gut was doing somersaults. What if I had necked it? After all I was super thirsty - it would have been a large gulp! Would I have stopped there? As I'm yet to disclose my full dependency to Rob I couldn't point out just how big a deal that could have been for me. So when my water actually arrived I smelt it, hard, finished it very quickly and ran away to bed to be away from the temptation.

So, constant fear of accidentally tasting booze and slipping back into my old ways is very much part of my day-to-days now. And of course, reading about wine and tales of drunk behaviour before bed is pretty much gold dust for Blix, worming his way into my dreams and playing with my insecurities like a master puppeteer. Hopefully, and in the not too distant future, Blix will be too weak play. Clare writes about her voice, the wine witch, becoming frail and comatose over time. I'm too excited for that day to land and will try my bloody best to get there.

And as I haven't been able to stop thinking about peppery cheese since waking up I am absolutely going on a cheese hunt today and may even treat myself to shopping at the Windsor Farm Shop on my way home from work. Posh cheese sounds like a very fair reward which I will enjoy with some alcohol-free red wine left over from last week's dinner party :) Dine out on that, Blix, you whopping creep.