I bloody love a drink. I do. I love being elevated above my life of an evening, switched to a different mode. A mode that doesn’t have negative thoughts or see any obstacles in front of my desires. I love the way tequila feels. People are funnier, the air is sweeter with booze. There ain’t no denying.
I don’t bloody love the next day though. Or the shitty broken sleep, waking up at 4am to the sound of my blood pumping hard in my throat, wondering how my heart has the muscle to keep going. The constant peeing. The eye bags. The not being able to get out of bed the next day. The feeling that my head is stuck in a vice. The bank balance after a bender. The sheer disgust at oneself. The hundreds of lost weekends. The not getting stuff done because of the fucking sauce.
I have always wondered what I would have done with all the hangover days and lost weekends if I hadn’t been hungover. Would I have written more? Read more? Seen my family more? Would I have got really good at say, erm, rock climbing? I certainly would have eaten fewer dodgy fried chicken burgers at 3am.
I haven’t drunk alcohol for 12 weeks. Not a drop. Ok – let’s be honest – I tasted someone else’s Old Fashioned on holiday, tasted it with the tip of my tongue, and it was glorious. But I’ve chosen to put alcohol on hold for the foreseeable future, because it has been engulfing my spare time. Clouding my ideas. Distracting me from what is good and real.
Over the summer, after a particularly anxiety fuelling placement as part of my nurse training, I relapsed into a deep bout of depression. This one was slow and gnawing. I felt like a big sloth, dragging my heavy leaden body through life, with my eyes practically closed. Walking to the station in the morning felt like I was heaving a mountain behind me. Alcohol filled the void, threw a bit of colour in the mix. It released the pleasure chemicals I needed in my brain (aka dopamine), stimulated my reward centre, offering the satisfaction that I so desperately needed. It also took over entire weekends, meaning I didn’t have to actually address how I was feeling, or what I needed to do in my life to make it better. It was slowing me down and throwing me off. I’ve dealt with depression and hopelessness enough to know that during these foggy times, making a teeny change can be the catalyst to heaving me out of the hole of perpetual self pity.
After one too many all nighters, and yet another Sunday spent unable to move on the sofa, I had to ask myself – what is the point of alcohol? And what is it doing to my life? I knew that I had to stop getting carried away on the fizz, no matter how jolly the sound of the second bottle popping will always be.
This might sound like I’m on a one way trip to Bore Ville. Proper Bore-asaurus territory. But as part of being human, I have to let go of worrying about people thinking I’m dull or whatever, because this is me and I have to live with myself and the consequences of my tendency to binge. The thing is, that alcohol has historically fuelled my depression, filled me with all kinds of regret, fucked up my sleep and made me less able to do nice things for myself.
I’ve quit alcohol before, and I’ve spent lots of time over the years trying to moderate my drinking. It works at first. But gradually I slip back into the routine of getting shit faced at every opportunity. Friends Birthdays are a given. Then there are exam celebrations, weddings, bottomless brunches, dinners, flights, the fact that it is Friday, or Thursday for that matter. It turns out that in my life, there is almost ALWAYS an excuse to get drunk.
Recently I had a counselling session with an amazing ex-mental health nurse. She dropped the A-bomb and asked if I thought I was an alcoholic. It’s funny that she asked, because I had been silently mulling this over. I don’t see myself as having a physical addiction to alcohol, that’s for people who have vodka on their cornflakes, right? I’ve never had withdrawal symptoms, unless a three day hangover is considered to be a sort of withdrawal process. But I have been a problem drinker. A binger. Someone who uses the excuse of a party to get bladdered. To forget the week ahead, soften my negative self talk. I have habitually planned entire weekends around opportunities to get pissed. To make music sound better, to make my problems seem smaller and to feel less out of place. Fuck tomorrow. I loved the way I looked after a bottle of Prosecco. I felt more articulate, funnier, and the world was less dull. There was a meaning to this life, and the meaning was to sink as much vodka as poss so that I no longer felt bored by the reality of existence. Which frankly, can be really fucking dull when your main hobby is basically wine.
I sort of knew, that there was more to the weekend than boozy brunches and hungover fry-ups (as lovely as bacon tastes the morning after). I wanted to see London, and museums, and the park, and my friends in all their glory without the smog of booze. I wanted to grow my mind and not drown it. I simply had to try not drinking and see what happened.
I’m not going to say that I wake up every morning these days singing like Snow White. I still have shitty sleeps, but they are fewer. I still get bouts of gloom, but they are less pronounced. I have anxiety, but it is largely fleeting. There is still a small part of me, that would love to chug 17 Prosecco’s with my friends and end up asleep on a night bus bound for Edgware with my head in a pizza. But I can’t really do it to myself anymore.
I want to get stuff done. I want to read books and make stuff and be able to concentrate and not wallow in my own filth on a Sunday. In kindness to myself, me and alcohol have most definitely broken up.