by Lotta Dann
Something has changed in me, this time it’s different. I can tell. My whole internal landscape has shifted. And so has my outlook. The world feels different. It feels monumental.
Corin and I talk for a bit and then he heads off for a nap. My brain is fizzing madly, thinking about what I’m intending to do and how exactly I’m going to do it. I head to the playground with our youngest (sunglasses still firmly fixed to face, pushing the swing in a lacklustre fashion) and on the way home, sitting at the traffic lights, I start thinking about the notes and letters I’ve been writing to myself recently. I decide it would be a good idea to keep going with that—to chart my thoughts and feelings, to help keep myself honest and on track. I still feel largely alone in my resolve. Corin is, as he always has been, unwavering in his love and support but, really, what can he do? Love and support is the best he can do and he does that wholeheartedly and unconditionally. The rest I need to do myself. I’ve always been alone in my concern about my drinking and now I’m alone in my newfound grit and determination. I need to constantly hear from myself as I head down this non-drinking road.
I ponder buying a notebook to keep beside my bed so I can jot down my feelings at the end of each day. A nice big journal that I can fill with letter after letter written to myself. As I’m planning this move and imagining what sort of notebook to buy, I think, ‘Actually I can touch type really fast, so it would make more sense to type it up on the computer.’ I imagine opening a Word document and hiding it in a file somewhere on the hard drive so that it’s tucked away in a private place just for me. Then one thought turns to another and I think that if I’m going to type it on the computer I might as well use one of those blogging templates that are freely available online. No one need know I’m doing it. And if a random person in the world stumbles across it they won’t know it’s me, it can still be private and personal and just for me. I won’t say who I am or offer any identifying details. It will be a personal journal for me, a private online diary to chart my progress.
I like making this plan. I like that I feel determined and focused. I don’t particularly like that I feel quite alone in this monumental ambition but I can’t see any other way forward. This really is just about me talking to me. Me fixing me.
My hangover fades and I get through the next two days in a low-key, glum state but with no alcohol passing my lips. Not-drinking hasn’t been too difficult so far. I know I can live dry for periods at a time and I’ve just recently had three-and-a-half weeks entirely off the booze. It’s just that this time the dry period will never end. That’s how I’m going at this. I’m not thinking, ‘Just for today I won’t drink’; I’m thinking, ‘I’m now a non-drinker.’ It’s a bit mind-boggling but that’s my attitude. I’m expecting there to be a period of adjustment and I know that I’ll have to be strong at times to resist urges but I’m determined that I’ll be able to manage it. I’ll just white-knuckle through the urges until the urges fade away and stop altogether. Surely they will. It’s got to be that simple, right? Breaking a habit, that’s what I’m doing. Removing alcohol and breaking a nasty little habit.
In these first few days I find myself doing unfamiliar things like buying energy drinks and iced coffees during the day and little bottles of soft drinks to pour in a wineglass at 5 p.m. (Well, why not? I don’t want to suffer stem withdrawals.) I’m very focused on liquids. I’m not fighting any strong cravings but I’m also trying to head them off at the pass by having other drinks around me. And I go to the local library and grab all the books I can on drinking and living sober. I feel a little bit awkward at the front desk getting all these books on alcoholism but I tell myself that for all the librarian knows I could be doing my Master’s research on alcohol (I’m not—it’s on ethics in reality TV!). And anyway, I’m not an alcoholic, just a problem drinker.
By Thursday I have figured out how to set up a blog using the free service Blogger. It’s incredibly easy to navigate around their site. I choose a URL that makes plain my goal—www.livingwithoutalcohol.blogspot.com—but the title of the blog I make more direct, more about me (although nice and enigmatic): Mrs D Is Going Without. I decide on a typeface (jaunty), a background (gritty), colours (bold) and I pinch a couple of images off the internet to liven up the page (feminine and boozy). It’s my third day sober and I quickly write my first ever blog post to me. In it I tell the full story of my final night of drinking and express how I’ve had enough of this boozy madness. I’m honest and I’m direct. I’m talking to myself and I end it with a sign-off and kisses like I would any letter to a loved one, using my newly selected, enigmatic nom-de-plume.
Mrs D Is Going Without (Day 3)
I’ve reached a tipping point and from now have decided to remove alcohol from my life. I’m scared, it’s going to be hard. Our family all drink. Our friends all drink. And I’m going to try and do this without any outside support. Just this blog. So stay posted and I’ll let you know how
I get on.
Love, Mrs D xxx
The act of setting up the blog, fiddling around with the template and making decisions about how it’s going to look feels very satisfying, very active, like I’m doing something positive. I know that I’m going to have to retrain my brain to live without alcohol. I know that I’ve got a nasty habit to break and it will take some effort. Setting up the blog feels somehow like it’s going to support me in that. And writing the first post feels great! I enjoy the process of telling the story, letting the words flow out of me. I type it out quickly then get on with the day knowing that the blog is there like a support net for me to fall back on.
Friday dawns and I wake up immediately thinking about my big decision and my exciting secret online journal. While the new sober lifestyle feels scary and overwhelming, the blog on the other hand feels treat-y, special and fun, like my own cool, online hideaway. I haven’t told Corin about it yet, it feels too precious to share even with him. I hop online as soon as I can and read over my post from the day before. My own words on the screen stare back at me, spelling out the story of my last, sad evening of drinking. I launch straight into typing out a new post without too much planning.
Mrs D Is Going Without (Day 4)
Jeepers, reading that story in black and white does just the trick I hoped it would. It sure does read ‘dysfunctional’. I think I might write out a couple more sad, unhealthy, dysfunctional facts about my drinking to ram this mission home. Because right now I’m thinking it’s going to be a doddle to give up booze! But it’s only been a few days and the memory of recent binges looms large in my brain. I’m sure as the weeks go by I’ll be lulled into thinking I can start again, pressure will come on, and the pull, the incredible pull of the booze will call to me . . .
I fill out the rest of the post by confessing to some of my secret sick drinking habits (fixating on how much I can get in me, filling glasses to the rim and slurping the top down immediately, obsessing about how much others are drinking and how much is left for me). Some of the twisted drinking behaviours that have been my guilty secrets for so long come out of the dark corners of my mind, travel down my arms, into my fingers and through the keyboard to take shape on the screen. It feels really good to be getting it out. Empowering. Freeing. I close the post by looking at what’s facing me for the night ahead.
Mrs D Is Going Without (Day 4 continued . . .)
Today is the opening of the Rugby World Cup and New Zealand is going nuts. We are heading down to the waterfront with the kids to soak up some of the Opening Party atmosphere then home to watch the All Blacks play the opening game. Usually I’d have a good bottle and a half of red wine to accompany that . . . but not tonight . . .
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It is an incredibly unfortunate twist of timing. My new non-drinking life is beginning just as New Zealand is gearing up to host the Rugby World Cup. The event is being touted as ‘The Biggest Party Ever!’ and the entire country is going crazy with joy at celebrating such a huge, global event and of course (aside fr
om the rugby) the whole thing seems to be about alcohol. Every alcohol company is sponsoring something to do with the event, every booze outlet is running special deals to aid with the partying, and the media is awash with suggestions on how to host game-day parties. Am I stupid? Am I mad to try and give up booze when there is such a noisy dialogue all around me about drinking, partying and having fun?
I can’t afford to give a toss about the World Cup. I just can’t. It could be Christmas, New Year or any other celebration and I’d still have to not-drink. I feel so determined to change my life, I’m not going to let anything stop me. I’m focusing only on what’s inside my head: my own thoughts and my certain knowledge about my issues and the need for me to stop drinking. I’m not going to dwell or feel sorry for myself. I have to redefine myself as a non-drinker regardless of what is going on around me. I just have to forge ahead.
Corin and I brave the crowds and take the boys downtown to join in the opening night celebrations. We need to catch a train to the waterfront; there’ll be no chance of parking the car in town. At the local station the platform is crowded and buzzing, our boys are excited and jumping about, and when we finally make it onto a train it’s packed to the gunnels. Everyone is really excited and doesn’t seem to mind that space is tight and the train is moving at a snail’s pace. Thankfully the boys calm down in the crush and stand quietly holding tightly on to our hands.
At the front of our carriage is a group of pimply youths: they look nice enough but for one fact—they’re absolutely trolleyed. It’s 3 p.m. and they’re drunk as skunks. I look at them from my safe distance at the other end of the carriage and feel not in the slightest bit jealous, but at the same time readily identifying with them—I’ve been there many a time.
As the train slowly inches towards town their drunken revelry gets louder until suddenly a chant builds up: ‘Fill the bottle! Fill the bottle! Fill the bottle!’ It takes me a while to register what they mean. Then the disgusting reality dawns on me. I look disbelievingly at Corin; surely they couldn’t be encouraging their mate to piss in a bottle?
They are and, can you believe it, he does. He pisses in a bottle, holding it proudly aloft once he finishes—a 1-litre Coke bottle now filled with steaming yellow urine. I simply cannot believe this charming drunken act has happened right before my eyes just as I’m confronting my own drinking issues. My mind easily brings forward memories of being horribly drunk, an out-of-control feeling, a feeling of needing to piss, needing to vomit, needing to lie down, needing to stop. Watching this drunken behaviour from the other end of the carriage I have to admit that, right now, I feel great!
But my smugness is fleeting. Just a couple of hours later, having finally made it into town, we’re pushing the pram along the waterfront through the crowd past a row of newly built bars and restaurants. The sun is streaming down and everyone is happy and friendly. Trendy parents with kids and mugs of beer sit on wooden benches with the sea lapping nearby. Young professionals laugh together, holding shiny glasses of chardonnay. And bam! I’m hit with a pang. A longing. An actual physical pain in my belly. And my inner dialogue, my drinking voice, starts up. ‘Surely not. Never again? Really? Will I never again have that fun feeling, that freedom, that abandon? Will I never again experience that chatty, hedonistic, boozy fun?’ I try to shut the voice up but there’s no denying I feel glum. I feel shitty. I feel hard-done-by. The night ends with me on a bit of a downer.
The next morning I hop online and write a new post on my secret, private blog. I write out all that happened on our trip into town, the drunken youths, the piss in a bottle, the trendy bars and the pang. Once again I talk firmly to myself, referring to myself in the third person like a weirdo:
Mrs D Is Going Without (Day 5)
Remember Mrs D, remember.
It had stopped being fun.
It had stopped being fun.
It had stopped being fun.
But as the weekend progresses, I find myself completely freaking out. I manage to get through a quiet Saturday evening without drinking (early to bed) but wake up on Sunday morning in a total flap. A week hasn’t even passed since I decided to become sober yet I’ve got a sick, uneasy, nervy feeling in my stomach. I’m far from relaxed. I’m worried. I haven’t proven myself capable yet. I haven’t had any serious temptations yet. What if I can’t stay strong and never ever drink again? Can I actually do this?
Maybe one of the reasons I’m feeling so fraught is that I’ve been reading through my library books and they’re all full of doom and gloom. They’re all telling me that alcohol addiction is impossible to overcome, that willpower won’t work, that I can’t get sober alone, and that I’m going to remain miserable, with a perpetual longing forever more. I can’t bear the thought.
On Sunday I secretly, desperately update my blog:
Mrs D Is Going Without (Day 6)
Okay, now I see why my guts are churning. I’m being told left, right and centre that I can’t do this. Or at least that I can’t do this alone.
But I’m not alone!!! I have you, dear blog. Dear Blog. Dearest Darling Blog. You are going to help save me. I will do it by writing you every morning. Together we can kick my booze-habit’s butt. See you tomorrow.
Of course my blog is just me talking to me. It’s a private journal that happens to be online. I’m relying on myself to keep myself sober. I like my secret forum where I can talk to myself and keep myself honest. It helps, but I’m still nervous as all hell about what I’m attempting to do. Determined, but nervous.
That evening I face a small social test. Corin’s co-host and her husband invite us over for dinner. It’s an easy way for me to test my newly acquired sober identity in a social setting but not a very tough one; these people don’t know me at all. They offer us beer and wine on arrival and the ‘not for me thanks’ trips easily off my tongue. For all they know this is normal. Ha! Close friends would probably be checking my temperature right now and asking me if I wanted to lie down. I’m acutely aware of the alcohol around me and the others who are drinking it but it’s not seriously tempting me. There’s no noisy internal conversation within myself, trying to deny the urge, push it away, justify the want and then buckling to accept the wine.
It’s not quiet in my mind, though—there’s a raucous internal conversation going on about how pleased I am that I’m not drinking. I’m delighted with myself! I’m high-fiving myself mentally for being so strong! It’s strange because my joy is monumental, yet it’s hidden. I feel like I’m wearing a big furry gorilla suit that no one else can see. (I’m actually wearing a lovely pink tunic top which I have borrowed from my sister.)
The dinner progresses uneventfully and is mercifully brief. I’m sure no one at the table has any idea what’s going on in my head; from the outside I appear quite calm. As we head home in the car, I’m on a bit of a high about how comfortable I felt not-drinking in that social setting. I rabbit on to Corin about what a great victory it was for me, but I don’t think he quite understands how happy my behaviour tonight has made me. I’m so happy I don’t even care when I get home and discover that I’ve been wearing my pink top inside-out the whole evening. The tag is totally showing at the back of my neck and all the seams are obviously on raggedy display. Big-time fashion fail. Oh well, whatever. I can’t be bothered feeling embarrassed about that, I’ve got bigger stuff going on.
Sadly, my high doesn’t last. The next day I wake up in grumpy-land, and as the week progresses I get more and more snippy by the day. I’m not seriously considering drinking but I feel grouchy as all hell. I thought I’d be feeling happier, lighter, free! I’ve got no hangovers, no guilt, and I’m sleeping right through every night (as opposed to my alcohol-induced insomnia). So why am I so tense? I snap at Corin all the time and yell at the kids for the slightest infringement. Jeez, I wish I could lighten up. I wish I could just shrug my shoulders and smooth myself out. I wish I was feeling great—I should be feeling great. Why aren’t I feeling great?
One of my library books tells me that an alcoholic’s brain adopts a peculiar amnesia, and as more time passes since the last drink they conveniently forget all of the reasons why they had to stop. I am not an alcoholic, that’s a fact, but I can almost feel this peculiar amnesia happening inside my own brain. Thoughts fly in like: ‘Do I really need to stop?’ ‘Is this drastic measure an overreaction?’ ‘Was I really that bad?’ I have to work hard to not let myself forget the horrible boozy madness that I’ve been living. Yes, I bloody was that bad, I tell myself. Harrumph.
I update my secret blog every morning:
Mrs D Is Going Without (Day 8)
It’s one week since my final binge, and I’m so aware that it’s early, early days yet. But I haven’t wanted a drink at all and don’t feel nervous about any upcoming weekends or events. I feel like I never want to pour myself another glass of wine and go back down that track. But I’m nervous because I just know it can’t be this easy.
Big deep breath in . . . whoosh . . . let breath out. In, out. In, out . . .
I’m working really hard inside my brain to try and change how I’m thinking. Because I’m going after this non-drinking as a long-term thing, I keep trying to visualise myself in the future—living completely sober. It’s still a bit of a mind-fuck; picturing myself sober at all future events is horrendous. So I start shifting my thinking to a more short-term view, picturing myself getting through just the evening ahead without booze.
The evenings are bloody hard. Five o’clock might not be wine o’clock for me anymore but it still bloody happens every day.
As the clock inches closer to that crucial hour, of course I’m thinking about wine and start feeling uptight and glum that I can’t have any. I try really hard to picture myself climbing into bed later on without having had anything to drink. I force myself to imagine getting into my PJs and brushing my teeth without having had anything to drink. It’s fucking hard at 4.45 p.m., hard at 5 p.m. (pour a ginger beer into a wineglass), hard at 6 p.m. (grit my teeth and get on with the housewifey jobs), hard at 6.45 p.m. (pour another ginger beer), but by the time 7.30 p.m. rolls around the relief starts to creep in. I start to relax and breathe a bit easier and deeper. And, boy, it’s lovely to actually follow through and find myself getting into bed every night without having had a drink. Really, really lovely.