For months and months I kept up the charade of I'm driving, or I've given up for Lent, or I'm on a health kick.
Then, as luck would have it, I got cancer, and everyone assumed that I was on doctor's orders not to drink.
Ironic, actually, as the doctors and nurses in the cancer clinic were constantly urging me to 'go home and pour yourself a large drink.'
(By the way, I wouldn't recommend that one as a smoke screen. Stick to the 'I'm on antibiotics' line rather than getting breast cancer. It's easier).
I lied, evaded and dissembled because I was terrified of what people would think.
Would they assume I was a reckless drunk who'd endangered her children and abused her husband?
Would they think I was a boring teetotaller who wasn't worth a party invitation?
Would I end up with no friends, and no booze with which to drown my sorrows?
But gradually I've become less and less bothered, and I've told more and more people that I no longer drink.
Pretty much all my friends and family now know. And you know what? They don't seem to care.
The bigger drinkers get the issue. The hardly-ever-drinkers don't see it as a big deal.
If they quiz me about it I say "I was drinking way to much, and I'm an all or nothing kind of person. I find it much easier not to drink at all than to drink just a little bit. Moderation is not my forte."
But I didn't tell any of them about this blog. That would be (to coin a phrase from the kids) too much information.
Then two of them just came across it while surfing the great wave of the interweb. (See my post: Outed). And they were really supportive. So I got a bit braver...
One of my best friends has known for months that I quit drinking. She also knows that I write a blog. So a few days ago I sent her the web address.
And she was horrified!
She said "I'm in shock," and "I need some time to process this," and "I can see why you've kept it so quiet."
(You'd think I'd told her I was having Donald Trump's love child, not that I quit drinking and wrote about it).
She said "I'm in shock," and "I need some time to process this," and "I can see why you've kept it so quiet."
(You'd think I'd told her I was having Donald Trump's love child, not that I quit drinking and wrote about it).
I know it won't affect our friendship, and I know she'll always love and support me (and I her), but her reaction has made me rather scared. Scared for me, and for my family.
It's made me totally reconsider the idea of publishing a book, because I know that it would be impossible to stay anonymous if I did so.
But then I found this poem by Dorothy Parker, and it made me feel a little better:
In youth, it was a way I had,
To do my best to please.
And change, with every passing lad
To suit his theories.
But now I know the things I know
And do the things I do,
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you.
Dorothy, by the way, was an alcoholic. At one New York speakeasy she frequented, a bartender asked her "What are you having?" to which she replied, "Not much fun."
Love SM x
