by Lotta Dann
He accepts that this is the truth but, boy, do I cry. Tears are pouring out of me in waves. It’s very intense.
Mrs D Is Going Without (Day 230)
I have to write right now as it’s 4.45 a.m. and my brain is whirring and I think getting things out in words will help me.
I think the thing is, and I was trying to explain this to Mr D last night, I think the thing about doing this move sober is that for me all the emotion associated with it is way more amplified than it would be before. It’s like someone’s put ‘relocation headphones’ on me and has turned the fucking volume up to one million decibels (if there is such a thing, and sorry about swearing but I just want to swear here, okay?).
And normal drinkers or non-drinkers or heavy drinkers don’t get this because they’re used to whatever their habit is so their emotional volume level is sitting more comfortably where they’re used to. Only people who used heavily then took it clean away know what this is like. I’m still relatively newly sober (7½ months) so my volume is peaking and I’m sure it will slowly be turned down as I get used to living without liquid anaesthesia.
My eyelids are swollen because yesterday I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed huge gut-wrenching sobs all the way home from the university, where I’d just told them I needed to put my Master’s on hold for 3 months then continue via distance learning from Wellington.
Then I cried rivers telling my friend up the road that we’re moving. This woman is the most awesome, lovely, strong, kind and amazing friend and saying goodbye to her is really, really going to hurt. She is very, very special.
To be perfectly frank, I don’t want to be doing any of this. I don’t want to be putting my Master’s on hold and I don’t want to be crying in front of all my friends and I don’t want to have to say goodbye to my neighbours and I don’t want to be looking for a house to rent in the new city and I don’t want to get 3 fucking written quotes for Mr D’s firm to approve the furniture removal company and I don’t want to be organising gardeners and cleaners and painters and builders to get our house ready for sale and I don’t want to deal with real estate agents again and I don’t want to talk to schools and help my boys with their nerves about moving and I just don’t want to do any of this because I am really, really happy here.
And all of this emotional pain is much more keenly felt because I’ve radically changed my lifestyle.
Corin can see what a mess I am and is working really hard to make this move comfortable for me. (‘Let’s get a really amazing house to rent when we arrive in Wellington.’) I know he is hugely grateful that I’ve had no hesitation in moving us, and I can see the transformation in him now that he’s heading into his dream job. He’s walking a little taller in his shoes and that gives me great pride, enough to dull my sadness a little. Of course my lovely blog readers are also amazingly supportive.
Comment from ‘Annabel’
What is it they say, that a move is right up there with divorce and death in terms of stress? Amplified ten thousand times if you don’t actually want to move. It sounds like you’re still in a state of shock. And, oh, yeah, you have to feel all of this raw and unmuted and possibly even amplified because you’re newly sober.
I don’t think I had any real coping skills in all the years I drank. I also don’t think I realised this until I started feeling feelings again, which was around the 6 month mark. And it sucked and I cried over things I hadn’t realised I wanted to cry over. And these weren’t even new things, mind you. And here you are dealing with a very stressful life moment and you are doing things to cope, but still it’s feeling raw and powerfully hard. I think all you can do is stick this one out and ask for help and vent as often as you can.
Focus on tasks little by little. Let go of what you have little or no control over because that will just overwhelm you. Do whatever you need to get through this, but mostly just allow yourself to feel the emotions. I really think it’s an important thing to feel right now. Someone told me the lows are replaced with equally high highs and I’ve found that to be true. It gives me a lot of hope when I’m low.
Hugs to you.
Comment from ‘Sunny’
AA’s are advised not to make major lifestyle changes in the first year. Sometimes we don’t have a choice. Even when it’s the right thing to do, it is still hard. Getting through it will be a fantastic achievement for you.
I’ve just thought. Presumably most people in your new life won’t know you as a drinker. So you won’t feel you have to explain. You will just be Mrs D who prefers to drink soft drinks.
Damn, must have lost that memo about not making any major lifestyle changes in the first year. But here’s what’s interesting. I’m a wreck, and I know that it is worse because of my new sober lifestyle, yet I am not in the slightest bit tempted to actually go and buy a bottle of wine and drink it. I couldn’t do that. I think hard about that boozy person I was and I so don’t want to be her. I hold an image in my mind of the person I want to be and I start to realise I am actually becoming her. Raw and messy, but sober and brave. I cry, but my mind is set. I am a non-drinker. This is a test and I will pass it. Watch me.
I feel my sober armour so keenly I decide to do something external to register it. A tattoo’s out of the question (the pain!), so instead I go online and find a silver jewellery maker who does pieces to order. I email her and order a pendant with a flower etched on the front and request ‘September 6, 2011’ to be etched on the back. Will she wonder what that date signifies? I almost wish she’d ask just so I could answer.
‘It’s my sobriety date, lady,’ I’d say. ‘It’s the date I stopped putting alcohol in my body.’
25
The pendant arrives in the mail and I love putting it on each morning, with the date hidden on the back of it next to my skin. Our house sells (it’s a stressful close call, only one bidder at the auction), Corin finds us a lovely home to rent in Wellington (we’re moving to a brand new suburb which we know is great for families), and I work hard to get everything set up in advance for the boys (school, Scouts groups, rugby teams). ‘This will be our last ever move,’ Corin and I tell each other. ‘Never again.’
The final days in Auckland are excruciating. I literally run away from one of the teachers on the boys’ last day of school because I’m sobbing so hard. This amazing teacher has been very special to our family. It’s raining but I wear my sunglasses all the way back to the car so other parents don’t see me weeping. I’ve cried so much over the past eight weeks you’d think I’d be cried out by now, but the sadness still cuts deep. I’ve got no control whatsoever on my emotions. It’s like I’m on a bucking bull of emotions and clinging on for dear life.
I sob as I cross the road one last time to give our lovely neighbours a final big hug. I cry when my brother-in-law brings the cousins over for their last goodbye. I tear up when the truck leaves with all our belongings in it. I sob when a friend drops in to our now-barren house to give me a framed photo of me with all my local girlfriends.
Am I overreacting? Sometimes I wonder if I’m crying tears for all the past sadnesses I’ve never allowed myself to feel, there’s so goddamn many of them. Or maybe this move really is that big a deal. Who knows, all I know is I feel completely grief-stricken and washed out.
Finally we lock the front door in Auckland for the last time and pile into the car to drive down country. An hour after we’ve left the city, I’m still in a very watery, emotional state. But as the car rumbles along it starts dawning on me how much I’ve changed in the four years since we did this same journey in reverse.
The me back then moved cities without much crying or contemplation, with little sorrow or sentimentality, and with a crap-load of wine onboard. I boozed like a wine-guzzling maniac throughout the entire moving process. I left friends and neighbours and caregivers and colleagues with only little glimpses of emotion—I squashed it down constantly with wine. ‘Byeeeeeeeee,’ I’d screeched in my crazy wine-glugging faux-che
erful state as we departed.
This time it’s different. This time I’ve done it sober, with no external, dysfunctional, liquid-coping mechanism, just my own raw faculties. In some respects it’s been way harder this time around (I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much in my entire life), but in another way it’s been surprisingly do-able. I mean, I’ve done it, haven’t I? Through a wall of tears, I’ve done it.
I sit in the car hurtling south and start to feel quietly proud of myself. I passed the test. My new sober state of mind might be raw, but it’s robust. It’s bloody robust.
I’d like to say the tears stop with this moment of self-congratulation. But they don’t. I cry on and off during the three-day journey south (we overnight at a couple of tourist spots, which is lovely despite my general glum state), and I cry a little when we unpack at the other end (despite having a valet unpacking service, OMG amazing!). I shed a few tears the first day I take the boys to their new school, sunglasses on again even though it’s not sunny. I’m worried the parents round here must think I’ve got serious attitude, wearing my sunglasses on an overcast winter’s day. I feel like yelling out, ‘I’m not a dick! I’m newly sober and hiding my tears!’ But of course I don’t.
That evening I’m walking around the local store getting supplies and I pass through the wine section. I’m struck by all the bottles and allow myself a full-blown fantasy about buying and drinking lots of red wine. I’m feeling really strung out and there’s no denying an escape would be so nice. Mmmm lovely red wine. I imagine myself glug, glug, glugging lots and lots of red wine. Mmmmmm red wine.
I finish my shopping quickly, drive home and go to bed early.
The next day I’m invited to have coffee with a group of old friends that live dotted around the city in far-flung suburbs. This is the group of people we went to see on that infamous holiday weekend when I did the sad, hell-for-leather drinking and ended up vomiting in our unit and losing a favourite earring. We all met in antenatal classes eight years ago, and despite now living in different neighbourhoods, they still get together weekly. I’d been a firm part of the group until we moved away.
When I walk into the room today and see their faces light up at my arrival I burst into tears. Why I didn’t grieve when leaving these women four years ago is beyond baffling. Every single one of them is a gem: kind, warm, lovely and real. We are a very special group of women who never judge, compete or compare. Yet when I moved away I told myself it didn’t matter that I wouldn’t be a regular part of the group anymore. I told myself I didn’t care. ‘It’s not important,’ I thought at the time. That was the wine talking, or rather that was the wine not letting the real me talk. No such emotional shield today, here I am all watery yet again.
I don’t care. These are happy tears.
Eventually, thankfully, the tears do dry up. Weeks go by and we slowly start to settle into our new life. Corin is really busy in the new job at parliament and so happy to be mired in politics. I’m so happy for him and really proud every time he pops up on the news informing us what the government is up to. The boys make friends quickly and I start meeting other mums in the new neighbourhood. Everyone is very nice and welcoming. I am lonely, though, my phone is so much quieter than it was back in the old community. There I had friends texting constantly to arrange play dates and neighbours calling by with surplus garden vegies. Nothing like that going on here—yet. I know it’ll come. I trust that I’ll build up a new community full of lovely people. And I’ve moved around enough in my life to know it takes time to form real, honest connections. So I settle myself for the rebuild, sow seeds and trust new friendships will grow.
I do sometimes wonder what all the new people I’m going to meet will think of the fact that I don’t touch alcohol. But you know what? I honestly just cannot be bothered worrying. I just can’t waste the energy. It’s a bummer. It’s a fact. It’s part of me. I’m an alcoholic and I no longer drink alcohol because I can’t control it. End of.
And you know what else, I just can’t be bothered fudging it, either. If people want to think whatever, then let them think whatever. I will be open and go along to any social gathering like a normal person and when the actual drinks-being-poured-into-a-glass moment comes, I’ll say, ‘No wine for me, thanks’, and at that point I’ll let the other person decide if they want to show a reaction or ask a question, and if they do I’ll just be upfront and say, ‘I don’t drink alcohol, I can’t drink moderately so I’ve cut it out altogether.’
That is an oversimplification of all the emotional and intellectual work that I’ve been doing over the past couple of years in building up to stopping and then stopping and relearning how to live without alcohol. But it’s the truth! And if that breezy answer makes the whole process I’ve been through seem more easy than it has been, then that can be my lie. If I make it breezy it won’t be a drama, for me or for them.
Apart from anything else I’m too bloody busy to spend time worrying what people think. I’ve got a husband who is flat out in a new big job (working long hours and travelling a lot), a house to run, three lively sons to look after and a bloody thesis to write. I’ve finally managed to get back into my Master’s studies, analysing my interview transcripts, gathering textbooks, and meeting with my supervisor via Skype.
Oh, and I’m keeping sober.
Keeping sober isn’t too hard. Well, it’s not hard in the sense that I’m fighting the urge to pour loads-a-wine down my throat every day, but it is still hard to be feeling so goddamn much all the time.
Mrs D Is Going Without (Day 311)
Whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and whine and moan and aarrrggghhhhhhh!!!!!
That’s all I goddamn bloody hell do! Quit bloody whining and moaning, would ya?! Blah blah blah-di-blah.
Right. Good. Now I’ve got that out of my system I can move on.
I love waking up every morning. I honestly do. I love waking up with no guilt, no dry horrors, no need for Panadol, no distractions from what’s actually in front of me. I’ve started feeling way more grateful for the fact that I wake up every morning after a good sleep with no sickly feeling in my guts and ready to start the day.
Okay, so sometimes that day contains a bit of stress or grumpiness, but it’s not overwhelming. I think I have this belief that to feel grumpy or stressed, and certainly to act to others (my children or husband) like I’m grumpy or stressed, is a FAILURE. I have this stupid long-held belief that it is a FAILURE (use of caps for emphasis, is that too much?) to be a grump or snappy or shitty. That I am FAILING (that’s the last use of caps, I promise) if I am anything but cheery and sunny all the time. Well, how stupid and dumb is that? I’m going to try harder to stop feeling like that. I mean, I’m also going to try harder to control those moods and not let them ‘run away’ on me (i.e. get way too shitty or grumpy) but if I do act like that sometimes—well, that’s just life.
It’s all very well understanding objectively that a sober life means having to feel more acutely, but actually dealing with those feelings is still hard for me. I’ve had sadness in spades, what with the relocation, and now it’s stress coming at me hard out. The thesis work is getting more difficult by the day. I’m working on it every spare moment I have, and it’s not bloody easy. Reading heavy-duty theorists is hardly fun (Foucault anyone?) and academic writing is definitely not my forte. It’s taking a lot of effort to put my thoughts and ideas into a scholarly form. Thankfully my supervisor has the patience of a saint.
Then without realising it I’ve suddenly crept close to a huge milestone. Holy shitballs! One year of sobriety is staring me in the face. It’s not an anniversary, it’s a soberversary!
26
I’m not having fun in the lead-up to
the one-year soberversary. I’m stressed to buggery with the thesis writing, the whole household gets tummy bugs and head colds, our youngest starts toilet training, Corin is hardly around because his work is so busy, and the weather is shit. I keep having drinking dreams: dreams where I accidentally imbibe alcohol, or where I’m shunned from gatherings for not-drinking. I’m definitely doing it hard. I smoke cigarettes in the garage and drink Red Bull in the afternoons. I’m stressed.
I think the looming soberversary is also affecting my mood. I feel very aware of my ‘point of difference’ yet again. All the old woe-is-me feelings I was having in the early weeks are coming back at me. I feel like the only sad dry person in the world, doomed to a life of misery and missing out. My sobriety feels all very tenuous and delicate again. I can’t believe I’m never going to drink again. It’s like I’m having a last resurgence of grief for the life I’ve left behind. My bloody inner addict is yelling at me in a final gasp to win me back: ‘Drink wine and everything will be okay!!!’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ I bite back. ‘You’re full of shit. I’m bigger and better and stronger than you and I don’t believe you. Now piss off for once and for all. I am not drinking wine ever again!’
I whine and moan some more on my blog and more than one person comments to me that soberversaries are tough. They suggest I’m mourning something lost, despite knowing it was bad for me. As always it’s so lovely to get support and encouragement from my faceless online community. They help keep me strong. I can’t bloody drink now; imagine if I had to tell all my blog readers that I’m back on the sauce! That would be horrendous; it’s definitely not going to happen.