Milk Or Sugar With That?

Beyond tired. But it’s a good tired. What an awesome week! I’m sober, Bambino’s been a superstar, Hubby is on his way home this evening from another work trip and I can’t wait to pinch his bottom kiss him stupid, and I am a paid member of staff at the rehab and all signed off to fly solo with the medication. Rio’s verbal machine gun instruction style has paid off and I feel quite confident. Except one pill flew out of the stubborn blister pack and landed on the client’s head and then I had to chase after another as I missed the detox meds. Still. I could just picture Rio staring at the screen in the staff room at the CCTV with these mishaps and throwing his hands in the air and shouting “oh come on, Anna, what are you doing girl? Look at this, what’s wrong with this woman?!” in his usual manner. It’s endearing though and today he’s been mostly smiling. Actually, that’s not quite truthful. He’s mostly been laughing at me, starting with bursting out into a loud cackle the moment I walked in at 6.45am.

I’d say I’m reasonably bright but I’m just so bloody ditzy with it. Sometimes my brain just locks up completely and things that are really obvious become incomprehensible. When I’m tired I can barely work a zip. It’s a good tired, but it’s a full on tired. These shifts would be exhausting if I worked 9-5. That doesn’t exist at the rehab. It’s 7am-3pm or 2pm-10pm. After a bunch of those and often the early one straight after the late one, meaning I’ve not had more than five hours’ sleep, and things can quickly start to spin.

Last night I was going to take my maiden voyage admission. It wasn’t to be. The client was in a state so serious that the doctor asked me to get an ambulance. Fair dos. I reminded myself I’m Calm Anna with ice in her stomach and dialled 999.

“Are they unconscious?” the dispatcher asked.

“Not quite, but dangerously intoxicated and the doctor who’s with them says they needs to get to A&E,” I responded, already impatient and stressed as I realised I was in for a questionnaire.

“How’s their breathing?” the dispatcher lady continued, “is it normal or are they having trouble breathing?”

“I am not with them,” I told her as firmly as I could without snapping having already explained the situation, “I am in a staff office and they’re in a different room but it’s serious enough that the DOCTOR who is with them and who has examined them has instructed me to call for an ambulance.”

The doctor popped his head in at this stage, just for a second to check the ambulance is on the way and to tell me to inform the dispatcher that the person is vomiting blood.

“They are vomiting blood,” I parrot and drum my fingernails against the desk, “can you confirm the ambulance on the way?”

Rio dashes in to fetch something as I’m confirming some other details and then the doctor is back in, again to check for reassurance the “blue light” (as he calls it rather than ‘ambulance’) is indeed coming. I’m at this point fielding a few more vomit questions.

“Yes, he’s vomiting blood,” I repeat.

“Ground coffee!” the doctor adds hurriedly, before disappearing off again.

Huh? I freeze for a moment. They’re puking coffee? But I’ve told them they’re puking blood! Holy shitballs.

“Uh, they’ve vomited coffee,” I say and scrunch up my nose as I don’t get why the doctor is so keen to specify this.

Whether he’s vomiting coffee or orange juice doesn’t matter, right? Blood I understand wouldn’t be great, but why is he so specific about this? Coffee? Do I actually need to do closer inspections of vom in the future? Oh please God no, I’m just too squeamish. No vom for me. Eurgh. But how did I misunderstand this? I was so sure the doctor had said they were vomiting blood, surely? Oh well, now it’s coffee and I repeat this on the phone. Several times. Who knows, perhaps coffee clings harder to your stomach or something and if THAT comes up it’s serious or something?

The poor client is picked up and they take him in. It turns out “ground coffee” is code for blood from the sacro-something or other. Rio has a laughing fit when I tell him the latest tale illustrating my utter stupidity and having asked for an ambulance for someone who’s vomiting coffee. But at least it arrived, eh, and quickly too. The doctor makes a noise as you would at a daft little puppy that’s just chased a ball and too late realised it’s clumsily charging straight into the wall. Still. All’s well that ends well. The client is where they need to be and will be back with us as soon as they’re well enough to begin detox and their recovery journey.

So my maiden voyage admission was instead a lovely lady who checked in this morning and a very pleasant flight I have to say, in the great scheme of things and compared with many I’ve sat in on. And it was right after my maiden voyage running relaxation group. Spoke and didn’t fall apart. Can’t say I was overly assertive but Rome wasn’t built in one day. Neither was Stockholm. I did OK with both, I think. Not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but good enough for my first solo flights. I fucking love this. It’s tough and it’s heartbreaking and it’s exhausting, but even now that I’m so tired I doubt I’ll last beyond 8pm, it makes me smile and feel really fortunate that I get to hop out of bed tomorrow morning at 5am to head off to rehab on a Saturday morning. My ex-bosses gave me a lovely card when I left that reads “do what you love and love what you do” – I think this might just be it.

Counting my blessings would take forever, but the fact that I’m sitting here 430 days sober is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given alongside Bambino and Hubby. Oh, and my bonus sons. Sobriety and my boys and loving what I get to do for a living – life’s pretty damn awesome on Planet Anna.

Today I’m not going to drink.

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A Few Minutes of Plinky-Plonky Music

Here’s Little Anna kissing Mum. It was in June 1979 in hospital and she’d just given me a little brother. She deserved a kiss, definitely.

“We’re all addicts, aren’t we?” my mother mused when I spoke to her on the phone last night. She said it in that gentle, sweet way she does when she mulls things over and wants to show she relates. “We all have those things we think of as rewards.”

Mum, however, was talking about chocolate. She giggled knowingly and told me in that let-me-tell-you-a-secret kind of way that she has on occasion hidden chocolate bars. The way she told me and the way she said it was how you might expect someone to confess to something really quite naughty or controversial. Like my old systems for hiding wine and then disposing of the empties. Bless my beautiful and utterly lovely mother. She was, of course, making perfect sense.

“Thank God it’s just chocolate! What if I’d discovered drinking or smoking?” she added, still with that smile in her voice that I could hear all the way from Sweden.

Somehow I can’t quite picture my mother drinking or smoking. She’ll cautiously take a small sip at an infuriatingly small glass of wine at, say, Christmas, but never have I ever known her to DRINK drink. And trying to picture her smoking a cigarette makes me laugh because it’s more unlikely than if she were to moonlight as a stripper. Point is, though, that she did what we do when we really listen to someone talk about something that’s difficult and we want to show we have taken it onboard, wanting to illustrate that we can relate in some way. I believe it comes down to wanting to be kind. Discussing my addiction and recovery with one of my bestest, oldest friends went down in a similar manner – my friend brought up her own view on drinking and I know it was a genuine way of reassuring me that hey, buddy, I hear you. I’ve said it before – I’m very lucky.

We all want and need to be heard, and when you talk openly about what used to be a dirty, shameful secret it’s uplifting to be met with this sort of kindness where your loved ones want to show they really thought about what you said and searched for ways to relate.

Life is manic now. Manic in a good way, but I do have to take care not to allow my full throttle brain to take over. I finally have that coveted employment contract and have been given the first bunch of course work to solidify all these new things I am learning. Today is a day for Anna. Monday I got home closer to 11pm following an evening shift and got up at 5am Tuesday to start another at 7am. Working at the rehab isn’t like an office job with breaks. Kiss 9-5 goodbye. Nevermind the leisurely 9-2 I cruised along at. I’m served lunch by the chef like everyone else, but I have yet to spend longer than ten minutes eating in peace before rushing off to the next thing. I’m yet to complete a task with no interruption. This is where I have to make a conscious effort to breathe and slow myself down because my brain works in PRECISELY in this way – this is the speed setting my brain naturally likes. And it’s PRECISELY the speed setting that had me plunge head first into severe alcoholism. So whilst I’m now feeling restless at this self imposed Day of Chillax and itching to complete all course work I’m able to access, I’m pushing myself back. Jeez, slow down, gal.

Beethoven actually pointed out how Rio has used his addict’s mind to get as good as he is at his job – this top speed, almost frantic approach. So yes, being wired in this way isn’t necessarily a bad thing and my addiction super powers can indeed be strengths, but what I’m saying is I have to be mindful of how I’m feeling. Feeling energised and motivated is one thing, compulsion is quite another and I do 100% feel rattled by a pile of course work I want to churn through. So I’m deliberately leaving it sitting there. Today is Anna’s Day of Chillax. Blog, go for a walk, perhaps bake something. Tomorrow it’s another late shift, followed by a 7am start both Friday and Saturday. Today is self care and deep breaths. Clear my mind and just BE.

This is something Beethoven is always very clear on. Well, the man has worked with addicts for years and at the rehab he also employs a bunch of us. When Rio was throwing shifts into my greedy little hands, Beethoven emphasised I should only do what feels right and not say yes because I feel I have to.

“Your husband might come down here and shout at us!” Beethoven joked and Rio laughed out loud and gave a high five, “[Rio] and I might end up in big trouble.”

“I doubt it. Now he has a wife who comes home from work and is excited and wants to tell him all about her day,” I told them and immediately cringed at how fucking cheesy it sounded.

“Aw, that’s really nice,” Beethoven said and smiled, “that’s how it should be, I’m glad you said that.”

Drunk Me would have gone bright red for even being in a conversation and the discomfort this always used to entail. Drunk Me would blush furiously if even spoken to. Sober Me smiled and just got on with it. Some days I don’t even recognise myself, so long had I been buried, but I’m slowly learning to be me again. Rio informed me that I’ll run the relaxation group occasionally. This involves talking to a group of roughly 20 people, lead the discussion and moderate following a few minutes of plinky-plonky music and meditation. Had you asked me to do this just 14-or-so months ago I would have refused and run a mile. Even for a handful of people – no fucking way. Never mind a group of 20-odd that on top of things may occasionally include a well known face. Not a problem. The thought doesn’t make me anxious or nervous. Why? Coz I’m sober. Turns out these things don’t actually scare me. It’s just another thing to do, something I’m learning but happy to attempt even if I don’t know it all. Even the idea of getting something wrong doesn’t terrify me. It doesn’t even bother me. What a lovely surprise, Sobriety! I sure as hell didn’t expect THAT. Whatever next?

Well. 428 days sober. That’s a miracle. I well up just typing it because I can’t quite believe it’s real. What a gift. And I’m so grateful I got to wake up again with a clear mind and free from all that heavy shame and regret. For the first time in 15 years, I come home from work knowing I gave it my all and that I did well. For the first time in 15 years, I know me being there made a difference. I haven’t felt this way in so long. And I remember her now, the girl I used to be. I lost her there for a while.

Today I’m not going to drink.

Whacked Them All

Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

Eek! Did I just do something silly? It’s been a long time (14-ish months) since I with my heart in my throat checked my phone to see if I’d posted something really stupid on Facebook. Back to the present moment and I believe I just announced to the world that not only did I abuse alcohol, but my exact words on Facebook just moments ago and now there for all to see were that my drinking problem was of epical proportions. I mean, I’m all for calling a spade a spade but holy cannoli, I think I just whacked them all with a goddamn shovel!

The husband of one of my best friends is big on health. An osteopath by trade (and founder of the Stockholm College of Osteopathy) and a firm believer in looking after our whole being – mind, body and soul – his updates often feature photos from his latest spiritual retreat in places like Kenya or articles around preventative methods of promoting good health. Today he listed ways to promote good health and questioned why not more of Sweden’s national budget is used towards those measures, which would mean a relatively small investment now will prevent huge cost later. So drunky-drunk here felt compelled to jump in. I went to town. No, I strutted into town like a defiant peacock and I made it clear to all and sundry that I’m a sober alcoholic with years of aforementioned EPICALLY PROPORTIONED alcohol abuse, who now wants to see us put this screwed-up world right. I rounded up by asking him if he wants to join my crusade. Well. When I am ready to open my chain of addiction rehab centres that will revolutionise how we treat addiction, I will want experts like him by my side so let’s hope he’s up to the task.

Did you expect me to start the next paragraph or sentence with “jokes aside“? I hope you’ve scheduled a good chunk of today’s available calendar entries as “wait for Anna to say she was joking“. Tomorrow’s too.

Today is a day to survey my arsenal and regroup for Stage Deux of my crusade into the world of addiction treatment. Fine, it’s not really a crusade yet, more of a fact finding research mission but I’m determined that no matter what, part of the mighty All Blacks’ philosophy will remain my focus. For those of you who aren’t into rugby, the All Blacks are New Zealand’s national rugby team and I guess you could say they are to rugby what Canada are to ice hockey – the ones to beat. One of their team mantras is to “leave the jersey in a better place“. That’s what I want to do. Whether that will mean that just a single addict will remember me as someone who treated them with kindness and respect when they underwent treatment or I’ll take my place in the history books alongside Bill W is irrelevant. My best will be good enough and it’s all I can do, but when I wear that jersey I will be humble, honoured and hellbent on leaving it in a better place than I found it. End of story.

Gosh, aren’t I a little hell raiser today? This is the cool thing about being sober though. Not blurt out some crap whilst drunk that you neither actually feel nor particularly care about sober and then regret it with shame burning inside you, but stand up proud and shout from the roof tops the things that you truly feel in your heart. That’s a gift and it’s one that I treasure. Please God, never let me fall back. Please God, help me always remain on this path. I’ll be ever so good, I promise, just help me stay sober.

Now on to lining up my ducks. I’m going to get on LinkedIn and connect the shit out of every recovery professional I can find. Hubby took me through how he uses his and what you can do on there. Gosh, how grown up! But I want to network and find the people in this industry, read relevant articles and find my way around my new career. It feels so amazing to feel this serious about something that really matters to me and be bubbling over with motivation, inspiration and determination. I’m so grateful to be here.

How’s everyone else doing? I feel so absent recently, even though the reason for not commenting and interacting as much as I’d like is a positive one. The blogosphere is still my anchor and reading other people’s blogs is still what most helps me make sense of my own addiction and recovery. It’s here that I found my tribe, some of whom have morphed into amazing real-life friendships. Having said that, as lovely as it is to connect beyond blogs and nicknames, these connections we make in this sphere are every bit as invaluable. Finding your tribe would probably be one of my first pieces of advice to anyone in recovery. There. I’m done. A bit of hell raising and a little declaration of love for my tribe.

Now let’s carpe the fucking diem!

Today I’m not going to drink.

The Best Answer

No run last night. To be honest, I don’t know if I have the energy to go tonight either. Work is beyond frantic and so it’s self care time at Casa Anna these evenings that follow days at the rehab – peace, quiet and sweet, sweet solitude. Blog, chomp down the odd cinnamon roll and generally just unwind. Hence I’ve declined Hubby’s run request via WhatsApp and will just go for a brisk, long walk. Sometimes a no is the best answer and as we all know, the days of Anna saying yes to everything are over.

Today I mostly went around with a colleague I hadn’t had a chance to get to know much – I’ll call her Raven because she has gorgeous, jet black hair – and like Work-Hubby, she is adding another fantastic layer of knowledge to everything I’m learning. Rio is like a machine gun and brilliant to learn from as he does everything to the letter, something the law abiding and rule loving little Swede in me massively appreciates. Hell, I don’t even cross the road unless there’s a little green man telling me I can do so, and Rio’s approach is therefore wonderful. It’s also awesome to learn that way as it means I from the outset get entrenched in good habits as opposed to taking shortcuts. He does seem to get quite stressy though – actually, make that agitated on occasion – and one second he’ll shove something into my hands only to rip it out of them a second later because he’s changed his mind or suddenly thought of something else for me to do – I’ve had to slow him down several times by gently stating that look, buddy, can I finish this task first. But hey, that’s cool. I like him enormously and obviously the man is taking time to show me so I’m not about to whinge about the speed settings. Work-Hubby and Raven are as calm and methodical as Rio is frantic and full throttle, and this gives me a perfect balance as I’m A) learning to cross all the Ts and dot the Is, and B) allow myself to slow down and find little tricks for remembering the whats, wheres, hows and whens. Perfect.

Many of my colleagues are in recovery. In a team of ten support workers there are only two people who are not in recovery (although this is a guess – I don’t know this for sure) and out of six therapists two are, as far as I know, in recovery. Finding out more about their stories is so fascinating, in much the same way as I find the blogosphere and various recovery/sobriety communities and groups so valuable. They are all incredible people and I’m just so freaking lucky to get to work and be around them, but what struck me today more than anything else is how Work-Hubby is the very embodiment of serenity. He came on his shift shortly before mine was over and as always he has a smile on his face and kind words for every single person he passes – greeting clients and asking how they’re doing today, greeting us colleagues and generally just lifting the atmosphere by his calm presence. This is a man with over 20 years of sobriety who only months ago buried his oldest son who died because of addiction, heroin I believe. Yet there he is, grateful for his own sobriety and appreciative of doing what he loves for a living, totally at peace and content with where he’s at. You don’t start complaining about banalities around someone like that. Well, they’re all like that and I get to be around them and mark my words – I am trying with all my might to soak up their wisdom and knowledge.

Oh God, this turned a bit gushy. Sorry ’bout that. I never did know when to tone it down, never mind turn it off.

Rio just rang me as it happens to swap tomorrow for Saturday. Cool bananas. I was looking forward to tomorrow and getting another day with Raven and Work-Hubby, but there we are. Verbal machine gun Rio on a Saturday it is. Every now and then he comes out with something that makes me laugh out loud with recognition, sometimes a little story or, like in today’s relaxation group, a saying. Today’s little Rio-ism is one I might get printed and framed because it’s just too good. He told the group this to round up a discussion around being a newcomer in AA or NA and feeling worried about sharing when other people have much longer sobriety than we currently do:

TODAY YOU ARE A PEACOCK BUT TOMORROW YOU MIGHT BE A FEATHER DUSTER!

It just doesn’t matter if we’re five days, five weeks, five months, five years or five damn decades sober – we’re only ever one drink away.

Today I’m not going to drink.

What People in Love Do

Funny that – used the search function on the archive for a Swedish TV channel to see if there might be some interesting documentary or something around alcoholism and addiction, and all they had is a series called ‘Skam’. Translation: ‘shame’. Perhaps that’s all I needed to learn today? Pretty accurate, if you ask me.

I hate to sound like that whiny Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City, but it got me thinking. Isn’t it so stupid how we view addiction? We split it up in categories. Clare Pooley (Sober Mummy here in the blogosphere and author of The Sober Diaries) gave a Ted talk that highlighted this. Take another legal drug, nicotine. You stop smoking and to the rest of the world you are a hero. Nicotine we all know to be bad, and you are ever so good when you stub out that filthy habit. Right? Compare this with alcohol abuse. Stop drinking and 1) you have to explain why, and 2) there must be something wrong with YOU. This drives me mad! It’s so very true – it’s the only drug you have to justify NOT taking and if you have a problem with it, the assumption seems to be that you are inherently bad or weak somehow.

Yes, I do absolutely believe that there is something about how I’m wired that made me more likely to develop alcoholism. Actually, scrap ‘believe’ – I know it’s different because I can see it! It’s blatantly clear that what happens when I drink is entirely different to what happens when e.g. Hubby drinks. This weekend he did that thing again that confuses the hell out of me. We headed down to south Devon for a random weekend escape and after a trip on a steam train, we found a pub to watch the rugby. During the couple of hours we were there, Hubby had three pints. It was raining so we headed back to the B&B for a while before dinner.

Now this is probably a little strange, but even though I don’t at all want to drink I seem to go into Anna-mode when Hubby does and become super aware of what I might perceive as his drinking needs. Hence, I suggested we get some wine or a couple of beers to take back because in my formerly wine soaked world there is nothing worse than breaking the flow. Come on, that’s just agony, no? Nah. I think he even asked me why. I scrunched up my nose and again tried to figure out what actually goes on in the mind of a normal person, but as usual I just couldn’t understand it. Back at the little guesthouse, we spent an hour looking through photos we’d taken, watched some of another rugby game on TV and googled the best restaurant in Paignton and booked a table. Dude’s totally calm and apparently completely unaffected by this. If anything, I felt a little restless. Headed out and over the best meal I’ve had this year, Hubby had a couple of glasses of wine. And that was it. I’m calm and content because the Beast doesn’t have its claws into me, and Hubby is calm and content because he’s immune to the Beast. Got back, did what people in love do and then fell asleep.

The next day the sun was out and we headed out for a walk along the sea front. I just had to ask him because I just don’t understand how that stuff feels! All I know is that when I drink, something in me comes alive that I cannot stop or control, this insane compulsion that I cannot stop. I assume it’s how I feel when I……. Oh holy crap, I’m struggling to think of something I do in moderation and end up feeling “that’s enough, thank you” about. I eat like a truck driver and drink coffee like a demon, there are actually very few areas of my life where I apply that thing the Swedes call ‘lagom‘ = not too much, not too little: just right. Water!! WATER! I can moderate fucking water! If I’m thirsty and drink some water, I definitely hit a pleasant point where I have had enough and I’ve just had enough to quench my thirst. I don’t keep on gulping water beyond the point that I’m just nicely satisfied. So that’s what it must be like for a non-alkie to my mind.

“So those three pints you had,” I put to him as we strolled past little beach huts and souvenir stalls, “you would have had enough to feel what, a bit tipsy?”

“Not really, just like feeling I’ve had a drink,” Hubby replied.

“But enough to get you going, right?” I insisted.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So when we went back to the hotel, you didn’t want to go on drinking?”

“No.”

“This is so weird for me! At that point, when you’ve had a few and sort of got into it, are you saying there’s no part of you that really wants to go for it?” I asked, both curious and confused because to me that violent desire to guzzle is so overpowering I can’t imagine not feeling that way after a drink.

“No.”

“Just no? Nothing? Doesn’t it aggravate you to stop?”

“No.”

“OK, so…” I searched for new words to ask the same thing, “in that moment you don’t feel any urge to keep going? You can literally take it or leave it and it doesn’t stress you out?”

“Yeah.”

To Hubby, this was all so obvious that there weren’t anything other that one-word answers. It’s just how it is for him. To me, it’s bewildering because I just can’t imagine how that feels, how it’d be possible to feel the way after a glass of wine as I do after a glass of water. No, I don’t wish that were me. Is that strange? Surely the the greatest wish for me, as an alcoholic, would be that I could drink like a normal person? I don’t. Once the illusion of booze shattered and I saw no benefit to drinking anymore, this went right out of the window. I’ve said it before, if someone offered me a pill that’d enable me to drink the way Hubby can I honestly wouldn’t bother. That’s neither here nor there though, the point is I find it really fascinating to hear him describe what happens when he drinks, which of course is seemingly very little.

In other news, life at rehab goes on and I had my first observation today. I’ve done observations several times now but this time it was me who was observed. Not due to a risk of seizures or self harm but giving the clients their medication. I’ve watched it done many times now and this was the second and third time (breakfast and lunch) that I did it myself. As we were doing the handover for other staff coming on shift, Work-Hubby turned to me and suggested I do it. As luck would have it, Beethoven (who is the manager) joined and it was down to me to talk through each client’s mood and updates. I don’t actually know if I did well or really badly but I did my best, and guess what? That’s good enough. Shockingly, I didn’t get nervous – what the hell is THAT about? I mean, not even a little. My cheeks didn’t burn and my heart didn’t race, nor did my voice tremble. I just did it to the best of my ability and felt completely relaxed about it, intimidation levels firmly at zero. I like Sober Me – she’s quite a cool chick.

Well. Hubby is on his way home and I really need to head out for a run – it’s been two weeks! I got struck down with the cold from hell and last week was just too busy and exhausting, but now need to get my arse in gear again. I can really tell the difference – I end up feeling really sluggish when I don’t exercise.

Today I’m not going to drink.

Hope That Love Might

Feeling sad this morning. Hubby is away, within Europe this time, and sent me a text just as I was getting up. It read “check the news, can’t believe what’s happened in NZ“. And so, I went as I usually do, with my morning coffee to sit in the living room and read the news. There is so much evil in the world and again we wake up today to horrific and saddening broadcasts of another tragedy caused by hatred and intolerance. It breaks my heart. In my mind I hear the wistful notes of John Lennon’s Imagine. Yes, you may think I’m a dreamer but I do want to hope that love might one day help us overcome what we, as humankind, do to each other and our planet. My thoughts and prayers go out to that beautiful, peaceful little nation in the Pacific on the other side of the world where my husband was born and grew up and I’ve come to love and now have family too. Most of all, my prayers go out of course to those directly in evil’s path who lost their lives or loved ones and members of their community. There are no words.

After some quiet contemplation in light of terrible news, I found what’s probably the most powerful illustration of addiction that I’ve seen and I would encourage taking the three minutes required to watch this – it hit me like a thunderbolt:

ONE – short film by Luke Bradford from Frogspawn Creative Limited on Vimeo.

Lastly, possibly exacerbated by the sadness of today’s horrific news from New Zealand, I found myself getting angry. Angry, incensed, heckles up, resentment in full swing and enormously pissed off. Someone posted in a Whatsapp group message string “dad, you would be proud of me – I’m drinking port!” with an accompanying photo of a glass containing aforementioned poisonous shite. It was literally minutes after I shared the clip above to my Facebook page and I actually felt as though it was personal – a deliberate dig. Of course I do realise it was nothing of the sort, but it had me seething there for a moment. It’s fucking EVERYWHERE, this romanticising of a deadly poison that only wreaks havoc and has no benefits whatsoever! Isn’t it just so fucking DUMB?!! Look Daddy! I’m drinking your favourite tipple and as a woman drinking even moderately I’ve now increased my risk of breast cancer by 15% – aren’t you proud? Yay me! Fucking crazy nonsense! Had this person been in my presence I would have wanted to put them across my knee. Silly bint.

I reined myself in and refrained from adding the caustic comment that was chomping at the bit to lunge out of my mouth. Not my place. Not my business. And I do realise it’d be infuriating for any moderate drinker to be lectured by me, a DRUNK! Only 14-odd months ago I would have clicked ‘like’ and encouraged this outrageously stupid comment and found it cute and charming too. So quiet on this occasion I shall remain, but oh my goodness do those stupid memes and comments rattle my cage. Calm. Breathe. Let it go.

Time to get on with the day now. Be the change I want to see in the world. Accept the things I cannot control. Believe in the power of love. Understand my own limitations.

Today I’m not going to drink.

No Smidge of Desire

Wow. Breathe. Slow. Pull back. Volume down. Close eyes. Relax shoulders. Inhale, exhale.

To say the past few weeks have been hectic would be an understatement. It’s all so positive and I am feeling incredibly motivated and energised, but right now I just need to breathe. All my senses feel heightened, even my heart seems to beat higher up in my chest and this morning is the first moment I have to just slow down, reflect and allow everything to just sink in a little.

My hours at the rehab, as well as my duties there, have increased and multiplied at break neck speed. I ain’t complaining! It’s going so much better than I ever dared hope and I’m loving every second of it regardless of whether the second in question happens to be one of hope or one of heartbreak. I’m gaining confidence and feel much more relaxed both in terms of understanding what I’m doing and being around clients – this isn’t always easy for someone who struggles with boundaries and mostly my own. I’m so used to just saying yes-yes-yes to everything and promise the world only to under deliver that it takes conscious effort to keep myself in check. I may be into my 40s but in many ways I’m learning for the first time to not only be ME but also to stay true to myself. The days of yes-yes-yes with no thought are over – when ‘yes’ passes my lips now, it’s considered and comes with genuine ability and desire to make good on my promises. When I say yes, it now means I will come through and do so gladly. It requires my attention however, to carefully keep those boundaries and respect where I am able to draw them because the biggest threat comes from within them, from me.

And so I’ve been a little quiet. Not because I’ve run out of things to say but because I just haven’t had a moment to myself lately. My head is buzzing with all these new things I’m learning and although I don’t want to share here, I’m also trying to process some saddening news. I hate being vague, but let’s just say life happens and I’m just very, very grateful that I’m now getting to deal with it sober – life will always throw lessons our way but without anaesthesia we are much better equipped to deal with it. Situations that would have sent me into a tail spin just 14-ish months ago I can now face and handle whilst feeling all emotions in their purest form. This is only positive.

Do you know what else is so amazing it makes my heart swell with joy and gratitude? Not drinking. Uhm, obvious I guess, but last night was a sweet victory and waking up this morning once again to face a new day sober is a miracle. Last night, you see, was a perfect storm and yet my little rowing boat wasn’t even rocked in the slightest. In fact, it didn’t even occur to me until the realisation hit me as I crept under the covers to read my book at bedtime. Hubby is away with work and Bambino was staying over at a friend’s place. Home alone. No work the next day. No one to see. No one to know. If that’s not a perfect opportunity to guzzle wine I don’t know what is. And yet it didn’t even enter my mind. Drinking isn’t part of my world anymore. OK, OK – I don’t for a moment consider myself “cured” or that I have all this sussed, but it’s freaking awesome to feel this way. Whether it’s a patch or stage that’ll pass or I feel this way forever is something else, but to feel calm and content and have no smidge of desire to drink makes me so happy. Long may this continue, one day at a time.

Life is life. River deep, mountain high. Sometimes we’re thrown those curveballs, it’s part of the deal and non-negotiable. But as one of my favourite bloggers put it, it’s learning to be content with the “gentle rollers” and finding our happiness there. Chatting with one of my new colleagues, one of the therapists, highlighted the same thing. I was describing to him how it’s the small things that make me so grateful and happy, sometimes something so small as standing up in the shower. Come on, that’s something most people take for granted, right? Hardly a life changing event. Or putting a security code into a door lock at the rehab after just looking at the combination the once – how many people do you know who smile at being able to do this? Well, you know me now, but beyond this? Or perhaps I’ve just joined a big crowd of other sober folk who feel the same way. Do you? Anyway, I felt a little stupid telling him this.

“It’s not stupid at all. We live in those moments most of the time,” my colleague said and smiled, “we don’t live in the big moments, do we? It’s the simple everyday things that count.”

Exactly! If you think about it, he really hit the nail on the head for me when it comes to my sobriety. I genuinely feel as I imagine I’d feel if I’d been in a wheelchair for all those years I was drinking. Suddenly I have the use of my legs again – I can stand up, I can walk, I can run. I was going to say “I can dance” but no one wants to fucking see that. For someone who can throw away their wheelchair after years of not being able to even stand up, what do you think will give them the greatest joy? A million in the bank or the feeling of strength when their feet are pounding the ground during a run in the park? Yep, quite right. I have many things to be grateful for in my life, but most of all I value sobriety. And let’s face it – without my sobriety there would be no life anyway and I swear on Bambino’s life that I wouldn’t want to drink even if you offered me millions to do so. I’ll take that run in the park any day of the week.

Today I’m not going to drink.

When His Eyes Go Squinty

“How’s the cold? Is the grim reaper still lurking around?” Dad asks and chuckles. “Have you been at work this week?”

“Uhm, better,” I reply, “and I’ve been at work as usual. Have a new job, actually.”

“What? You changed jobs? Again? You switch jobs like a normal person changes their underwear!” he exclaims.

Dad’s of that generation where you do the same thing your whole life and not uncommonly staying at the same company too. He left school the moment he could, started as a dogsbody at the bank as a teenager and worked his way up – by his mid-twenties he was the bank manager, then a director and by the time he retired at the comfortably still-young age of 60 he specialised in investments, funds and insurance. Mum qualified as a teacher and spent most of her working life as a primary teacher, gaining qualifications as she went along within special needs. In Dad’s world you might go and work for a different company but changing the role you’re in beyond promotion is just plain weird. For him, my route is bewildering – how does one go from being a translator to then work as a personal assistant and then wind up working as a recovery support worker at a rehab? Makes no sense to him.

Because I’ve started as a volunteer and went into something completely new, I’ve held back a little on telling people – I wanted to find my feet a little before making any announcements or fielding questions.

“At a rehab? They didn’t take you in then?” he teases.

“Very funny.”

“Well, I guess you’re qualified,” he continues and although this conversation has ended up in the land of awkwardness I can hear the smile in his voice.

“You’re right. It could easily have been me but there we are, I got myself out as it happens and now I can use that to help others.”

Hm, perhaps a step too far. I’m not sure he likes it when I joke about it. Dad goes quiet for a moment, which is unusual for him. Mum has always said he has ADHD and how he’d be a fine example to demonstrate various hyperactive disorders. Seeing Dad still and/or quiet always freaks me out.

“Feels good to turn my experience to something good!” I go on as chirpily as I can to lighten the mood again, “And I think I’ll make something very good of this,” I add.

“Let’s hope so. You’re running out of jobs to try, you’ve bloody done them all!” Dad tells me and laughs in that way that I love when his eyes go squinty and his shoulders bounce.

Hats off to him. Not only is he of a generation that didn’t job-hop, he is also of a generation and upbringing where addiction is something that afflicts Bad People, those good-for-nothing twits who simply decide to throw their lives away. Yet here he is, being supportive and even making jokes with his only daughter, for whom he probably had so many hopes and dreams but who sank into alcoholism. Perhaps it’s his greatest sorrow? I know he’ll always love me, come what may, but I will never forget how addiction sends ripples and engulfs everyone in its path. I’d be very naive to for even a moment miss how much it has hurt him. And it’s not hard to imagine now that I’m a parent myself. The idea of Bambino following in my footsteps is a thought so painful it crushes my heart into a million shards of ice.

Today I’m not going to drink.

Listening to Their Stories

My sinuses are exploding and I had such a splitting headache I could no longer lie down by the time the clock ticked over 6am. A Lemsip later the violent headache is still there but at least I can breathe through my nose again, despite a little nose bleed from blowing my hooter a zillion times. I could give Rudolph a run for his money, the skin around my nostrils red, flaky and raw. Self pity central here, as you can see. Still – even in this state with a full-on cold and fever, I feel miles better than my best day when I was drinking. This is the beauty of sobriety – it never fails to deliver.

At the rehab, it would seem my luck is in and Rio told me with a big smile I’ll be employed full time with them before long. I’ve been volunteering for three weeks now and the next time I’m there there’ll be paperwork ready for me so that until I have that magical employment contract in my hands, I’ll be paid on an ad-hoc basis for the hours I do. My gamble has paid off. Well, I don’t know how accurate it is to call it a gamble – sober decisions do tend to be measured and considered and this was no exception. I knew what I was doing and I’ve gone about it in a way that is entirely uncharacteristic for me: by patiently taking it step by step. Correction: it is entirely characteristic for Sober Me, but obviously Drunk Me was setting the standard for a long time and so it seems very different for that reason I guess.

Sober living is freaking awesome, and even now when I’m feeling as shit as I do, this is a lovely, lovely morning and the future is looking as bright and hopeful as the cautious spring sunshine outside the window. It’s still grey and cold, the wind still carrying a bitter bite, but day by day the sun’s rays will grow a little stronger, be a little warmer and linger a bit longer. Soon, this part of the world will turn into a lush symphony of bird song and greenery. Little by little. Before long, I’ll have freckles across my nose again. Sobriety has a lot in common with the sun during early spring. It may seem like you’re starting from a bleak and cold place, but little by little you move forward and eventually a dark and heavy winter will turn into bountiful spring and a glorious summer. You just have to keep at it and soon you’ll find yourself swimming in the lake you skated on what seems like just moments before. I promise.

There are, as with anything that matters, things at the rehab and my ever growing role there that make me uncomfortable. I don’t mean bad things, just stuff that takes me out of my comfort zone. Remember, my zone over my drinking years was one where I treaded water and was free from friction. Active addiction destroys your ability to focus, work hard and grow – it shrinks your world and it shrunk mine down to a little mud pit. Keeping your limbs moving requires all effort you can muster and the beyond isn’t available to you. Suddenly I’m spreading my wings and operating at full capacity and it’s a challenge. There is no hiding in an office where my most complicated task of the day is to file expenses or make appointments. I’m constantly thrown into situations that cannot be navigated on auto pilot.

I feel awkward as hell calling out names for the next client to come to the meds room for their detox medication or tracking someone down to remind them they have to get to group therapy. I cringe at bag searches during admissions and feel embarrassed scanning their toiletries for anything that might contain a smidge of alcohol. I wince having to ask someone to go pee in a cup to verify what drugs are currently in their system as well as asking questions such as “do you crave a drink when you wake up?“. I feel like an intruder popping my head into someone’s room to check on them when they are on observation. Perhaps I feel all these things because I know how it feels to be at that rock bottom and have your dirty secret exposed and for people to witness what you’ve done to yourself. It feels a little like compromising someone’s dignity but then I remember what Cherokee said about the trolls: the only way to kill them is to expose them to sunlight. The sunshine makes them burst. Or as they say in AA: we’re only as sick as our secrets.

It’s good for me. The other day I took some of the clients for a walk. Beethoven instructed me to make sure everyone stays together and this was again a situation where I wanted to just hide away given I felt a little like a prison guard. Then I reminded myself that this is just really stupid thinking and my wretched brain playing tricks on me. These are not violent inmates at a prison – they are all just like me and the only difference between us is that it’s a little longer since I had my last drink. No one has a dealer hiding in the bushes outside (although, to be fair, this has apparently happened in the past) and no one is going to escape. They are mostly there out of their own free will and only want what I at this point have: their lives back. I forced myself to relax and once we got to the pond I told my stupid brain to stop being an arsehole and made myself engage in conversation. Soon enough, I’m listening to their stories and they’re listening to mine. I’ll tell you one thing about us addicts – yes, when we’re trapped in our addictions we may display the most despicable qualities and be sneaky and dishonest, but clean and sober we’re some of the sweetest people you’ll ever meet.

When that desire to get sober is there, you’ll never find anyone more determined or who’ll work harder. It’s not a light switch, where a quick motion will turn darkness to light. It’s sensing and finding that light where it flickers ever so faintly and nurturing it day by day, little by little, until eventually it’s made winter flee and turned the world into summer again. It’s both the unbridled joy and devastating sadness of sobriety – you will get there if you want it but if you don’t you have no hope. It may sound simple and in essence I suppose it is, but sometimes the road there is very long. When I was chatting to the group on that little walk I felt hope. Perhaps one person spoke of using with a worrying tendency to make it out to be something fun, but the majority seemed to be shaking their heads at the awfulness of it. What really struck me though is how there is so much hope, so much possibility and opportunity for all of us. We just need that one, elusive thing: the desire to stop. Good news is that when it does take hold, the rewards are endless and being sober becomes more important than the air we breathe. You may not believe me but it becomes as effortless too. We just have to trust that winter will once again turn into spring and as long as the sun sends its rays, it will.

Today I’m not going to drink.

A Random Tuesday

If I were to pinpoint what lead me to my turning point, I would first have to point to how I’d really had it. I’d had enough and I couldn’t go on any longer – I desperately wanted out of my addiction. What has solidified this desire to not only get sober but STAY sober was deconstructing what alcohol was for me: what I thought it did for me vs what it actually did. Those were almost opposites. To my mind, pouring that glass of wine was to sprinkle glitter on life. Alcohol to me represented celebration, joy and fun. Any time a happy feeling hit – which was most of the time – I wanted to pour wine aka glitter on it.

Often, when we want to untangle what’s lead us to where we are, we take a look at our childhood. I grew up in a happy home with loving parents, neither of whom ever drank to excess. My mother might sip at a small glass of wine at Christmas or around Midsummer but rarely other than that. Dad does like a good knees-up and occasionally he’ll have a whisky or two when he watches ice-hockey but I’ve never ever known him to have a drink on, say, a random Tuesday. There aren’t any big drinkers in my family and alcohol was never present except for times of celebrations and only ever in moderation. In fact, in my family I was the only smoker and I now include the wider family – aunties, uncles and cousins. Correction – my granddad on Mum’s side smoked but had quit by the time I was born. What I’m saying is that for me personally, drinking or addiction of any kind wasn’t something I grew up around and certainly not the type of drinking I ended up engaging in. It just didn’t exist – I grew up surrounded by moderation only. I say this because I want to demonstrate how addiction doesn’t necessarily depend on your background or wallet. Addiction is a very democratic beast.

Alcohol has many uses. We use it as a disinfectant – it dries out cells at contact so very good for killing bacteria. This also makes it excellent for cleaning. We also put it into our cars. Conjure up an old time image of someone having a tooth pulled – I can bet you that they’ll also have a bottle of booze in that picture. It’s a proven anaesthetic that numbs us both physically and mentally. Beyond this it’s a strong poison and a powerful depressant.

Makes sense, doesn’t it? For me, this is exactly what it does. It destroyed me from within and it makes me shudder to think where I might have ended up. Well, I know exactly where – six feet under – but I guess it’s the remaining stops along that awful journey that I sometimes ponder and the devastation I would have had to suffer before reaching the inevitable destination. Eesh.

Then there are of course all these people – including my husband and most of my friends and family – who can enjoy alcohol in precisely the sort of way you see in the adverts. It’s fun and you get a bit tipsy and goofy and it’s just enhanced the moment. That’s what I wanted too but it never happened. There’d be that brief window around the third drink that DID feel that way – I’d feel buzzed and melty – but it never lasted long and instead I’d hurtle full steam into black-out like a runaway train. Hopeless. But that’s me and I do accept that for those strange creatures who can drink in moderation – weirdos! – it’s different. At the end of the day, if there isn’t a problem, there isn’t a problem. I think because it seemed to me that the rest of the world could have what alcohol promised, I refused for the longest time to accept it wasn’t true for me. Gosh, there’s an advert for a Swedish lager called Pripps Blå and it sums up alcohol’s promise as well as fills me with nostalgia and images of the place where I grew up. It encapsulates how I used to see alcohol:

OK, ignore the ridiculous shot of the naked guy pouring water on himself *snigger* but there you have it – sun, sea, friends and pure loveliness somewhere in the archipelago. Fine, I’m more of a forest lake kinda gal and don’t much care for the sea, but you can just swap the sailing boat for a little rowing boat and row that out into the middle of a quiet lake during any of those summer nights when the sun never sets. There’s my snapshot of heaven right there, which used to contain booze in my world. Now, not so much, but I do think the key to my alcoholism can at least partly be found in the illusion of alcohol and my own beliefs around it. My desire to drink all but died when that illusion shattered and I finally saw what alcohol is for me – poison in a pretty bottle.

Spring is coming. This, I imagine, might be spoken of as the dreaded winter in Game of Thrones to any sober alcoholic. Fast approaching is the season of drinks by the river, picnics and BBQs, sitting in beer gardens and heading to the sea front. Mulled wine and pints of Guinness in all their glory, but isn’t the warmer half of the year the real drinking season? Yes, I drank as heavily no matter the season – I guess you could call me a seasoned drunk, hahr hahr – but when the weather gets kinder it’d seem those normal people drink more too. Thankfully, it doesn’t bother me because it’s still just poison in a pretty bottle and I hope my devious brain won’t fool me again, but it’s worth bearing in mind because it’s more in our faces during this approaching part of the year. Rekorderlig cider by the river! Those pesky Swedes who’ve now provided us with those strawberry and lime ciders that you drink with plenty of ice and taste like schampoo at the first sip.

Well. Just rambling…

Today I’m not going to drink.