Declining drink and drama
Needy little sidekick today.
Perhaps he is simply mirroring me—tired, a tad clingy, needing some quiet reassurance.
He doesn’t know he’s doing anything special, my fuzzy little loaf. Yet my little doggy doofus is giving the purest comfort. Unconditional love, warm and unspoken.
And honestly… couldn’t we all use a bit more of that sometimes?
When I started this blog, it was supposed to be a little flag in the ground. A small but powerful ‘I did it.’ One year sober. One year of reclaiming myself. A moment to exhale and maybe even celebrate. But life didn’t really care what I had planned.
Since then, I handed in my notice. My mum died. I found myself crying more days than not. The types of feelings, emotions that drove me to drink in the first place rose up again, uninvited and overwhelming. The emotional residue of a lifetime—the stuff I used to pour rum and wine over—came back in full force.
THIS is by no means a sob story. It’s not even a redemption arc. It’s just the truth.
Here’s the thing though. The countless times in the past few weeks (I means it’s not been that long) I didn’t drink. Not once. Though let’s be honest – it was fucking tempting.
The Christmas wine (really ought to get rid of that) seemed to poke the bruise. It would be so easy to quiet it all with a glass or five. I chose not to. I am certainly no hero. Sitting with your feelings is a necessary evil. Suppressing these with alcohol is what caused me to be here in the first instance. Plus, the thought of a hangover and even more depression wasn’t enough to p-p-p-pick up the Pinot. My story is not ending with that shit anymore.
That’s the thing isn’t it? That’s the very reason for drinking. At least it was for me. Dampening (drowning more like) emotions because they are difficult. More than difficult. They hurt. They remind you of not being good enough. Opportunities missed. And not always by your own hand. Trauma. Complex, unwavering trauma. One that, at the time when this all started getting way out of hand, was only just being realised.
Read more: Teetotal or Teetering: Sober, Shaky and Showing UpSo, I’ve just been told that my mum has died.
Yeah.
That’s my Sunday. Not down the pan. Just my Sunday, today.
Read more: When the Past Comes Crawling BackEvery Friday night felt like an eternity. If I just make it to Saturday morning, I’ll be fine.
There are so many things about sobriety that no one warns you about. You experience the cravings. There’s an identity shift. You suddenly have to actually feel every single emotion you used to drown out. But one of the hardest for me? Friday nights.
Read more: Transforming Friday Nights: Sobriety TipsLeaving without a job lined up is not my ideal. It was necessary.
Read more: Choosing Yourself: Walking Away from a Toxic Job“Not for me, thanks.” It’s a phrase I’ve said more times this year than I can count.
Offered a drink? Not for me, thanks. Offered an excuse to give in? Not for me, thanks. Offered the chance to stay small, quiet, and numbed out? F*cking Hell no! Not for me, thanks. Not. Any. More.
Today marks 365 days sober. A whole year. No wine. No rum. No cider. No “just one glass.” I’m here fist-bumping my way into celebrating that. I’m also here to say: this is just the start.
Read more: One Year Alcohol-Free: My Real Story
Not For Me, Thanks 