Moving on....

One of the best things about writing this blog is being able to look back over the last 90 days to see how far I've come.

Yesterday, I was driving back from the country with the kids and the dog when the same song came on the radio that we'd been listening to while travelling back from my sober ski holiday on day 37.

I wrote a post about that song 'I wish that I could wake up with amnesia', because every line reminded me of my relationship with Chablis.

I wrote:

....it struck me that ditching alcohol - at the grand old age of 46, is much like breaking up with the unsuitable first love at the age of nineteen.

Do you remember all those horribly raw emotions? You weep buckets. You think you're never going to be happy again. You sob on the shoulder of any friend who'll put up with you, truly believing that no-one has ever felt heartache like you do.

He is constantly on your mind, and everything seems to remind you of him: places you went to together, mutual friends, shared interests. Evenings are spent playing songs that you listened to together, poring over old photos and replaying the relationship in your head endlessly.

Was he really so bad? Perhaps, after this break, with time to reflect, you can 're-invent' the relationship - make it perfect. There was so much that was good, wasn't there?

But now I listen to the same song and I think #teenageangst! How ridiculously maudlin. Get a life! Move on!

In short, it doesn't feel like me at all.

I have, it seems, reached the stage of the relationship breakup where I no longer romanticise the memories. I don't look back and see all the good bits. I look back and see a total pillock (1980s English slang) who screwed up my life.

In fact, I have reached the classic 'I Will Survive' stage.

When I was about 25 I was madly in love with a boy called Liam who was part of my University crowd.  He turned out to be a cad and a bounder who stole money from my bank account and pawned my clarinet.

After a few weeks of weeping I went out with some girlfriends to a trendy American style diner in the West End, drank lots (obvs), climbed onto the table and sang along loudly to Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive'. I got a standing ovation (before I was thrown out).

It's Saturday morning. Please humour me. Join in. Click this link to glorious Gaynor (with amazing teeth! Check 'em out), gawp and the fabulous 1970s threads, and sing along while dancing. If it's too embarrassing to dance on your own then use a vacuum cleaner or broom (that's what I do).

And if's that's just far too cheesy for you, or you have an attack of the glums and can't face it yet, then look at the ironic one-eyed alien version instead. It'll cheer you up.

As you can see, the PAWS has lifted (see post on Post Acute Withdrawal Symptoms), and life is good.

Hurrah! And love to you all.

SM x