A few weeks ago I was at the Royal Berkshire Hospital having my left boob examined (my original post 'Finding a lump' can be found here). The doctor took a sample of the lump and we sat and chatted for five minutes about my family history and medical records.
She was convinced it wasn't suspicious and that it was a fibroadenoma - or a 'mouse boob' as she called it which obviously made me laugh. 'They're like mice, you see. Small and round and when you touch them, they move!'
God bless the NHS.
I opened the post this morning to read a letter from the doctor confirming this. My lump was nothing more than a benign growth of tissue. A harmless wriggly mouse boob. Relief.
Despite the all clear I have two follow-up appointments booked in December and January, a mammogram before Christmas to determine the size and subsequent treatment - which I believe will either be to leave it, or have it removed if its bothering me. And in the New Year on January 10th I'll be meeting with my doctor again to discuss testing for the BRCA gene.
BRCA1 and BRCA2 are human genes that produce tumor suppressor proteins, and these proteins help repair damaged DNA. They play a significant role in ensuring the stability of each cell's genetic material. When either of these genes is mutated, or altered, such that its protein product is not made or does not function correctly, DNA damage may not be repaired properly. As a result, cells are more likely to develop additional genetic alterations that can lead to cancer.*
There's no denying it, this test scares the shit out of me. And here's why. About 12% of women in the general population will develop breast cancer sometime during their lives. By contrast, its estimated that 72% of women who inherit a harmful BRCA1 mutation and about 69% of women who inherit a harmful BRCA2 mutation will develop breast cancer by the age of 80.* Plus your odds of developing breast cancer in both boobs are significantly increased. It's bad news basically.
Luckily I don't have breast cancer on my mum's side of the family, but my dad's mother and sister both died of breast cancer in their 40s - so the doctor thinks I may have a stronger case for genetic testing given the severity of the disease. We're going to talk through the options in the new year and will go from there.
During my chat with the doctor we covered my medical stats, lifestyle and smoking and drinking habits. Circling 'zero' as my answer to both earned me a big thumbs up. This is the first time I've been congratulated by a doctor, ever. What a feeling!
We also touched upon the benign lump I had removed from my right breast when I was 18-years-old. Its discovery completely freaked me (and my entire family) out. It's clear to see my dad is quietly traumatised from his mother and sister passing so we opted for surgery to just get rid of it.
I'm not sure what I'll do about the new lump, but the more I read about the negative effects drinking has on the body the more I wish I'd given up sooner. Apparently women who drink heavily in their teens are more likely to develop benign cists and lumps later in life - and given my previous and recent discoveries my breast irregularities could well be the result of early alcohol abuse.
It's crazy how little I knew, and wanted to know, about the damaging effects of drink. And how little my parents did to make me aware of the dangers. I guess this is because they loved it too and never considered their lives without it.
Between my parents my dad was the big drinker. My brother and I used to call him the man with the iron stomach as his nightly drinks tally (of roughly four triple gin and tonics) would never lead to a hangover. In my 31-years on the planet I have never seen my dad hungover, and fair play to the bloke he'd always make it out of bed at 5.30 a.m. every morning and head to work without a complaint or grumble. He loved to party though and his wild flippant ways ultimately became the catalyst for my parent's divorce.
Dad's drinking increased two-fold when the separation landed (when I was 20 and in my second year of uni - which sucked and was completely distracting), and he continued to drink every night until roughly two years ago. My dad doesn't say much, but reading between the lines the doctor told him he was essentially going to die if he didn't slow down. And that he had Type 2 diabetes from years of alcohol abuse buggering his blood sugar.
He doesn't drink mid-week now but he still puts away a fair few at the weekend.
I rambling a bit, I know, but I guess my recent scare has put a lot in perspective. Rob and I are yet to have children and we've decided to start trying next summer, and I absolutely want to be as fit and healthy as I can be before heading into pregnancy. Fingers crossed we can have the little rascals, you just don't know until you start trying.
But despite my recent lump discovery causing panic and worry I'm glad it happened. It's only cemented my want to lead as healthy a life as possible and I'm determined to start addressing my wellbeing as a whole, not just my relationship with alcohol.
I've got a long way to go but I feel open and ready for it now. Five months alcohol-free on Saturday, 8th December. Bring it on!
*Source: Cancer.gov.
Showing posts with label alcohol abuse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alcohol abuse. Show all posts
Tuesday, 4 December 2018
Tuesday, 23 October 2018
Moderation doesn't exist
So I'm just over half way through Allen Carr's 'Stop Drinking Now' book and I'm kind of enjoying it and I guess not enjoying it. It's repetitive in parts, which I know is for a reason, and slightly...mysterious in others i.e. 'keep reading and you'll find out why...' Again, I can only assume this is part of the book's appeal. I just want the answers now, gimme!
But I'm continuing to read and follow Allen's advice, and one thing I am hugely grateful for is the book stamping out, in perfect English, just why drinking in moderation is not an option. Up until now I haven't really been able to put into words why I can't have 'just one or two', but this book smashes it and the analogies are spot on.
It's the question I get asked the most by friends and family. 'So this whole not drinking thing...it's not permanent is it? I mean, you'll drink again...surely?' My Step Mum said these exact words to me on Saturday when I told her I was fast approaching four months sober. And she genuinely looked worried for me. Deeply concerned that my life may never include an alcoholic beverage ever again.
She asked me this at a big family gathering I attended at the weekend. Every year my Uncle takes a large box at Ascot races and entertains corporate clients, business associates, close friends and family. It's a spectacular day that I've attended for the past six-or-so years now.
The year before last was probably the most drunk I've ever been around this side of my family (Rob's side have seen me much, much worse a few Christmas' ago). I made sure I took advantage of the free bar and didn't go home when I should have. After the races we went to the pub where I continued to drink, in the company of my much-less-pissed family, and blacked out in the taxi home with zero memory of the evening. The next time I saw my Uncle he discreetly told me I had one too many and that I embarrassed myself in front of one of his business associates. Still to this day I don't know what I did...but for my Uncle to mention it...it must have been inappropriate.
Being told I'd done something embarrassing while drunk with zero recollection of doing it. Story of my fucking life.
So last year I took note and managed to behave, but that's only because it was my friend's birthday party the same night and I didn't want to turn up wasted. So I paced myself at the races, graciously leaving in a taxi at 6.00 p.m. to journey to the local golf club. Fast forward to 11.00 p.m. and I was legless. The pressure of holding it 'together' during the day had turned me into a ticking time bomb, and depriving myself of alcohol at the races had only made me want it more that same evening. So I arrived in fifth, no actually sixth gear, and annihilated roughly three bottles of prosecco and however many cocktails. Rob didn't speak to me the next day and never told me why he was upset with me. 'I don't want to talk about it, Em. You clearly have no memory of what you said, so let's just leave it at that and not fall out again'.
I've never really understood why I can't 'moderate'. It's a word I've been struggling to get to grips with for years and only now, while reading Allen's book, am I understanding why this word isn't part of my language. It's because it's a myth.
Truth is, 'moderating' my alcohol intake - something I've tried to do many times in the past - has only lead to me feeling miserable, hard done by, punished and withdrawn. The fact that alcohol was still an option, yet I wasn't allowed it all the time, turned me into a crazy person without me even realising it. All my friends can moderate, why can't I!!
My often recycled detox would be to quit midweek and select only one night at the weekend where I was allowed to drink. As Rob and I lead such busy social lives I thought a one-night-a-week policy would be bullet proof. And of course, it wasn't.
The night I'd allow myself to drink would regularly evolve into an all day drinking session, with a hair of the dog (or 6) thrown in the next day to help me get over the previous night's events. Then, because I'd allow the booze, I'd let it seep back in to my routine slowly but surely. Like a deceitful lover I couldn't get rid of. The alcohol would be back and this time with a vengeance.
If booze remains an option I will always fail.
So as my Step Mum quizzed my sobriety I didn't offer a definite 'Yep, I'm sober, no more booze for me' response, but instead shrugged my shoulders, like I always do, and delivered an ambiguous 'not sure if I'm honest'.
Her eyes remained panicked and for a split second I thought I had grown two heads...but we soon talked about other things and quickly forgot about my sobriety.
Allen's book is essentially two fingers up to moderation and that's why I'm enjoying it so much. And the parts I'm not enjoying are only due to me being a petulant child wanting results now now now. I've always felt like I couldn't understand moderation as a 'thing', no matter how hard I tried I was just a hopeless mess addicted to booze that was never going to experience the holy grail of it.
But now I can see that it was never an option to begin with - I was simply missing the blaringly obvious choice of sobriety and now, finally, it feels like I'm starting to make the right choices.
But I'm continuing to read and follow Allen's advice, and one thing I am hugely grateful for is the book stamping out, in perfect English, just why drinking in moderation is not an option. Up until now I haven't really been able to put into words why I can't have 'just one or two', but this book smashes it and the analogies are spot on.
It's the question I get asked the most by friends and family. 'So this whole not drinking thing...it's not permanent is it? I mean, you'll drink again...surely?' My Step Mum said these exact words to me on Saturday when I told her I was fast approaching four months sober. And she genuinely looked worried for me. Deeply concerned that my life may never include an alcoholic beverage ever again.
She asked me this at a big family gathering I attended at the weekend. Every year my Uncle takes a large box at Ascot races and entertains corporate clients, business associates, close friends and family. It's a spectacular day that I've attended for the past six-or-so years now.
The year before last was probably the most drunk I've ever been around this side of my family (Rob's side have seen me much, much worse a few Christmas' ago). I made sure I took advantage of the free bar and didn't go home when I should have. After the races we went to the pub where I continued to drink, in the company of my much-less-pissed family, and blacked out in the taxi home with zero memory of the evening. The next time I saw my Uncle he discreetly told me I had one too many and that I embarrassed myself in front of one of his business associates. Still to this day I don't know what I did...but for my Uncle to mention it...it must have been inappropriate.
Being told I'd done something embarrassing while drunk with zero recollection of doing it. Story of my fucking life.
So last year I took note and managed to behave, but that's only because it was my friend's birthday party the same night and I didn't want to turn up wasted. So I paced myself at the races, graciously leaving in a taxi at 6.00 p.m. to journey to the local golf club. Fast forward to 11.00 p.m. and I was legless. The pressure of holding it 'together' during the day had turned me into a ticking time bomb, and depriving myself of alcohol at the races had only made me want it more that same evening. So I arrived in fifth, no actually sixth gear, and annihilated roughly three bottles of prosecco and however many cocktails. Rob didn't speak to me the next day and never told me why he was upset with me. 'I don't want to talk about it, Em. You clearly have no memory of what you said, so let's just leave it at that and not fall out again'.
I've never really understood why I can't 'moderate'. It's a word I've been struggling to get to grips with for years and only now, while reading Allen's book, am I understanding why this word isn't part of my language. It's because it's a myth.
Truth is, 'moderating' my alcohol intake - something I've tried to do many times in the past - has only lead to me feeling miserable, hard done by, punished and withdrawn. The fact that alcohol was still an option, yet I wasn't allowed it all the time, turned me into a crazy person without me even realising it. All my friends can moderate, why can't I!!
My often recycled detox would be to quit midweek and select only one night at the weekend where I was allowed to drink. As Rob and I lead such busy social lives I thought a one-night-a-week policy would be bullet proof. And of course, it wasn't.
The night I'd allow myself to drink would regularly evolve into an all day drinking session, with a hair of the dog (or 6) thrown in the next day to help me get over the previous night's events. Then, because I'd allow the booze, I'd let it seep back in to my routine slowly but surely. Like a deceitful lover I couldn't get rid of. The alcohol would be back and this time with a vengeance.
If booze remains an option I will always fail.
So as my Step Mum quizzed my sobriety I didn't offer a definite 'Yep, I'm sober, no more booze for me' response, but instead shrugged my shoulders, like I always do, and delivered an ambiguous 'not sure if I'm honest'.
Her eyes remained panicked and for a split second I thought I had grown two heads...but we soon talked about other things and quickly forgot about my sobriety.
Allen's book is essentially two fingers up to moderation and that's why I'm enjoying it so much. And the parts I'm not enjoying are only due to me being a petulant child wanting results now now now. I've always felt like I couldn't understand moderation as a 'thing', no matter how hard I tried I was just a hopeless mess addicted to booze that was never going to experience the holy grail of it.
But now I can see that it was never an option to begin with - I was simply missing the blaringly obvious choice of sobriety and now, finally, it feels like I'm starting to make the right choices.
Thursday, 27 September 2018
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.
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.
Sunday, 23 September 2018
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.
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.
Wednesday, 12 September 2018
Approaching day 70: Physical improvements
I'm fast approaching 70 days of sobriety and I thought I'd write about some of the physical improvements I'm noticing as a result of dropping the booze.
To recap on my drinking status, I was a heavy drinker throughout the week and weekends - not to the point of 'addicted' but I absolutely developed a dependency. Is there even a difference?
I'd start drinking on a Tuesday and would carry on until late Sunday night most weeks, sinking on average two/three large glasses of wine a night or three/four beers, whatever was available. In the latter stages of my alcohol abuse, roughly six months prior to the date I quit drinking (08.07.18) I had switched to mid-week spirits, was hiding my consumption from my husband and getting through roughly six to eight bottles of wine a week.
Now lets talk about my body when I was doing all of that. Here's what I have been tolerating since my early 20s:
And here's what I've noticed on sober day 66:
To recap on my drinking status, I was a heavy drinker throughout the week and weekends - not to the point of 'addicted' but I absolutely developed a dependency. Is there even a difference?
I'd start drinking on a Tuesday and would carry on until late Sunday night most weeks, sinking on average two/three large glasses of wine a night or three/four beers, whatever was available. In the latter stages of my alcohol abuse, roughly six months prior to the date I quit drinking (08.07.18) I had switched to mid-week spirits, was hiding my consumption from my husband and getting through roughly six to eight bottles of wine a week.
Now lets talk about my body when I was doing all of that. Here's what I have been tolerating since my early 20s:
- Mouth uclers. Huge ones. On my gums, tongue and inside of my lips. I'd get them every other week without fail. And after a heavy night on the booze I'd always wake up with a tongue covered in tiny white sores.
- Spots. Nasty, cyst like mounds on my cheeks and under my chin. Red, raw and painful.
- Rosacea on my nose and at the top of my arms. When I'd drink heavily sometimes my bicep/bingo wing area would flare red and go very blotchy. As a result I always wore long-sleeve tops and never got my arms out. I hated them.
- Flat, lifeless hair. I have long brunette hair but it's fine, and over the past 6 months it's rapidly been losing volume and body.
- Cellulite on the tops of my thighs, front and back. Dimples and dents everywhere.
- Weight gain. I was 8.5 stone when I got married in 2015 (age 28) and when I weighed myself on the day I quit drinking I was bang on 10 stone (140lbs). It's the most I've ever weighed at 5ft 3in. My BMI was 24.8 - 0.2 away from being classed as overweight.
And here's what I've noticed on sober day 66:
- No mouth ulcers or tongue sores since quitting drinking.
- My skin has improved dramatically and I've only been getting the odd spot when I'm due on. All of my cyst-like bastards have now disappeared and I've finally stopped using foundation! A quick skim of primer and powder is all I'm needing these days.
- Absolutely no signs of a red boozy nose and my skin tone on my upper arms has completely normalised. It's my friend's birthday on October 6th and I may go skimpy dress, arms out...!
- I've been receiving so many compliments on my hair. It's glossy, fuller and seems to have grown since I gave up booze. When I earn my Three Month sober chip (in 25 days) I'm going to treat myself to a day at the salon and possibly run some blondes through it! :)
- Less cellulite and firmer legs.
- I've knocked off exactly a stone in weight in 66 days. As I've removed alcohol from my daily routine I have the time to run more, play hockey (I've joined a team again, whoop!) and I'm consuming fewer calories and eating much more healthily.
Quick bit of math: two x large glasses of wine = 360 cals. So one bottle of wine = roughly 700 cals. Multiply that by six, the number of bottles I'd get through in one week, and I was consuming approximately 4,000 cals per week just from alcohol!
Sobriety is doing wonders for my physical wellbeing and I can't begin to describe just how great it feels to be back in control of my body. A combination of healthy eating and regular exercise has helped me to obliterate the worst bits of my wine gut and I'm now at a stage where I can really start conditioning my body to (hopefully) start showing a bit of tone and definition.
My lungs also feel like new having packed up the cigarettes at the same time. Since the beginning of 2018 my smoking had increased from socially (when drinking) to four to six a day. I was actively buying cigarettes and getting through roughly a pack and a half a week thanks to weekend binge drinking/smoking marathons. Another thing I was hiding from my husband that I feel so guilty for.
So a combination of removing toxic booze and smoke from my system plus increasing my exercise and health food levels has led to me basically feeling the happiest I've felt in a VERY long time.
Looking forward to documenting the results at day 100.... :)
Friday, 7 September 2018
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.
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.
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