The day I nearly quit drinking

It was the first day back to school after the Christmas break and I was sitting, hunched over, on the side of my l’il boy’s bed. He had sausage-rolled himself into his duvet and was muffling tear-filled protests through his squishy, Rufus. I knew how he felt. The last thing I wanted to do was go anywhere. I was woozy and worried I I’d pass out, my face was hot, my eyelids scratched, my skin was one big raw nerve, and the only thing I wanted was to crawl into a preferably dreamless oblivion. “Hangover” couldn’t even come close. “Shiteshiteshiteshiteshite” (five because as we know, one is never enough). Rufus shook and shuddered. I begged and negotiated, pleaded and shouted. Then one of us that morning faced their responsibilities. Sadly, it wasn’t me. The seven year old put his shoes on, filled his water bottle and stomped out the door with the others to learn his lessons. I belly crawled back up the stairs and into bed with my own bottle of water and a packet of paracetamol, wondering why I could never learn mine.

It might not sound like it but I’m a goody-two-shoes. Petrified of being chastised I “called in sick”. Maybe everyone has done that at some stage; maybe everyone has bunked off school, but for me this was A. Big. Deal. No hangover had got the better of me yet - I had always gone to work. That was the line I always swore I would never step over. Ok I feel like seventy shades of snot but I will get my arse to that office and I will smile and I will do my job. A hangover was no excuse. But that morning the line was not very liney.

I wanted to sleep so badly and I couldn’t. I wanted to not think, but my mind was nauseatingly formula one-ing around and around all the bendy “shouldn’t have”s, and “what’s wrong with you stupid”s. I was twitchy hot with prickly sweat and shame. I hid under my duvet all day. Husband said, “you’ll have to get up some time”, but no, I didn’t have to. I deserved the pain and I had earned the shame. I wallowed in it, thinking this’ll teach me. Because I was so sick of myself, and sick to my stomach, I knew I could start a stop. I could do one evening without wine for god’s sake (now that I felt so terrible). And in a couple of days when the monster hangover had subsided, I purposefully remembered the shame and said “one more day”. I watched the clock and remembered the 6th of January, and counted one week without wine. I kept remembering and kept counting and astounded myself with the sleep and the rest. I was literally waking with a smile, like in some demented coffee commercial, raising my arms in a seated bedside stretch and serenely float into the day. Someone at work said “you’re so sparkly”, and I was, for about three months. Then as the days got longer, my memory shortened and one day I said, “pick up a bottle of rosé on your way home?”. And we sat outside after my hard day and drank it. It felt familiar and comfortable to hold the cold, stemmed glass, and after the nose wrinkle and catch in my throat of the first few sips it felt good, and “I wasn’t that bad”. I was back to normal.

One of us that morning faced their responsibilities. Sadly, it wasn’t me.

So I nearly quit drinking. Phew. Narrow escape. I was nearly that bad. Next morning I felt that hot eyed “aah, shiteshiteshiteshiteshite”, but the feeling wasn’t deep enough to stop me. The fear of the 6th of January had paused my drinking for a little while. Scaring myself into stopping hadn’t worked. I hadn’t crashed my car, or drunk-texted my boss, or caused physical harm. Maybe the fear of one of those things would have stopped me drinking for longer, but it would still only have been a temporary reprieve.

Because the fear wasn’t working any more, I had to find another way. The clock watching and day counting was all about doing without - if I got to some magical number it’d all be fine. It was all about not doing the thing I wanted to do, the thing I shouldn’t do, but still wanted to, but couldn’t, and round and round I went in my own F1 - afraid of the present with wine, afraid of the future without it. Every day was the same. Do you know what I mean? How can you do life without a drink and at the same time you could really do without those shiteshiteshiteshiteshite days - it’s exhausting.

In the end my stopping drinking had nothing to do with fear. It was the exact opposite. I stopped drinking with a sense of excitement and thrill. Yes, I was also nervous and apprehensive - what would I do with myself? What if this not drinking business stuck, what would happen then? But I stopped with hope, not dread, and switched my focus from the wine to me; from what I assumed I needed, to what I really did.

Scaring yourself into frustrated sobriety won’t work. Dare yourself though, to consider what you’re so afraid of. Dare yourself to go for a time without drinking. Pull back the duvet, throw your squishy to the ground, and join me.