If I was a fella, this would be a real kick in the nads (male testicles) — because yesterday, I was fine. Glowing, even. I went to a lovely little vegan event. Granted, the location of venue looked like a place you’d avoid. This would be true even if you were with a fully tooled-up gang of Hells Angels (who were also friends). But the event itself? Cracking.
Food and gifts aplenty. I even tried some vegan Parmesan that was — dare I say it — inspirational. Genuinely sound like I’m trying to be a massive bellend idiot here. Urrrghhh, it was inspirational. It truly was. The maker had this product down to a fine art form. I was both impressed and a little annoyed with myself for not considering it myself. After all, I make a mean lemon and rosemary salt for chips. Even if I do say so myself.
These folks had added a few culinary flourishes – wild garlic, truffle. I planned to thieve instantly and shamelessly.
One stallholder in particular stuck with me. An older chap, whilst encouraging me to sample, told me he’d worked in pensions his whole life. I had been polite in asking how long he’d been making these wonderful oils. When he spoke about it, he visibly shuddered. Like he was confessing past crimes against humanity. I don’t think pensions are that bad. Nowhere near as bad as insurance sales and I’m talking from experience of selling them. That and newspaper adverts, but I digress. And now here he was, hawking beautiful, cold-pressed oils with Lincolnshire’s finest rapeseed and a quiet sense of redemption. Lucky duck.
I bought three bottles, naturally.
But what really moved me wasn’t just the oils. It was the idea of starting again. Of leaving behind something long-term, something that had probably defined him, and deciding to do something entirely new. That, along with the excitement of what I was going to make with my new purchases. I was buzzing like a newly charged rabbit by the time I got home.
That reminds me…
So… What the Hell Happened?
I less that 24 hours I’ve transitioned from lemon oil infused lover to miserable mouthy mare. I have no more desire to sit in the sun than the Count himself. And I love the sun.
I applaud you if you’re still with me. If I was looking for a sober blog, I’d be asking what does this have to do with sobriety? You ask so nicely. As a matter of fact, this has everything to do with a sober self!
Just the act of writing this, right here, right now, is in itself beneficial. Recalling yesterday and tracking today are contributing to regulating my state. This process also helps my mental health.
Let me say it again, with feeling: this has everything to do with sobriety.
Mental health is a massive part of being sober. And taking care of yourself — even in the smallest ways — is a mental health gift. With or without alcohol, how we treat that part of ourselves has long-term impacts.
And here’s the thing: today is not objectively different from yesterday. I’m still sober. Still facing the same set of circumstances. But something is off. I feel low. Heavy. Stuck.
But why?
Like I said it is dehydration. Or tiredness. To be honest, I’ll be f**ked if I really know. I want to though. I need to.
Water or sleep, or lack there of aside, maybe it’s just good old existential dread. Maybe it’s Sunday.
Actually, that is a really good shout and I’ll explain why.
Sundays were never great growing up. Hell, trying to recall if there were good days full stop is a stretch. Sundays though had a particular bleakness. There was this oppressive cloud — emotionally, energetically. Even John Major’s Spitting Image puppet, a grey, flaccid analogue looked perkier than a Sunday in our house. Yeah, yeah, showing my age again. Sue me or bite me.
So, let’s say it is just Sunday.
Okay, So Now What?
If I were a reflective, emotionally intelligent, self-regulating kind of gal I might start by looking for patterns. Seems I am (now), so let’s go.
- Do I often spiral on a Sunday?
- If so – How often? Once a month? Each week?
- Has this only happened since getting sober? Or has this happened before.
On reflection. I have found a pattern.
- Sundays are prone if a spiral event is imminent
- Hard to say. Likely this is more frequent because of recent events (death of birth mother, resignation)
- Pre and post sobriety.
And now that I’ve clocked the pattern, I can do something about it. Not fix it. But plan for it. Better still, anticipate it, tackle it before it becomes a problem. At the very least come away intact and unscathed.
Today, the spiral already hit. So instead of trying to prevent it, I did things to support myself through it.
Tools I Used Post-Spiral
Typing this while still in the thick of it was pretty wrenching. Trying to get it down before it evaporated from my brain was like crossing a burning rope bridge. But getting it out helped.
Here’s what I did — or am doing — to manage:
- Acknowledged the event.
Just naming it helped ease the panic. - Reminded myself:
“I’ve felt this before. I survived.” - Named the emotional state:
“I feel overwhelmed. This is old sadness.” That made me feel less rattled and a bit more rational. - Wrote it out.
Writing this blog is part of that support. - Did a grounding exercise — in the shower, of all places:
- 5 things I could see
- 4 I could touch
- 3 I could hear (shower, fan, podcast)
- 2 I could smell (lemon shower gel + shampoo)
- 1 I could taste (chewing gum I forgot to remove before stepping in)
- Put on my oversized hoodie. Feels like a hug.
- Made a hot drink. Ate something (nuts in a bowl) simply prepared. These tiny acts feel like care. Love. Comfort.
Future Sunday Spirals? Got them covered.
Like any decent project manager, I now have a Sunday Spiral Plan™:
- Dress up or wear makeup. Yesterday I did, and it helped. Weekends don’t mean I have to be feral.
- Pre-made meals. Heating up, not prepping, is the key.
- Music. My “Happy Interjections” playlist is ready. The Darkness’ Dreams on Toast and a healthy splash of Jazz Emu feature heavily.
Comfort, Not Cure
I’m not trying to “fix” myself. But I also don’t want to raw-dog existence. These little things — the music, the hoodie, the lemon shower gel — they soothe. They soften the sharp bits. And that’s more than enough.
Before? I would’ve driven at speed to Tesco* and picked up two bottles of prosecco and a bag of shame snacks.
*Other enables or emotional crutches are also available.
Today? I didn’t.
Today, I spiralled, big time. I supported myself. And I survived. That’s progress. Both for staying in the sober game and mental health.
Don’t get me wrong, today was horrid. Feels like being on speed. That’s a post for another time.
But I have a plan now. Tools in the chest for the next time because there will be a next time. History shows this. Writing this all down has helped. Getting the thoughts out made a difference. I never caught on to the pattern before.
If this resonates and you’d like to share any tools in your own toolbox, I’ve love to hear from you.
Thank you and take care. Remember, one day at a tie. One breakdown per Tuesday. Love ya
Wilms x
Not For Me, Thanks 
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