Be Your Own Best Friend

I took this photo two days ago.

I was in a cafe with my friend, Harriet, waiting for the results of my blood tests.

Those of you who know my story will be aware that I am a breast cancer survivor. As a result, I have regular check ups at the cancer clinic to make sure that there aren't any pesky cancer cells rampaging around my body.

Currently, breast cancer that spreads beyond the breast and lymph nodes (secondary breast cancer), is incurable. So waiting for those test results is a bit.... nerve wracking. To say the least.

So Harriet came with me to hold my hand. And I took this photo to remind myself of the true value of a great friend.

You see, Harriet is a busy lady. She runs a business from home. Her incredible Spacemasks are so popular that the Royal Mail come to her house to collect her mountains of boxes, packaged up by herself, often with hand written note.

But Harriet wasn't too busy to take a whole morning out to sit in a hospital waiting room with me. And I wasn't exactly sparkly company.

True friends, I realised, will always put you first when you're having a tough time.

They don't expect you to be perfect. They applaud your strengths and forgive your weaknesses, which they know are what makes you human.

A real friend doesn't expect you to always be on best form. They know that sometimes you just need to sit quietly and have a hug.

And this got me thinking. Why is it that we are unable to treat ourselves the way we'd like our friends to treat us?

So, please, if you are having a tough time - whether you're giving up the booze or another addiction, going through a divorce, coping with illness, or just dealing with the lemons that life sometimes chucks at us, then treat yourself like your own best friend.

Make time to look after yourself. Give yourself a hug, by taking some time out to relax, buying yourself flowers, booking yourself a massage. You deserve it.

And stop judging yourself! We often focus on our faults and ignore our strengths. See yourself the way your best friend does - flawed, yes, but awesome.

And you know what the amazing thing is? If you start to really believe that you are worthy of friendship, you attract even more friends, and you'll have even more hands to hold.

And if you have a friend who's going through a hard time, please be like Harriet.

When I was drinking (a lot), I spent an awful lot of time thinking about myself. Usually negatively.

Now I have so much more time and energy that I can properly focus on other people, and I'm a much better friend. Still not perfect, but better.

And, by the way, the blood tests were all clear! Whoop whoop!

You can read my story, of quitting the booze (and getting breast cancer) in The Sober Diaries. Click here to go to my Amazon page. You can read the first few chapters for free using the 'look inside' feature.

There's loads more information and inspiration on the SoberMummy Facebook page here, and you can now follow me on Instagram at @clare_pooley

Love to you all,

SM x

Friendship (again)

Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art.... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.

C.S. Lewis

Thank you, again, for your wonderful messages of support following the death of my friend, Q. It is really appreciated, and the thought of all of you, out there somewhere, makes things easier.

I have written a few posts on friendship over the last year or so (click here for one on how booze affects our friendships), but the last few days have made me think about it in a different way.

As news of Q's death has spread there has been an outpouring of grief on Facebook. A remembrance page has been set up for friends and family to post pictures and memories.

(I was searching for another word for death, but I hate them all. 'Passing' is okay if you're talking about wind, but not a human being. 'Loss' makes it sound as if they've been mislaid on a station platform).

Mr SM has been asked to deliver the eulogy at Q's funeral. He is terrified. He was awake most of last night trying to work out how to get the tone just right, and worrying about breaking down in front of hundreds of people.

Trying to describe (in just a few minutes) a man and his life, and a little of what he meant to all those who are mourning him, is a horribly hard task.

It's made me think how sad it is that it takes a death to make us realise how wonderful our friends are, about how they've enriched our lives and what makes them unique.

It's all too easy to focus on negatives, on silly day to day irritations (a joke misfired, a thank you not delivered, an invitation turned down) and to forget the big picture.

So I've made a pact with myself. I will make the time to imagine a Facebook remembrance page for each of my close friends - the photos, the memories, the lists of all their awesome qualities, and I'm going to feel grateful for them now. While they are still here. And I'm going to take the time to tell them so.

As for the booze, I don't miss it at all.

My friend S told me that when her father died, she and her siblings flew from various parts of the world to be with her mother (a recovering alcoholic). Their greatest fear was that, after two years sober, their mother would be drinking again.

As they gathered together, the first thing S's Mum said to them was "I know what you're all thinking, and it's okay. I'm not going to drink." S had never been more proud of her mother, nor loved her more.

It's at times like this that you need to be a rock, to protect your family and hold them close. Without the drink I feel strong.

(See my post: When Life Throws You Lemons).

Thank you again,

SM x

Meeting Annie

Regular readers of this blog, or Annie's blog (A Dappled Path) will know that yesterday we arranged to meet I.R.L, as my kids would say (in real life).

I was really nervous.

I got married before the days of internet dating, when we still did things like introduce single friends to each other at dinner parties (how quaint!), but I imagine it's a similar feeling....

....You read someone's profile, you e-mail them for ages, you exchange secrets, hopes and fears. You think you're going to really, really like each other, but - deep down - you're terrified that you'll see them and immediately think oh no! Not my cup of tea at all. Totally not what I was expecting. Beam me up, Scotty!

I've never seen a photo of Annie, but we'd e-mailed each other describing our outfits, and arranged to meet under the clock in Charing Cross Station - just like in a cheesy romance.

And, you know what? Even if Annie had turned up disguised as Wonder Woman (which she didn't, by the way) I would have recognised her.

This lady walked towards me, and she looked just like her blog - all gorgeous and honest and hopeful, and a little bit scared.

And we hugged.

Then we walked. Over Hungerford bridge and alongside the river, in the sunshine. I find it easier to talk honestly when I'm walking (it's a great way to get teenagers to open up, by the way. Take them for a walk). And we talked. For hours.

And I realised that all Annie needs is faith. Faith that the field on the other side of the obstacle course filled with fluffy bunnies does exist (see my post: The Obstacle Course which I wrote for Annie back in September). And faith that she can make it there.

The problem is that when you've done hundreds of Day Ones you start to lose confidence in your ability to get any further. You re-inforce the feeling in your subconscious that it's all too difficult. That you're just not strong enough.

I told Annie about a friend of mine who recently completed her PhD. She said that initially she was terrified. It all looked too hard. Impossible. Insurmountable.

Then, someone told her not to think about the whole project, but to break it up into tiny individual tasks, and to just do one of those each day.

So that's what she did. And she kept going, until one day she realised that she'd nearly finished her whole dissertation! And that buoyed her up with so much confidence that she sailed through to the end with panache.

Quitting booze is the same.

If you think about the whole thing, it paralyses you. Annie would get through a few days then, usually on a Friday, panic about the idea about doing it forever, and feel that it was too hard. Impossible. Insurmountable. So she'd have a drink. And another one. You know the story.

"Break it down into tiny, individual bits," I said. "It's only two hours per day that you find really hard - 7pm - 9pm. So just focus on how to get through those two hours.

"Write a list of things that you can do that hold no associations with drinking, and will keep your mind (and, ideally, hands) occupied. Walking the dog, blogging, playing the piano, or the cello.

"Explain to the rest of the family that for the next three months you need those hours in the evening to yourself, and they'll have to learn to cook (or at least re-heat) their own suppers!

"Then, when you start really, really wanting a drink, look at your list and do one of those things until you feel better. If you're still feeling edgy at 9pm, just go to bed early.

"You can do two hours, can't you? That's all you have to do - one hundred times. Then it'll all start getting easier. And I know that one hundred sounds like a big number, but it's only one school term. And think how quickly one school term goes!"

I hope I helped. She seemed happy to have a plan, along with her weekly counselling sessions and AA meetings.

I found this quote for you, Annie:

My personal definition of confidence is to keep believing that the stars in the solar system are actually watching and applauding you. (Johnnie Dent Jr)

And they are watching and applauding, and so are all of us!

Annie and I are meeting again at the end of the summer holidays to celebrate her 100 days. Whoop whoop!

You know what? The sobersphere is great, but nothing beats being able to look into someone's eyes or sharing a great big hug. I.R.L.

Love to you all, especially beautiful Annie.

SM x

Soho Farmhouse, and Friendship

When I'd just received my cancer diagnosis, one of my very best friends, S, came round, scraped me off the floor and took me to the pub.

I sat, mute with fear, clutching a Beck's Blue in one hand, and her hand in the other.

It takes a very brave, and very good friend to be with you in moments like that.

The theologian Henri Nouwen says it much better than I could:

The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing.... not healing, not curing.... that is a friend who cares.

After a while she said, "SM, when this is all over, and when all your treatment is finished, we will go to a Spa and have a wonderful couple of days, and this will all seem like a bad dream."

Another great thing about real friends is they don't make empty promises.

Yesterday S, and two of my other oldest (in the sense of longstanding, not long in the tooth) girlfriends took me to the Soho Farmhouse for two days and one night of girl stuff.

The Soho Farmhouse is the newest, and trendiest, of the Soho House outposts, nestled in the lush Oxfordshire countryside.

I wouldn't usually use a twee word like nestle, but if any spa/club/hotel complex can nestle then the Soho Farmhouse can.

It was utterly perfect.

We had a beautiful three bed cabin by a lake (Kate Moss's favourite apparently), decked out in the latest retro chic - all Roberts radios, claw footed baths, vinyl record players and wood burning stoves. (My 1970s childhood is now officially hip).

There was the best stocked drinks fridge and liquor cabinet I've ever come across (I'd have been in heaven in the old days) and a larger array of luxury bath products than in my local Boots.

Outside the cabin were four identical bicycles for us to get around on, plus umbrellas and welly boots should it dare to rain.

We even had our own 'Farm Hand' on call in case the perfection wasn't perfect enough, and we needed to call for more perfection immediately.

I suspect there were people running around picking up any globules of stray mud with tweezers.

Hipster couples with dewy complexions and washboard abdominals wandered around sipping on glasses of champagne and green juices, like paid extras in an episode of the Truman Show, with the bird song and fluffy bunnies appearing on a loop.

I have never been so clean. I made the most of every water based opportunity: I swam, hot tubbed, steamed, showered and bathed.

I had six months of tension extracted from my shoulders with a combination of gentle coaxing and brute force by a man called Greg with magic fingers.

(I revelled in the thought that those fingers had quite possibly kneaded David Beckham's buttocks).

I frolicked in a little bubble of fabulous female friendship.

I'm afraid I'm not one of those people who can say that having cancer was actually a good thing, because it made me a better person. Cancer sucks. It's never a good thing. I'd rather be a worse person without cancer than a better person with it, quite frankly.

However, it has taught me the value of great friendship.

I'm astounded that my friends have stuck by me. I am extraordinarily lucky.

I've been a rotten friend for a very long time, but I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to rectify that.

Love to you all,

SM

The Party!

So, on Friday night I hosted The Party.

I haven't thrown a big evening drinks party for years. Hosting a party and getting totally plastered yourself are - I'd discovered - rather incompatible, and I couldn't really imagine a party without the latter.

But a big party was, I'd felt, in order.

I wanted to celebrate my birthday (last week), a year sober (this week), and surviving cancer. So I booked a private room above a swanky restaurant for drinks and canapes for seventy five of my friends.

The day leading up to the Big Event I had serious wobbles.

I thought what on earth am I doing throwing a party when I can't even have one glass of champagne to take the edge off? It's too soon! I'm crazy. Plus my dress is all wrong, but I can't afford to buy a new one. In fact, I can't afford the party at all. And no-one's going to have any fun. CANCEL THE WHOLE THING!

I had that squirming knot of anxiety in my stomach all day - the one that I would have drowned out with booze, back in the drinking days. Which is why I'd stopped having parties.

I would have had a glass or two of vino at lunch time (to quieten down the squirming snakes), then another two 'sharpeners' while getting ready. Then at least two while waiting for people to arrive. I'd have hit my 'perfect drunkenness' by about 7.30pm, so by 9pm it'd be seriously messy.

But on Friday I lived with the restless serpents.

I reminded myself that absolutely everything that is really worth doing and game changing in life is accompanied by that feeling.

If you are avoiding anxiety you are not properly living.

I felt the same before every job interview, every date, before getting married, before giving birth, before going off backpacking.

Where would I be now if I'd avoided doing all of those things (or got totally drunk beforehand)?

Anxiety is a sign that you're pushing boundaries, moving forward, grabbing life by the balls. IT IS GOOD.

Mr SM and I turned up ten minutes early, and sat on our own in a big, echoing room for twenty minutes while I sipped my virgin mojito and muttered, through gritted teeth, "nobody's coming!"

An hour later the place was heaving. People exclaiming over old friends, making new ones. I worked the room - chatting to everybody. Introducing people. Feeling the thrill of a party where I knew everyone!

Then, I stood up on a chair (couldn't have done that drunk!) and made a speech, thanking all my friends for their support and help through the cancer thing. I made everyone laugh. I felt the waves of goodwill.

Everyone said I 'looked amazing.' I know they kind of have to say that to the lady who's paying the bar bill and has just recovered from cancer, but I honestly think they meant it. Because - apart from anything else - I'm 21 pounds lighter than this time last year.

Then, at midnight, the bar closed. We had some friends from Scotland staying with us for the event. The four of us walked out onto the street where my car was parked, bang smack outside.

Five minutes into the journey Mr Scot suddenly sat up and yelled "Good God, SM, you're driving! I thought we were in a taxi!"

We got home and paid the babysitter, then the other three had a nightcap while I brewed up a green tea. We exchanged notes about the evening, and I went to bed so buzzed that I couldn't sleep until 2am.

Yesterday I was exhausted, but in a good way - not that awful, toxic, hungover tiredness, but a bone deep, honest exhaustion.

And I honestly can't remember the last time I enjoyed a party more. Yet I'd been totally sober for the whole five hours.

Who knew?

Love SM x

Sad Days

Even after several months sober, and even after surviving a cancer diagnosis, you can still get sad days.

Today was one.

The trigger for my general ennui was an e-mail correspondence (or lack of one) with a friend (or maybe an ex friend) I've known for twenty years.

Just before Christmas X send round a group e-mail announcing a new online business she's set up.

I replied congratulating her, wishing her and her family Merry Christmas and adding something along the lines of: So sorry, but I'm not sending Christmas cards this year. I've got breast cancer, which is a bit of a bugger. It's all going to be okay, but can't do cards on top of everything else.

Then I waited. No flowers. No 'phone call. Not even a quick one line e-mail reply. Nothing. Tumbleweed.

Hang on! I thought. Which bit of I'VE GOT CANCER did you not understand?!?

But, I'm sober now, and all level headed and sensible, so I figured that she was horribly busy with Christmas and the new business and stuff, and let it go.

Then, a few days ago I got another group e-mail from X, this time announcing a change of address.

I sent a reply wishing her luck with the move, and adding something along the lines of:

Finished radiotherapy, thank goodness, and would love to meet up. It's been too long.

Then I waited. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

In the old days I would have opened a bottle, had a bit of a rant, then got maudlin. The next day I'd have a hangover and paranoia. I'd feel even worse.

As it was I reminded myself that I, better than anyone, know that you have no idea what goes on in other people's lives. Who knows what she's dealing with. Perhaps it makes my silly old malignant tumour seem insignificant.

Plus, it's perfectly possible that I have, somehow, upset or insulted her and she's deliberately ignoring me. You can't spend ten years as a terrible lush without some fallout. It would be entirely my fault.

So I didn't get angry. And I've learned that when you have sad days, rather than blot them out with booze the best thing to do is indulge them.

I played lots of old tunes from my youth, and did a bit of nostalgic, therapeutic weeping. I ate some ice cream (purely medicinal), and now I'm planning a bath and a lounge around in PJs.

Tomorrow, as they say, is another day.

Love SM x

Reasons to Quit Drinking #7: You'll Have More Friends

One of my main worries when I quit drinking was losing all my friends.

(See my post from way back in March: Will I Lose All My Friends?)

Then, just recently, it struck me that I've made more close friends over the last ten months than in the previous five years.

The reason we worry about losing friends is that for years we have equated friendships with drinking.

Alcohol is the rocket fuel of any gathering, the social lubricant, the leveller. It gives us the confidence, the wit and the energy to bond with our friends and attract new ones. Right?

Plus, we know how suspiciously we used to view any 'non-drinker'. We'd quickly wipe them off our list of potential new mates.

Now that's going to happen to us. Yikes! Social pariah!

Well, you know what? That's not how it works!

For a start, have a look at the 'big drinker' at the next party you go to. Are they surrounded by potential new buddies, cracking jokes and exuding bonhomie?

Maybe for a while at the beginning, but I bet that after a few hours people are avoiding them like the plague, and secretly sniggering as they become boorish and embarrassing.

The truth is that drinkers do not make great friends. Harsh, but true. At least it was of me.

Firstly, drink made me incredibly selfish.

I spent far too much time hungover, thinking about drinking, or actually drinking, to have much time left to consider anybody other than my immediate family.

If an old friend did manage to engage me in a conversation about anything important at a party I'd quickly move the topic on to something more frivolous (ideally about ME), and by the next day I'd have forgotten it entirely.

And I was a terrible person to sit next to at dinner.

Maybe I'd be quite fun during the starter, but by pudding I'd be rambling and repeating myself. If the person on one side was more 'boring' than the one on the other I'd ignore them entirely!

Despite all this, a fair number of my old friends (particularly the other big drinkers) have kindly stuck by me, but I'd made few good new friends.

But now? Not only am I a much better friend to those old mates - I genuinely care about what's going on in their lives, and I try to support them whenever I can - I also seem to be attracting a whole bunch of new ones.

For a start, I no longer dismiss anybody who doesn't drink much! Who knew sober(ish) people could be so fascinating!

I don't scare people away by being too loud, too brash, and too disinterested in anyone other than ME. I'm genuinely intrigued by other people's lives and what makes them tick.

But most of all, I think it's about the vibe you give off.

I wrote a post a while back called Smile and the World Smiles With You (click here), where I talked about radiators and drains.

When I drank I was a drain. Now I'm a radiator. And people gravitate towards radiators and avoid drains.

You may well lose some friends, but I bet that if you do, you'll realise that they were the ones with whom you had little in common, except for the drink.

And you'll make a bunch of new ones. Proper, life enhancing friends.

Plus, more importantly, you'll be a better person to know too.

Thank you so much to you all, for being my new friends. You're awesome.

SM x

Friendship

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.
"Pooh!" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw.
"I just wanted to be sure of you."
AA. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner

When I first quit drinking, one of the things I was most scared of was losing my friends.

(See my post Will I Lose All My Friends? written back on Day 13)

I was aware that, in my overly enthusiastic drinking days, if any of my friends announced they were going sober I'd have been entirely unsympathetic and, most probably, would have distanced myself from them.

Non drinkers, in my book, were rather po-faced, holier than thou and more than a little dull. They didn't walk on the wild side, like me, grabbing life by the short and curlies. They were not part of my tribe.

Also, if I ever spent any time with a non-drinker, a little voice would start to whisper in my ear do you think maybe you're drinking too much? Do you think, perhaps, you should quit drinking? And that was a place I did not want to go.... I'd hastily stick my fingers in my ears and go la-la-la-la-la.

My cancer diagnosis two weeks ago has taught me an awful lot about friendship.

Oddly, when you get really, really bad news there are very few people you want to talk to. And they're often not the ones you'd expect.

I told two of my oldest girlfriends who were there whenever I needed to talk to someone. One of them even spent hours ringing round to find me a top breast consultant when the two I'd been recommended were away on holiday for a week (which is a very long time in cancer land).

The third person I told was a lady I don't know well at all. She's a Mum from the kid's school, and she lives nearby. I've never had a really good heart to heart with her. But when I got the news I just knew she'd be a good person to tell, so I turned up on her doorstep, sobbing.

This lady - H - has been a rock. She came to meet me in the park whenever I escaped from the children for a dog walk and a sob. She bought me a beautiful book to write down all the medical stuff I had to remember, and to pour out my feelings in. She has texted me several times a day, making me laugh and cry. She will be one of my best friends for ever.

It made me realise that for the last decade, at least, I have not been the friend that anyone has turned to first. I used to be - many years ago, but now I hear about close friends' illnesses, divorces, problems with their children, several weeks or months down the line. I am not a first port of call.

You know why? I'm sure it's because, as a drinker, I was a fair weather friend. Fun to have at parties, to share gossip and to have a laugh with, but not a friend in need.

The truth is that drinkers make rubbish friends. We tend not to listen (after a few drinks we get stuck on 'transmit' rather than 'receive'). We're not trustworthy (anybody's secret makes a good anecdote after a glass or two of vino). We're not reliable (I would often forget the crucial details of a friend's confidences, if not the whole conversation!).

Since I quit drinking I've been a much better friend. Instead of doing all my socialising at drinks parties, spending no more than ten minutes with any one friend, having superficial banter, I've spent hours chatting over coffees, dog walks and lunches.

When I am at a party, I don't try to talk to everyone - I have a few really good conversations with people I haven't seen for a long time. I listen. I remember. I'm thoughtful.

Yes, some of my big drinking friends I feel less close to, but I've realised that I was never that close to them anyway - not in the ways that matter.

And the vast majority of my friendships are way more precious and stronger now than they were a year ago. Plus I've picked up some wonderful new friends, who never knew the drunken me.

Friendships, you see, like flowers, have to be nurtured, cared for, watered. Pour sauvignon blanc over them for long enough and you poison them.

The other thing this experience has taught me about friendship is how much I value all of you.

As you know, confessing to a drink problem, or to going sober, is hard in the real world (see my post: Dear Friend), which is why the sobersphere is such a lifeline.

I may never have met you, or know what you look like, but I've bared my very soul to you and you've accepted me, and that is the most powerful form of friendship there is.

Plus, we all share something. Despite our very many differences we are all very alike.

Here's a wonderful quote from C.S.Lewis:

Friendship is born at that moment when one man says to another: "What! You too? I thought that no-one but myself...."

And that is what bought us all here.

Thank you, dear friends.

SM x

P.S. I am back from hospital. Sore and tired, but happy.