Hope Versus Expectation

I read all the comments you fabulous people leave on my blog. I'm sorry I don't always reply to them.

They are always kind, wise, often very funny, sometimes extremely poignant, and really helpful - both for me, and for all the lurkers our there.

(It's okay, no shame in lurking! We've all done it. Come out when you're ready).

Sometimes a comment gets stuck in my head and it takes me a while to figure out why.

That was the case with this one from Tams62:  My therapist has tried to lead me down a path of "hoping" for things vs "expecting" things...It has helped me to not feel so let down and discouraged.

I loved the distinction between 'hope' and 'expectation' but wasn't entirely sure why, then yesterday I worked it out....

Yesterday was hard.

I had to clear up the house in Scotland, pack the cases to go South, lock away anything staying North, empty the fridge and all the cupboards, clean, squeeze everything into the car (leaving enough space for three children and a dog), then drive for nine hours back to London.

Usually Mr SM and I share all this. Yesterday, as Mr SM had fled back to the office several days ago, I had to do it all on my own.

And, you know what? It was easier.

(The packing bit, not the driving bit. Nine hours without a co-pilot is hell. We made it, fuelled by coffee, Rowntree's Fruit Gums and an eleven hour long talking book of Philip Pullman's Amber Spyglass to keep the children happy. But by the end I had to be levered out of the driver's seat, a gibbering wreck).

I tried to work out what made it less stressful, and I realised that on previous occasions I've spent an inordinate amount of energy worrying about what Mr SM is doing (or not doing).

Usually on a packing day I get up at least an hour before Mr SM does, so by the time he saunters out of bed (at a reasonable time) I'm already feeling like a martyr.

He then has this really annoying habit of deciding to deal with endless e-mails when we only have a short amount of time left before we can leave.

I bang and crash around him, loudly emptying cupboards, washing up and harrumphing, as my blood boils to the point that steam is coming out of my ears.

He's used to this, so just types away regardless, issuing storm warnings to the children. ("Watch out folks, she's gale force seven, gusting eight!").

By the time we leave I am super stressed and extremely cross. It takes an hour or two of the journey before I'm back on speakers with the husband. (I suspect he relishes the peace of the silent treatment).

But yesterday I had absolutely no expectation of Mr SM doing anything (except going to his office several hundred miles away). And I was calm, organised, relaxed, happy.

The reason expectations are so toxic and so stressful is that they involve other people's behaviour, which is out of our control.

When people refuse to behave how we expect them to we take it personally. We get upset, or angry. And, if you're in the early days of quitting, this can be a major trigger.

If you expect nothing, you can't be disappointed.

But hope is different. Hope is about being eternally optimistic and positive. It's a good thing to hope that someone will help you, so long as you don't expect it.

I've also realised that men, and children, are very much like puppies.

Nagging them to do stuff just doesn't work and makes the whole household unhappy.

Instead, rewarding them when they behave the way you'd hope encourages them to carry on.

So now I try really hard not to nag Mr SM to load the dishwasher, but when he does so without asking I go totally overboard with the praise and thanks. (You'd think he'd split the atom rather than just put a few dirty plates in the right place). And he is - I think - doing it a little more.

I found this great quote from Stephen Hawking:

My expectations were reduced to zero when I was 21. Everything since then has been a bonus.

I'm not sure I'll ever get my expectations down to zero, but I'm working on it, and doling out lots of puppy treats along the way....

Love SM x

P.S. If you're receiving this by e-mail, I hope the title has now changed to something less embarrassing! If so, it's all thanks to amanconcernedforhiswife. If not, I give up.

Blue Without Becks Blue

We've arrived in Cornwall!

I've discovered that there's one window in our cottage from which I can access a wifi hotspot. So here I am, snuggled on the windowsill in my pyjamas, looking out at the stunning, wild, wet and windy landscape.

Yesterday was hard. I was up at the crack of dawn, packing for several hours, trying to cram everything into our (not large) car and still leave enough room for 3 children.

This was tricky as I'd bought enough Becks Blue (alcohol free beer) to sink a battleship. I didn't know if Becks Blue has yet penetrated this remote corner of the world and wanted to Be Prepared. Luckily I squished it all in and didn't have to choose between leaving behind the beer or a child.

I did the drive down in horrible traffic on my own (Mr SM following on by train after a day at work). Then I had another hour of unpacking while simultaneously dealing with 3 overexcited children.

Arriving at a holiday destination pulls every trigger there is: stress (tick), exhaustion (tick), celebration (tick), reward (tick), anxiety (tick). BUT I had planned ahead! I am an expert at this game! I had a chilled Becks Blue waiting for exactly this moment.

What I hadn't counted on was there being NO SODDING BOTTLE OPENER!

I turned the cottage upside down. The children were hollering to go to the beach. I was a woman possessed. I looked like.....AN ADDICT! (Who'd have thought it?)

I've obviously lived a sheltered existence as I had no idea how to get the lid off without an opener. I tried everything, and only succeeded in hurting my hands.

In the end, I went into the garden and smashed the top off on a stone. Needless to say, it went everywhere, leaving me with two gulps, lots of foam and broken glass.

The kids and I walked down to the beach as the sun was setting, and ate Cornish ice cream, sitting on the rocks watching the waves.

Bliss.

I'm not going to quit the Becks Blue while I'm here - after all I have 2 crates to get through - but I am going to try.....MODERATION!!!

Although, moderating the time I spend blogging doesn't seem to be working. I'm still at it every day...

Still, as Mr SM keeps reminding me, there are worse addictions to have.

Don't we know it!?!

Love SM x

Oldest Habits Die Hardest

Apparently, changing habits is only 5% down to the conscious mind, and 95% down to the subconscious. Which means, in effect, that you just got to give it time.

You have to drown out all those past (drunken) associations with lots of shiny new (sober) ones. Baby step by baby step. It's one of the reasons why they say it takes 2 years before you stop getting withdrawal symptoms (see Post Acute Withdrawal Symptoms).

It seems to me that it works on a 'last in, first out' basis. My recently acquired alcohol associations (like drinking at lunch time) were the easiest to ditch. I hardly ever get cravings at lunch time now. But the deeply engrained associations (like drinking at parties) are a bugger to shift.

Whatever you tell your conscious mind about sober being better, not needing alcohol blah blah blah, your subconscious still pipes up "Party! Oh Goody! Pour us a drink, why don't you?"

We can try to avoid the most problematic situations, like refusing party invitations - but that's just postponing the problem. By doing that you don't create the new associations to fight with the old ones. Plus it's no fun. There's no point being sober if it's going to ruin your life.

Another cheat is to change the routine slightly. I've realised that I've been doing this with evening meals. I don't find not drinking at home in the evenings tricky now, but that's partly because I've got into the habit of eating 'on the hoof.'

I pick at the children's left overs. I snack. I no longer wait to eat until Mr SM comes home. I don't lay the table for two. Having a formal dinner just makes me miss the wine too much.

Changing the routine has made things way easier, but I'm missing out on my 'adult time' with the husband. Our tiny oasis of romance. I've got to bite the bullet and re-instate dinner.

Yet again I'm reminded of the children's book Going on a Bear Hunt. "We can't go over it, we can't go under it, we've got to go through it."

There are no short cuts.

It's another reason why it makes sense not to slide all the way down the slippery slope to rock bottom. With every year you keep drinking you're creating more and more deeply ingrained associations. Making it harder and harder to quit when you eventually do.

So, I'm starting to pack for our annual trip to Cornwall. Three weeks of surfing and sandcastles. And it struck me that part of the reason I'm so excited is that I have, relatively speaking, very few drunken associations with Cornwall.

My father's family are Cornish, so I've been going every year since I was born. I did a fair bit of drinking there, obviously. I've done a fair bit of drinking everywhere! But the drinking memories are totally overwhelmed by loads of sober ones.

Hot chocolate and donuts on the beach after surfing. Catching crabs in rock pools. Hide and seek in caves. Long, wind blown cliff walks. Building walls of sand to stop the tide coming in. Picking blackberries. Making blackberry and apple pie. Flying kites. Frying sausages on the beach. Finding hidden coves. Spotting seals. Riding bikes. Paddle boarding. Water skiing. Ice creams. Cream teas. Cornish pasties. Swing ball. Frisbee. Building damns. Floating boats down streams. Sandy toesies. Burnt nosies. Brown paper packages tied up with string (oops. Wrong list.)

Last year a lovely American friend of mine came to meet us on our regular beach with her family. She's in fashion. She turned up wearing Jimmy Choo strappy sandals and pastel silks, perfectly made up and coiffed. Dressed for The Hamptons. She was horrified to find us in wellies and waterproofs, sheltering from driving rain in a cave, crazy hair matted with salt water and faces wind burned. We looked feral.

Cornwall reminds me that the best things in life don't need dressing up for. They are both free and priceless. And sober.

2 days to go!

Love SM x

Triggers

When you stop drinking you find that there are certain 'triggers' that always make you yearn for a delicious, chilled glass of white wine (or whatever your favourite tipple is).

Because I drank every evening, and lunchtimes more often than not, pretty much everything was a trigger to start off with.

Walking past the fridge. Any type of food preparation (except breakfast, thankfully! I hopped off the down escalator before that point). Any form of stress. Walking past the wine shop, or the booze aisle in the supermarket. Anyone dropping in. Being at home alone. Being out with friends. You get the picture.....

The biggest trigger was wine o'clock. Wine o'clock was, officially, 6pm, but it had gradually crept earlier and earlier, until it settled at around 5pm. (Given that 'lunch time' didn't generally end until around 1.30pm, this didn't give me a great deal of time off).

To start with I had to 'white knuckle' it between 5pm and 7pm. I begged the long suffering husband to come home from work as close to 6.30pm as possible, and I'd dash upstairs to take a hot bath with bubbles and deep breathing. By 7.30ish it would be relatively safe to emerge again.

I've now done four months of wine o'clocks, and they are officially not a problem any more. Woo hoo! 6pm is now alcohol free beer time. 9pm is hot chocolate time. Sorted.

The day-in-day-out triggers I've got more or less licked. My issue now is the triggers which pop up unexpectedly. Like the whack-a-mole game I mentioned yesterday. Yoo hoo! Over here! Bam!

People tell me that one of the worst things about bereavement is when you first wake up and forget, just for a moment, that your loved one is gone. Then it hits you afresh.

Quitting alcohol is very much like losing a lover. Your constant companion. Best friend. Your go to prop. And, like bereavement, my worst triggers are when - just for a moment - I forget that my lover is gone.

I received an e-mail a few days ago from #1's school. It was about the year 6 leaver's production of Oliver. It said 'children should be dropped at school at 5.45pm to change and warm up prior to the performance at 6.30pm. Drinks will be available in the marquee for parents.'

My heart soared. Yay! An official excuse to drink! At school! Before 6pm! On a hot day! What's not to like?

Then BAM. Reality. Oh yes. Not me. Never again. Boo hoo.

The other trigger that's currently driving me crazy is bloody Ed Sheeran.

#1, #2 and #3 insist on listening to Capital Radio in the car, which means that - for the first time in a decade - I am totally up to date with the charts. I am intimately acquainted with Taylor Swift and 1D.

If I am annoyed with the offspring, I park outside the school gates, wind the window down, sing loudly to whatever chart song is playing and add appropriate 1980s hand movements. This causes howls of anguish from the back seat as they desperately try to pretend that they've never met me before.

(They get their revenge by shouting loudly in shops "My Mummy's forty six!")

Anyhow, one of their favourite songs is Ed Sheeran's Bloodstream.

It gets me every time. "I got sinning on my mind. Sipping on red wine......I've been looking for a lover, Thought I'd find her in a bottle...."

Then, the line that makes me grip the steering wheel hard, "I feel the chemicals burn in my bloodstream."

There's something about that line.

I don't really miss the second or third glass of wine any more. I miss that first big glug. I miss the moment when you feel it hit your bloodstream, and the world shifts on its axis. The gear changes. Everything softens.

It's like the Star Trek teleport system. Spock hits the button and everyone goes all wavy then pops up somewhere else.

I feel a wave of loss as I realise that I'll never have that fast track to relaxation again.

So, Ed Sheeran, I say take your flipping chemicals and shove them where the sun don't shine, because you're messing with my head. And my school run.

Onwards and upwards peoples.

Love SM x

P.S. In case any of you have been fretting about the sad, premature demise of #3's tadpoles, you will be glad to hear that my sainted mother came up from the country yesterday with 5 new, healthy tadpole/frog combos for the tank, thereby saving her granddaughter from having to face the inevitability of death for a little bit longer.....