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.
Showing posts with label sober holiday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sober holiday. Show all posts
Friday, 7 September 2018
Wednesday, 29 August 2018
Part 2 of 2: My first sober holiday: Regaining control.
On day four of our gorgeous week-long holiday in Majorca I am absolutely fucked off and hating everything - mainly how I look and how sober I feel.
In Catherine's book she writes about the importance of alone time so I decide to take some. And it seems thrashing it out on a treadmill for half an hour in a grubby non-air conditioned Spanish gym actually works. Just having some space away from Rob and his poolside beers reminds me that I can simply choose another path. And me wanting to be away from people/Rob has absolutely nothing to do with me hating on them in any way - I just simply love being alone and feel it's so important to distance yourself from things that are bothering you as and when you can. I needed to faze my miserable holiday funk out and a hot run in the hotel's dungeon gym was helping.
Just this tiny window of alone time helped me to shake off the negs and reboot 'relaxed and chilled holiday Em'. She's new. Drinking holiday Em would be having a wine-fuelled siesta by now and awake in a pool of her own drool.
After a sweaty two-hour morning hike, many swims and a sunset coffee on the balcony I was finally feeling better. Day five had me remembering the importance of staying strong and I could feel the sober glow trickling back into my veins. The storm clouds had passed and I was well and truly back in the sunshine. I actually took a selfie to capture the moment...maybe one day when I'm brave enough, I'll share it.
Everyday of sobriety is different but it's so vital to remember the darkness will eventually pass. I couldn't get Blix out of my head for the first three days of my holiday, chipping away at my vulnerability and desperately urging me to throw in the towel. I felt suffocated, trapped and completely out of my comfort zone. Holiday drinking was the ultimate package, the dream, the familiar reward after a year of solid working! And I knew my first sober trip would be hard, but I genuinely underestimated just how fucking hard it would be.
In Catherine's book she writes about the importance of alone time so I decide to take some. And it seems thrashing it out on a treadmill for half an hour in a grubby non-air conditioned Spanish gym actually works. Just having some space away from Rob and his poolside beers reminds me that I can simply choose another path. And me wanting to be away from people/Rob has absolutely nothing to do with me hating on them in any way - I just simply love being alone and feel it's so important to distance yourself from things that are bothering you as and when you can. I needed to faze my miserable holiday funk out and a hot run in the hotel's dungeon gym was helping.
Just this tiny window of alone time helped me to shake off the negs and reboot 'relaxed and chilled holiday Em'. She's new. Drinking holiday Em would be having a wine-fuelled siesta by now and awake in a pool of her own drool.
After my run I showered and wandered back to the pool and suggested to Rob we find somewhere chill for dinner and hit the hay early to go on a morning hike. I was still very stressed and tense about dining in a hip cool restaurant with gin menus and cocktails so I decided to plant the seed before he stumbled across anything mildy swanky on Trip Adviser. I thought he'd swat my suggestion away as when I said it out loud in the 33 degree heat it couldn't have sounded less fun and appealing.
'Sounds great, totally up for a cheap dinner and being active babe.' Relief! Exactly what I wanted (and desperately needed) to hear. That night we ate pizza, wondered back to the hotel with a kilo of churros and watched the new Avengers movie in bed before calling it a night at 11.30 p.m....it was actual heaven.
After a sweaty two-hour morning hike, many swims and a sunset coffee on the balcony I was finally feeling better. Day five had me remembering the importance of staying strong and I could feel the sober glow trickling back into my veins. The storm clouds had passed and I was well and truly back in the sunshine. I actually took a selfie to capture the moment...maybe one day when I'm brave enough, I'll share it.
Everyday of sobriety is different but it's so vital to remember the darkness will eventually pass. I couldn't get Blix out of my head for the first three days of my holiday, chipping away at my vulnerability and desperately urging me to throw in the towel. I felt suffocated, trapped and completely out of my comfort zone. Holiday drinking was the ultimate package, the dream, the familiar reward after a year of solid working! And I knew my first sober trip would be hard, but I genuinely underestimated just how fucking hard it would be.
I was constantly terrified that I'd ruin Rob's trip as a result of my non-drinking. Constantly comparing myself to other people and their seemingly amazing holiday chat and beers. But when we returned home his report of me, sober holiday Em, was quite glowing. Apparently Rob loved the early nights, active mornings and lazy afternoons. He was even chuffed that as a result of my sobriety he only suffered one hangover throughout the entire trip. Did I hear that right...? Am I starting to become a good influence?
There were moments I genuinely wanted to crawl under a rock and cry/die - mainly when I clocked other couples laughing and playing with the stems of their wine glasses. Meh, dicks. I was so wrapped up in my own warped world - a world where Rob would shout at me for not drinking and tell all his friends that he's married a dud.
Maybe there will come a time where he gets fed up with my sobriety, I'm not sure, but a week in Majorca certainly wasn't a deal breaker (as much as I thought it would be).
There were moments I genuinely wanted to crawl under a rock and cry/die - mainly when I clocked other couples laughing and playing with the stems of their wine glasses. Meh, dicks. I was so wrapped up in my own warped world - a world where Rob would shout at me for not drinking and tell all his friends that he's married a dud.
Maybe there will come a time where he gets fed up with my sobriety, I'm not sure, but a week in Majorca certainly wasn't a deal breaker (as much as I thought it would be).
Tuesday, 28 August 2018
Part 1 of 2. My first sober holiday: The death of drunk holiday Em and subsequent mourning.
So it's Tuesday, 28th August 2018 and I'm 51 days sober. And I've just completed my first holiday sans booze since I was roughly...15.
Before I went away I drafted the (since modified) title of this blog post which is a little trick I do to help me stay on the straight and narrow. If I have a major trip, event or occasion approaching I tend to find that noting my desired outcome before it's even happened is a really powerful tool - it keeps me focused and determined. Writing down your goals (and ultimately achieving them) is an age-old tactic, but when it comes to sobriety I feel it's a seriously smart move.
I didn't really know what to expect from sobriety abroad. As I've previously mentioned, I feel like I'm somewhat in limbo at the moment and I don't feel as if I've earned my teetotal stars. So for now, I'm simply an adult taking a break from the hangovers.
In truth, I'm not ready to tell people the truth. That my drinking has/had spiralled out of control, that I had started to hide my increasing consumption from my husband, that my hangover anxiety was rapidly suffocating almost every day of my working week. And they're just the headline sirens.
Cue lengthy blog post...
The day before we flew (Aug 17, 2018) we were at Rob's friends' wedding, which I confidently did sober and had no problems doing so. "So well done for not drinking Em but you're obviously going to drink on holiday, right?" was a question I heard countless times - and one I totally anticipated. My previous abroad instastories have been undoubtedly sponsored by late night shots, cocktails and hangover pool days, and deep down I was (seriously) nervous about being sober with my husband on holiday. Since we've been together it's never, ever happened.
And the more I thought about it the more anxious and alone I felt. For the first time in my life I wasn't looking forward to going on holiday and I'd started to work myself up - a lot. Inner booze voice enter stage right:
"Rob is going to think you're SO dull!"
"What are you going to do or even talk about? Drinking on hols is your bonding time!"
"How fucking boring and selfish are you? Leaving Rob to drink alone!"
"You're so ungrateful, Rob's paid for this holiday and you're not even going to enjoy it!"
"Happy knitting, Grandma!"
"Rob is going to run off with someone who drinks that is way more fun than you!"
*Inserts sad tear face and pile of shit emoji*
Two great sober champions - Catherine Grey and Clare Pooley (among others) - have written about their inner booze voice as an evil and unwelcome being, constantly scratching at the sober door and attempting to devour ones very best intentions. Until my holiday I hadn't been bothered by this voice, but as I sat poolside on day one of our sunshine-drenched trip the darkness came knocking, hard. Catherine calls hers Voldemort and Clare relates to the Wine Witch. Everyone, please be introduced to my horrific by-product-of-booze brain demon: Blix.
Named after the most black-hearted and ruthless goblin from the 80's fantasy epic, Legend, Blix's main goal in the movie was to kill the unicorns for the Lord of Darkness - so a complete prick as you can imagine. And he's hideous. There is no doubt my voice is Blix.
At 11.00 a.m. aka beer o'clock Rob asks me if I fancy a drink and I reply 'maybe, perhaps just a diet coke for now"? WHY CAN'T I JUST BE HONEST AND SAY 'NO, ACTUALLY DARLING I THINK I'M ADDICTED TO ALCOHOL AND NEED TO STOP THE BOOZE BEFORE IT STOPS ME, US, AND EVERYTHING ELSE GOOD IN MY LIFE.'
So what I thought was going to be a spectacularly blissful glittery retreat of health and tanning and activeness and glow and joy was quickly evolving into a very unpleasant experience. I felt like an ant being fried under a magnifying glass.
Having avoided alcohol on day one, Rob broached the subject of my non-drinking at dinner on our second evening. We had reservations at a beautiful restaurant called Nautilus which is nestled in the cliffs of Soller, Majorca. Once our drinks order was placed he asked me again about my sobriety and queried my count of non-drinking days. I shared my Nomo app with him and said I was using it as a useful tracking tool. At this point my shoulders felt slightly lighter...I'd just shared my sober tracking app with Rob (day 44. whoop) and he didn't freak out and call me a crazy alcoholic. Until this point I'd kept my little tracker a secret - and now he seemed pretty interested.
I was hoping a moment would present itself to talk openly and honestly about my break from booze and this was it. As I started to hint at my increasing hatred towards alcohol I became distracted by the waiter behind me - he was recommending the very best and most expensive red wine to an elderly couple who seemed to be enjoying letting the whole restaurant know how rich they were. The guy was literally shout-talking about how pleased he was to not have to 'view the yacht tomorrow.' Barf/so jel/kill me.
Becoming panicked by the thought of baldric and blue rinse being a shite tonne more fun than me, I found myself being all ambiguous and irritating again. 'So yeah, I'm just still digging this whole sobriety thing! I know I'm being really boring but I promise I'm still fun! I'll probably end up drinking tomorrow, lol!" In truth I just wanted to jump off the cliff we were perched on and land in the sun. I had never eaten at a more beautiful restaurant but I simply wanted to die. I was consumed with jealousy over other diners, their drinks orders, their conversations, their flirting, their better life. I swiftly started to resent my soft drink and was seriously contemplating wine. If they can enjoy booze, why can't I?
Until, that is, Rob delivered a few home truths. After I seemingly side stepped the perfect opportunity to be honest about my downward drinking spiral I found my husband offloading a number of concerns centred on out-of-control Em. 'Do you know babe, the worst thing about you drinking is when you lose your eyes. You get an absent glaze which I can't stand as you literally look like you're on another planet. I can't talk to you when you're like that.'
Hmmm...
I bit the bullet and responded with a question which required some serious courage. 'What else about me don't you like when I'm drunk'? Up until now I would literally do anything to avoid Rob recalling tales of me pissed and embarrassing, yet for some reason I felt now was the time to ask.
'You get to this stage where you just don't listen. Like if we have some friends round you get stupid and turn the music up full blast with zero respect for the neighbours. I ask you to turn it down and you do, but 10 seconds later you crank the volume up again and think it's funny. You just get really...annoying.'
OK, not too bad.... 'Anything else...'?
'Look Em, I don't want tonight to go down this route as you always get upset and angry at me, so let's just enjoy the view and have a great night'.
Rob was completely right. In the past when he's tried to broach my behaviour I've either lashed out or...lashed out. Sometimes I remember, sometimes I don't, but the long and short of it has always been me making excuses for my behaviour and shifting the blame. A favourite? 'Well you're my husband why the hell did you let me drink that much?!' Enter full blown heated couples row, stage left. Day ruined.
They don't call sobriety a journey for nothing. Since dropping tools in early July 2018 I have learnt so much about myself and have had to face some pretty horrendous flash backs. Strangely my recall has been sharper than ever since ditching the grog and I'm remembering bits of my life that I assumed were long buried/dead in my limbic system. Like the time I shared a joint with a homeless man in a doorway after clubbing in Reading. How sanitary. Or the time found myself on the phone to my dad, begging for a lift home after a wild night out, again in Reading. The latter doesn't sound too bad eh?...except I was 22 and hadn't called my dad for a lift since I was 16. It was 1.30 a.m. and I had experienced a severe blackout - I couldn't piece the night together pre-10.00 p.m. and came-to on the phone under the bright lights of Chicken Cottage, alone, without any of my friends.
My dad called me the next morning sick with worry to check I was alive. Apparently I was so drunk I couldn't communicate my whereabouts to him, told him he was useless and hung up. He couldn't call my mum to check I'd made it home as they haven't shared contact details since the divorce, so he essentially spent the night in a ball of worry and only got a few hours sleep.
When I finally answered his seventh call of the morning I told him to leave me alone as I was so hungover. To this day I have no idea how I made the 15 mile journey back to my mums (where I was living at the time) and still feel guilty about the way I treated him. And it's flashbacks like this that terrify me.
But I've banked Rob's concerns he shared with me at Nautilus and I know that my increasingly sharper brain will remember to discuss them as and when we're both ready to. In honesty I'm not ready to tell him I'm sober yet - even though I'm obviously not drinking which equates to being sober - but I'm not ready ready to announce my never drinking again to him. This is very much the start of something permanent for me but I need to treat it carefully. At the moment I feel like I'm prodding sobriety with a stick, like a curious child who has stumbled across a dead squirrel in the woods.
After Rob shared some of his pet hates attached to my shitty drunk behaviour it took the edge off slightly. After all, I'd much rather be present and in the moment here, right now, instead of being a bottle of wine in and forgetting what I ate. However my mind kept drifting to the rest of the room and I started to really struggle, so-much-so I took myself off to the toilet and had five minutes to myself (and sat on the loo and cried).
Despite my foul mood we had a lovely evening and the food was out of this world, but it's in situations like this - where the setting is perfect, the sun is shining and you're sat with the one you love most in the world - where hysterical self-analysis kicks in and a wave of depression hits you. I think I was starting to mourn my previous drunk life despite being well aware of the negatives. Being out with Rob on holiday and not drinking just felt...shit.
The next morning I went straight to the pool and dived back into my holiday read, The unexpected joy of being sober by Catherine Gray, which undoubtedly has changed my life.
Before I went away I drafted the (since modified) title of this blog post which is a little trick I do to help me stay on the straight and narrow. If I have a major trip, event or occasion approaching I tend to find that noting my desired outcome before it's even happened is a really powerful tool - it keeps me focused and determined. Writing down your goals (and ultimately achieving them) is an age-old tactic, but when it comes to sobriety I feel it's a seriously smart move.
I didn't really know what to expect from sobriety abroad. As I've previously mentioned, I feel like I'm somewhat in limbo at the moment and I don't feel as if I've earned my teetotal stars. So for now, I'm simply an adult taking a break from the hangovers.
In truth, I'm not ready to tell people the truth. That my drinking has/had spiralled out of control, that I had started to hide my increasing consumption from my husband, that my hangover anxiety was rapidly suffocating almost every day of my working week. And they're just the headline sirens.
Cue lengthy blog post...
The day before we flew (Aug 17, 2018) we were at Rob's friends' wedding, which I confidently did sober and had no problems doing so. "So well done for not drinking Em but you're obviously going to drink on holiday, right?" was a question I heard countless times - and one I totally anticipated. My previous abroad instastories have been undoubtedly sponsored by late night shots, cocktails and hangover pool days, and deep down I was (seriously) nervous about being sober with my husband on holiday. Since we've been together it's never, ever happened.
And the more I thought about it the more anxious and alone I felt. For the first time in my life I wasn't looking forward to going on holiday and I'd started to work myself up - a lot. Inner booze voice enter stage right:
"Rob is going to think you're SO dull!"
"What are you going to do or even talk about? Drinking on hols is your bonding time!"
"How fucking boring and selfish are you? Leaving Rob to drink alone!"
"You're so ungrateful, Rob's paid for this holiday and you're not even going to enjoy it!"
"Happy knitting, Grandma!"
"Rob is going to run off with someone who drinks that is way more fun than you!"
*Inserts sad tear face and pile of shit emoji*
Two great sober champions - Catherine Grey and Clare Pooley (among others) - have written about their inner booze voice as an evil and unwelcome being, constantly scratching at the sober door and attempting to devour ones very best intentions. Until my holiday I hadn't been bothered by this voice, but as I sat poolside on day one of our sunshine-drenched trip the darkness came knocking, hard. Catherine calls hers Voldemort and Clare relates to the Wine Witch. Everyone, please be introduced to my horrific by-product-of-booze brain demon: Blix.
Named after the most black-hearted and ruthless goblin from the 80's fantasy epic, Legend, Blix's main goal in the movie was to kill the unicorns for the Lord of Darkness - so a complete prick as you can imagine. And he's hideous. There is no doubt my voice is Blix.
At 11.00 a.m. aka beer o'clock Rob asks me if I fancy a drink and I reply 'maybe, perhaps just a diet coke for now"? WHY CAN'T I JUST BE HONEST AND SAY 'NO, ACTUALLY DARLING I THINK I'M ADDICTED TO ALCOHOL AND NEED TO STOP THE BOOZE BEFORE IT STOPS ME, US, AND EVERYTHING ELSE GOOD IN MY LIFE.'
So what I thought was going to be a spectacularly blissful glittery retreat of health and tanning and activeness and glow and joy was quickly evolving into a very unpleasant experience. I felt like an ant being fried under a magnifying glass.
Having avoided alcohol on day one, Rob broached the subject of my non-drinking at dinner on our second evening. We had reservations at a beautiful restaurant called Nautilus which is nestled in the cliffs of Soller, Majorca. Once our drinks order was placed he asked me again about my sobriety and queried my count of non-drinking days. I shared my Nomo app with him and said I was using it as a useful tracking tool. At this point my shoulders felt slightly lighter...I'd just shared my sober tracking app with Rob (day 44. whoop) and he didn't freak out and call me a crazy alcoholic. Until this point I'd kept my little tracker a secret - and now he seemed pretty interested.
I was hoping a moment would present itself to talk openly and honestly about my break from booze and this was it. As I started to hint at my increasing hatred towards alcohol I became distracted by the waiter behind me - he was recommending the very best and most expensive red wine to an elderly couple who seemed to be enjoying letting the whole restaurant know how rich they were. The guy was literally shout-talking about how pleased he was to not have to 'view the yacht tomorrow.' Barf/so jel/kill me.
Becoming panicked by the thought of baldric and blue rinse being a shite tonne more fun than me, I found myself being all ambiguous and irritating again. 'So yeah, I'm just still digging this whole sobriety thing! I know I'm being really boring but I promise I'm still fun! I'll probably end up drinking tomorrow, lol!" In truth I just wanted to jump off the cliff we were perched on and land in the sun. I had never eaten at a more beautiful restaurant but I simply wanted to die. I was consumed with jealousy over other diners, their drinks orders, their conversations, their flirting, their better life. I swiftly started to resent my soft drink and was seriously contemplating wine. If they can enjoy booze, why can't I?
Until, that is, Rob delivered a few home truths. After I seemingly side stepped the perfect opportunity to be honest about my downward drinking spiral I found my husband offloading a number of concerns centred on out-of-control Em. 'Do you know babe, the worst thing about you drinking is when you lose your eyes. You get an absent glaze which I can't stand as you literally look like you're on another planet. I can't talk to you when you're like that.'
Hmmm...
I bit the bullet and responded with a question which required some serious courage. 'What else about me don't you like when I'm drunk'? Up until now I would literally do anything to avoid Rob recalling tales of me pissed and embarrassing, yet for some reason I felt now was the time to ask.
'You get to this stage where you just don't listen. Like if we have some friends round you get stupid and turn the music up full blast with zero respect for the neighbours. I ask you to turn it down and you do, but 10 seconds later you crank the volume up again and think it's funny. You just get really...annoying.'
OK, not too bad.... 'Anything else...'?
'Look Em, I don't want tonight to go down this route as you always get upset and angry at me, so let's just enjoy the view and have a great night'.
Rob was completely right. In the past when he's tried to broach my behaviour I've either lashed out or...lashed out. Sometimes I remember, sometimes I don't, but the long and short of it has always been me making excuses for my behaviour and shifting the blame. A favourite? 'Well you're my husband why the hell did you let me drink that much?!' Enter full blown heated couples row, stage left. Day ruined.
They don't call sobriety a journey for nothing. Since dropping tools in early July 2018 I have learnt so much about myself and have had to face some pretty horrendous flash backs. Strangely my recall has been sharper than ever since ditching the grog and I'm remembering bits of my life that I assumed were long buried/dead in my limbic system. Like the time I shared a joint with a homeless man in a doorway after clubbing in Reading. How sanitary. Or the time found myself on the phone to my dad, begging for a lift home after a wild night out, again in Reading. The latter doesn't sound too bad eh?...except I was 22 and hadn't called my dad for a lift since I was 16. It was 1.30 a.m. and I had experienced a severe blackout - I couldn't piece the night together pre-10.00 p.m. and came-to on the phone under the bright lights of Chicken Cottage, alone, without any of my friends.
My dad called me the next morning sick with worry to check I was alive. Apparently I was so drunk I couldn't communicate my whereabouts to him, told him he was useless and hung up. He couldn't call my mum to check I'd made it home as they haven't shared contact details since the divorce, so he essentially spent the night in a ball of worry and only got a few hours sleep.
When I finally answered his seventh call of the morning I told him to leave me alone as I was so hungover. To this day I have no idea how I made the 15 mile journey back to my mums (where I was living at the time) and still feel guilty about the way I treated him. And it's flashbacks like this that terrify me.
But I've banked Rob's concerns he shared with me at Nautilus and I know that my increasingly sharper brain will remember to discuss them as and when we're both ready to. In honesty I'm not ready to tell him I'm sober yet - even though I'm obviously not drinking which equates to being sober - but I'm not ready ready to announce my never drinking again to him. This is very much the start of something permanent for me but I need to treat it carefully. At the moment I feel like I'm prodding sobriety with a stick, like a curious child who has stumbled across a dead squirrel in the woods.
After Rob shared some of his pet hates attached to my shitty drunk behaviour it took the edge off slightly. After all, I'd much rather be present and in the moment here, right now, instead of being a bottle of wine in and forgetting what I ate. However my mind kept drifting to the rest of the room and I started to really struggle, so-much-so I took myself off to the toilet and had five minutes to myself (and sat on the loo and cried).
Despite my foul mood we had a lovely evening and the food was out of this world, but it's in situations like this - where the setting is perfect, the sun is shining and you're sat with the one you love most in the world - where hysterical self-analysis kicks in and a wave of depression hits you. I think I was starting to mourn my previous drunk life despite being well aware of the negatives. Being out with Rob on holiday and not drinking just felt...shit.
The next morning I went straight to the pool and dived back into my holiday read, The unexpected joy of being sober by Catherine Gray, which undoubtedly has changed my life.
The more I read the better and stronger I feel for not giving in to a glass/bottle of red over dinner. I'd made it another day and I knew, had I let Blix convince me that one was 'OK, it would make me fun again', I'd be nursing a stinking hangover and would be sick-to-my-stomach from guilt. The holiday would have been ruined, however the day was new and I was still sober. From this point I decided to focus my energy on feeling better. The first three days of the trip I had been pining for old me and forgetting the disaster that is me and booze. Come on, Em, no more.
Btw - the original title I gave this post (drafted pre-holiday) was 'Seven days in Soller, my sensational sober holiday'. Wishful thinking, Dorothy.
Part 2 of 2 here.
Btw - the original title I gave this post (drafted pre-holiday) was 'Seven days in Soller, my sensational sober holiday'. Wishful thinking, Dorothy.
Part 2 of 2 here.
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