So today starts my first official blog entry. I’ve been thinking about doing this since I started on this bumpy road, and just haven’t gotten round to it. Too busy facing my feelings, attending meetings, getting my shit together, eating an insane amount of sweets, practicing yoga, wincing with flashbacks of drunken behaviour…but here I am: 66 days sober on the 6th day of the 6th month. I’ll choose to ignore the reference to Lucifer and just enjoy the funky ‘6-6-6-6’ number pattern.
I often find the best part of sobriety blogs is reading about how the blogger got to their decision to get sober: their ‘rock bottom’. Perhaps it’s the appeal of a happy ending after a nightmare, the sunshine after a thunderstorm, or (and if I’m honest more likely), it’s that grisly side of me that can’t help but look after a car crash, that morbid curiosity that enjoys hearing tales of physical, emotional and spiritual harm.
So what was my lowest point? Well, I’ve had numerous moments of feeling like an utter wino shitbag. In 2014 I was caught ‘high level’ drink driving and lost my licence for 12 months. That didn’t stop me. I’ve fallen down and woken up with significant cuts and bruises I don’t remember getting. They didn’t stop me. I’ve screamed viscous obscenities at my husband and dangled myself off of a 12 storey balcony (all completely erased from memory in the morning), and that didn’t stop me. I’ve fallen out of an Uber and crawled on my hands and knees from the gutter to my front door in front of my two children and guess what? That didn’t stop me either. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’d have to rely on my phone to track my mood and movements from the night before (evidently I’m an excellent texter when wasted) and wouldn’t you freaking know it, that didn’t stop me either. Indeed, there wasn’t one defining moment that brought me to the decision that I needed to kick the booze for good, but rather a collage of headaches and dry mouths, glances of disappointment and insecurity from my children, receipts from expensive nights out with nothing to show for it except a toilet full of rank, rust-coloured wee, broken promises to myself that I’d stick to just the one bottle, would only drink on the weekends, wouldn’t drink before 5…yadda, yadda, fricking yadda.
So, instead of one defining scrape of the barrel, it was a culmination of incidences that came together to form a stinking pinnacle of self-loathing, heart-hardening self disgust and gripping, gut-churning, toe-curling anxiety. A point where it was either stop battling, lower my standards and accept that I was and would always be a middle-class suburban booze hag likely to make a major life-threatning mistake that I’d never get over, or dig the fuck deep, pull my fucking big girl pants up, and sort this shit out once and for all. And so, on Sunday April 2nd 2017, I chose the latter. I don’t know what it was about that particular day, but I’m so glad it came. That’s not to say that life’s been a box of bloody birds since I stopped, but if I felt like I was living in a cyclone of despair when I was boozing, then this has lifted to patchy drizzle with moments of intense and brilliant sunshine, and the odd bird chirp in the background.
So, that’s my first post and this is day 66 of my sobriety.
Love, and light and energy