The rest of Week Two is tricky. I’m constantly wrestling with my thoughts, going back and forth inside my mind about my decision not to drink. One minute I’m feeling good and strong about it, the next minute I’m doubting I was even that bad and wondering how the hell I’m going to never touch booze again. I’m floundering around with little information so in the evenings, instead of sitting on the sofa drinking wine and watching mind-numbing television, I sit on the sofa ordering library books about alcohol from the online catalogue. It’s like I’m cramming for an exam on booze. And every morning I update my blog about what I’m doing and how I’m feeling.
The blog is actually having quite a considerable impact on my days. I’m finding that having my blog outlet makes it easier for me to venture out into my day. It’s great knowing that I’ve got my private place to retreat back into to express myself. Putting everything into words helps me clarify how each new sober situation feels. Every morning I type up my experiences from the day before, and little reminders about how bad I was when I was still necking wine like it was going out of fashion. I dash off posts quickly then get on with my life, my own words lingering with me all day. When writing to myself I seem to be adopting an attitude that is upbeat and supportive, so the ‘me’ in print is buoying along the ‘me’ in the real world, which is nice.
I’m careful to only write about myself as much as possible, I’m aware that even though the blog is anonymous, it is available to the whole world! Even though I’m pretty sure no one would be interested even if they did come across my self-obsessed musings, I’m careful to keep it focused on me and the only aspect of my life I feel the need to write about—the not-drinking. My relationship with Corin, our kids and what they’re doing, that’s all private, and, frankly, irrelevant. In my situation the war is between my brain and alcohol, there’s no one else involved with that. I want to keep the blog as focused as my thoughts are toward my problem. This is me fixing me.
It really is a godsend that I’m enjoying writing in my blog so much because the not-drinking largely sucks. Okay, so going to bed at night with no wine in my belly is glorious, as is sleeping right through the night and waking up clearheaded with no sick guts. But having to imagine myself sober at every social event in the future is hard. I’m really worried that I’m just going to be a boring, sad, sober loser for the rest of my life. My thoughts are bouncing around inside my mind like a frantic ping-pong game. I’m still determined but feel a little unsure of the likelihood that I can stick to my resolve.
I don’t have to wait long before I’m tested socially again. Corin’s parents are visiting from Christchurch and I take the boys over to my sister-in-law’s place after school to see them. We’re excited to catch up and soon after our arrival (at 3.30 p.m. it must be noted) my mother-in-law chimes up with ‘I’ve got the wine chilling, would you like a glass?’ Luckily for me my sister-in-law answers quickly with a ‘Not for me thanks’ and I follow swiftly with the same. I don’t tell them about my big decision. It feels so weird to be saying ‘no’ and of course I’m nonstop in my mind thinking about it. Pre-monumental-life-changing-decision I’d be super-enthusiastic about having a wine, ‘Yeah, go on!’, but not today.
I spend the rest of the visit outwardly chatting and happy but inwardly obsessively thinking about how incredible it is that I’m not-drinking. When I bundle the boys in the car to drive home at around 5 p.m. it’s amazing how proud of myself I am that I was able to resist. Another small victory!
Driving home I remember all the times I’ve had a social drink with someone in the afternoon only to find myself obsessing afterwards about whether to stop and buy more booze to continue drinking at home. Once I had a wine in me, all I wanted was more. I’d have a huge argument inside my mind about whether I should get more or not, and the ‘Yes, drink more’ voice would always win and see me detouring via the bottle shop. Today as I indicate to turn left into our street and not right to head to the bottle shop (yay!) I can remember how it feels to drink all that extra wine while getting the kids organised for bed. It doesn’t feel light and fun. It feels boring, intense, determined, obsessed and unhealthy.
Tonight, instead of coming home on a boozy mission, I come home ridiculously elated at my non-drinking cleverness, once again high-fiving myself mentally. All I did was say no to a wine on a Thursday afternoon. You’d think I’d just won a prize or something! I’m so positive and my goal feels a little more possible. Oh happy non-drinker me.
Unfortunately, once again, this elation is short-lived. Despite my small not-drinking victory and yet another great night’s sleep, the next day I find myself feeling all teary and weird. Talk about up and down, up and down, up and bloody down. I hate this. Corin comes home from work around lunchtime and I try to explain to him how I’m feeling and the bloody tears start falling out of my eyes before I’ve finished my first sentence. Tears. Falling out of my eyes. This is decidedly uncomfortable for me. This is not how I am. I don’t like to be all teary and miserable. This is not me, I’m upbeat Lotta! But I can’t stop crying.
I tell him that I feel raw and ‘stripped back’. I flounder around trying to explain it: ‘It’s kind of . . . um . . . like . . . instead of my brain being under the influence of alcohol all the time . . . ah . . . I now have a brain that is sober all the time . . . and . . . um . . . it’s just confronting, I suppose.’
He’s lovely and kind but I feel a bit uncertain about what it is I’m actually trying to explain. I mean, it’s not like my brain was under the influence of alcohol 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I only drank after 5 p.m.(ish). So why at midday on a Friday would I be noticing that I feel raw and stripped back? I can’t believe not-drinking is having this much impact on my overall emotional state. I can’t believe I feel so different. Why? Why?
That night we head up the road to our friends’ house for an early fish’n’chips dinner with the kids. Corin has a glass or two of red wine but the couple we’re visiting rarely drink (they definitely don’t have a problem) so it’s pretty easy for me to abstain. I consider telling them about the big decision I’ve made but something stops me. I’m just feeling kind of weird and raw and low-key and self-protective. The night ends peacefully and I fall into bed exhausted. There’s no celebration at having got through another alcohol-free night, just a sort of weary flatness.
But oh witness the delighted me waking up on Saturday morning with no hangover! It feels like Christmas! I’m upbeat again! I’m kind of in awe of myself as I make breakfast for the kids and carry a cup of tea to Corin in bed. Get me, oh clever, hangover-free me! I decide to forgo my usual instant coffee and instead make a green tea from a box that’s been in the pantry for months. I put a bit of honey in it and feel a bit like a hippy but also really good. My nonstop internal dialogue is extremely self-satisfied. I appreciate the lack of a headache. I appreciate the settled stomach. I really appreciate the good night’s sleep. I take deep breaths all morning and feel great as I move about the house.
Great, although still low-key, kind of nervous, and totally and utterly mentally obsessed with not-drinking.
The day progresses and my self-satisfaction fades away as we gear up to host Corin’s parents for dinner. They arrive at 4.30 p.m. armed with beer and wine. Shitballs. They don’t know about my decision yet. I haven’t told anyone except Corin.
Everyone gets sorted with a drink. I have ginger beer and no one makes any comment. Maybe they don’t even notice I’m not hooking into the wines like I used to? It seems strange to me that they wouldn’t, given I feel like there’s a giant neon sign above me flashing with the word ‘SOBER!’
I slowly tense up as the evening progresses. I’m certainly not having the most fun time in the world and I’m aware that outwardly I’m being a bit grouchy. I feel bummed out that I can’t just have a couple of drinks like everyone else (although they are all drinking very slowly, it must be said). Generally I just feel tense and grouchy and kind of flat and boring.
Corin sidles up to me in the kitchen at one point and quietly asks how I’m going. ‘Okay,’ I whisper. ‘But I do feel quite uptight.’ He gives me a quick cuddle and I feel better.
The night ends okay and as soon as I can in the morning I jump online to update my blog. I try to unpick what it was that was making me tense the night before:
Mrs D Is Going Without (Day 13)
I do feel more uptight on an evening like last night because:
1) I’m not relaxing with the alcohol in my system
2) I’m not part of the ‘fun’ group having a few drinks
3) I’m having to mentally process abstaining from something ‘fun’ so I’m concentrating on those serious thoughts = serious mood.
Hopefully 3) won’t apply forever because I won’t have to think about abstaining so much, I’ll just automatically do it, and as for 2) readers of this blog will know (ha ha! That’s a joke! I have no readers!) it wasn’t fun anymore for me anyway.
Analysing in print why I was feeling tense last night is really helpful. And I enjoy making jokes with myself as well. I’m surprised to see the upbeat me coming through on the blog even though I’m grumpy. Nothing like a few exclamation marks to lighten my mood!!! I work hard to remind myself that if I’d been drinking last night I would have had at least five big glasses of wine (more like buckets really) while the in-laws were around and a couple more alone before I went to bed. It was a Saturday night after all and with family visiting I, no doubt, would have seen it as a good opportunity to drink heavily.
Later that day I head off to the mall on my own to do some shopping. I bump into some friends in the food hall and, without really planning it, I blurt out my news. ‘So I’ve given up drinking,’ I breezily announce with chopsticks in hand, ‘like, forever.’
They seem quite taken aback. Interested but not saying much.
‘I’m just sick of not controlling it,’ I say, ‘so I’m taking it away completely.’
They act a bit bemused. ‘Are you really that bad?’ one friend asks.
‘Yep,’ I say, firmly stabbing at a dumpling, ‘I am.’
I know I’m laying myself on the line here, but I cling to the truth that only I (and the non-existent readers of my secret blog) know how big a problem I really have.
Mrs D Is Going Without (Day 14)
It’s hard for people to really get it. No one really knows except you, the drinker.
No one else can hear your inner voice and feel your insane pull to drink.
No one else knows your sneaky filling of each glass to the rim and slurping the top down immediately.
No one else knows your one or two drinks out with friends will end in a trip to the store on the way home for another bottle to finish up because once you’ve started it’s very very very very hard to stop.
I head into my third sober week pleased that I managed to get through a busy social weekend without too much trouble. Corin has to travel away for work for a few days so it’s just the boys and me back in our weekly routine. I keep buying myself energy drinks and iced coffees during the day, and pouring myself soft drinks in a wineglass on the dot of 5 p.m. There is some wine leftover in the fridge from the weekend but I don’t touch it. My internal dialogue is still just as noisy and busy, though, and I spend a lot of time thinking about how nice it is to be not boozing and worrying constantly like I used to. I write a blog post most days and feel oh so very clever and sober.
I start to relax and think maybe, just maybe, it is going to be this easy.
Then bam! Thursday hits and it’s a shitter. A complete shitter of a day. It starts at 5 a.m. with our youngest boy waking up and refusing to go back to sleep. Five a.m. is the middle of the bloody night as far as I’m concerned. Not happy. Not happy at all. Then our eldest pesters and pesters and pesters me to help with some stupid computer game before school, which I do not have the time or patience for, and, oh boy, do I yell at him. I yell and yell and yell. Then after the school drop-off I go to Warehouse Stationery and discover at the counter that my money cards are not in my bloody wallet. Fucking kids!
I come home extremely grumpy and now the house is my enemy, it feels really dusty and gross and I just feel really shitty and tired and frankly pissed off that I can’t buy any wine to drink tonight. Maybe I should just buy a fucking bottle and drink it? Maybe I don’t even need to stop? Maybe I wasn’t that bad after all?
I’m not sure what to do with myself so I go online. This is the first time I have written a post in the middle of the day, in the middle of a sober crisis.
Mrs D Is Going Without (Day 17)
I’m really tired and really shitty and really would love a drink. There, I said it.
Usually I’d drink a bottle (and a bit) of wine at the end of a day like this and then sleep like crap and then feel even tireder tomorrow. So the wine doesn’t make me rested. Does the wine help relieve any stress? No. Is the wine fun and naughty and does it take me away from my hard boring life as a housewife and mother of three? Yes!! Yes, yes, yes it does.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to drink. No way. I just have to live this shitty grumpy tired day and go to sleep tonight and maybe tomorrow will be easier.
Okay, a plan: 40 minutes of hard-out cleaning to make me feel better about the house and then I can sit down to relax until Little Guy wakes up from his nap.
I’m sure no one is reading my blog but me so the ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to drink’ is aimed at myself. That feels good. I finish the post, put my yellow rubber gloves on and clean. I clean and scrub and clean and scrub and as 5 p.m. approaches I work hard to picture myself getting into bed sober. I manage to get through and feel really happy and proud when I finally hit the hay at 8.30 p.m . . . But I am a bit shaken at how difficult it was to get through that grumpy shitty day without turning to my beloved wine at 5 o’clock. I decide to increase the pressure on myself to stick to my resolve by telling more people about what I am doing.
I start with my big sister down the phone line. It just comes out because when we’re talking about something unrelated, I start crying. It’s definitely an overreaction to the topic at hand and not usual behaviour from me so I feel the need to explain myself: ‘(sob sob) . . . the reason . . . (sniff) . . . that I’m crying is that actually . . . (sniff sniff) . . . I’ve decided to give up alcohol completely and it’s just making . . . (sob) . . . me feel . . . (sniff sniff) . . . quite raw and emotional . . . I guess.’
She’s taken aback. ‘Really? Why?’
And I truthfully reply that I’ve been drinking an awful lot and was finding it very difficult to control.
She hears what I’m saying and gives me some lovely encouragement. ‘Man you’re awesome, you’re so incredibly strong, that is amazing,’ which makes me feel good.
I decide it’s time to let my parents know what I’m up to. They both live in Christchurch (where I grew up), but are divorced and in separate houses with new partners now, so a phone call to each is the only way. I ring my dad first; he’s quietly supportive and impressed. Then I ring my mum. She’s definitely surprised but is supportive as well. I’m shaking through both phone calls—it’s such an intense process, I’m really laying myself on the line here.
Now that I’ve started telling people there’s no stopping me. I go to pick up one of the boys from a birthday party and the host mum offers me some bubbles (there are a few other mums there already drinking, sigh). She raises her eyebrows at me when I turn her down so I tell her I’ve stopped drinking, point at the glass and say in a faux chirpy way, ‘The thing is I don’t just want one of those, I want six!’ She’s a bit taken aback but pours me a Coke in the champagne flute instead and I awkwardly sip at it. I feel self-conscious and odd. But time passes and something really cool happens. I get chatting to the other mums and forget momentarily that my glass doesn’t contain alcohol. I relax a bit. And I chat. And it’s okay. My face doesn’t fall off and nobody storms away from me in a huff. I just stand and chat and drink my Coke and it’s fine. Another small victory! High-fives all round! (Well, in my mind anyway.)
Next day I tell my sister-in-law when she’s here having coffee and she confronts me with a shocked, ‘What?! Never again?!’
I try to sound confident. ‘Um, yeah, that’s the plan,’ I say with a gulp. ‘I mean, life is really long, but, yeah, that’s the plan.’ Then I fling my arms open and loudly declare, ‘Say Hello To The New Sober Lotta!’ (Never forgo the opportunity for a dramatic moment, right?)
Announcing my plan to people is empowering yet kind of intimidating. Basically what I’m doing is outing myself as a problem drinker. I mean, normal drinkers don’t give up alcohol, do they? It’s refreshing in some ways—a relief to be brutally honest to everyone about my secret dysfunction. But at the same time it’s really scary as I’m setting myself up to be watched now.
But I press on and continue to lurch through the days feeling elated, self-satisfied, nervous, grumpy, teary or all of the above inside a single hour. I’m confused about why I’m all over the show emotionally and my internal dialogue about alcohol, drinking, not-drinking still fiercely rages on. I write regular posts on my blog and keep coming up with bad drinking memories that I type out determinedly. I don’t drink (shit fuck bloody fucking not-drinking shit) but I eat lots and lots, come down with a bad head cold and get a big pimple on my chin. A pimple! A great big red angry pimple! I haven’t had a pimple for years. What the hell is happening to my body? To my mind?
I feel mixed up, unsettled, and so completely different to what I’m used to feeling and how I like to exist that subsequently I’m quite at odds with myself.
Then sitting on the sofa one evening, eating too many biscuits and watching The Oprah Show, a bombshell drops. Yes, that’s right. Oprah delivers me a monumental ‘Aha!’ moment. How clichéd is that?