Doing the Time

It's glorious here in Switzerland. The snow isn't great, and the pistes that are open are very crowded, but the skies are completely clear, except for a myriad of coloured paragliders.

It's so beautiful that you have to constantly fight the urge to break into a rendition of 'The Hills are Alive With the Sound of Music.'

(I actually did this once yesterday, until I noticed that the whole family were standing several feet away from me and pretending not to be related).

Now, I'm not a good skier. I started way too old. The rest of the family, however, are demons on the slopes. Even the seven year old will ski any black run at full tilt. They all call me Escargot.

Today, as I skied gently down a red run, admiring the scenery, I felt an analogy coming on.

You see, learning to ski is very much like giving up the booze (here's the analogy!)

You have to spend weeks and weeks constantly on your arse, aching all over and feeling like an idiot. You think 'I am never ever going to be any good at this, and what's the point anyway? What's wrong with walking, for God's sake?' You curse the people swishing past you and assume that they're just built differently.

But the truth is, you just have to put the time in. You have to train your muscles over and over again to work in a particular way, until one day it's just instinct.

Then, you suddenly find yourself gliding down a slope feeling the most incredible high, because it's amazing! It's WAY better than walking. And it's all the better because getting that point wasn't easy.

You are literally, and metaphorically, on top of the world.

Because nothing in life that is really, really worth having is easy to achieve.

I watched an amazing documentary last week about the early days of Queen: one of the greatest bands of all time. They spent YEARS travelling the country playing in dives. They once played to an audience of ONE.

J.K.Rowling spent years living on state benefits, writing in a cafe because she couldn't afford to heat her appartment, and was turned down by several publishers.

Behind every 'overnight success story' you'll actually find there's years and years of effort, of disappointment, of picking yourself up and trying again.

And going sober isn't easy. You have to do the time (we certainly did the crimes, didn't we?).

It takes about 100 days to get through the worst, and six months before it starts becoming second nature.

But the rewards are worth the effort. And way more.

So don't give up. Put your skis on and fly down that mountain. I'm with you.

Love SM

P.S. I had a great moment today when I had to go to the ski shop and ask them to adjust my ski bindings because I am fourteen pounds lighter than I was when we were here nine months ago! The sober diet: half a pound per week, slowly but surely. But, be warned, it often doesn't kick in until you've done about 100 days.

Going Away....

I've been packing all afternoon. At 3.45am we leave for Gatwick airport. We're off to Switzerland for a week's skiing (if there's any snow!).

This is the holiday I thought I'd never get to take. I'd expected to be hooked up to the chemo machine, waving goodbye, bravely, to the rest of the family.

But I'm going, and I can't wait!

I read back over my post back on Day 29, the last time we were in Switzerland (click here). It feels like it was written by a different person.

Since then I've clocked up another 9 months sober. I've been through a cancer diagnosis and 2 months of tests and treatment. I've looked death in the face and stared it down. I've grown up.

I'm not at all worried about staying sober on holiday, because I've done it before. And whilst I have lots of memories of amazing, drunken ski holidays, my most recent memories are of a fabulous sober one.

The reason, I think, that the first year sober is so hard is because it's full of 'firsts' - first sober parties, first sober holiday, first sober Christmas, etcetera. But once you've done something sober once, the subsequent times become so much easier (see my post on Muscle Memory).

In the 'old days' I would have found packing for the five of us to go away incredibly stressful. I'd have drunk my way through it, and left something crucial behind - like my underwear.

This time I've been super calm.

But, you know what? I'm a bit fed up of being calm, of being grown up, of being brave.

What I really want to do is to spend a week being childish. Silly. Over excited. I want to throw snowballs, make snow angels, career down slopes and play practical jokes. I want to eat lots of chocolate and melted cheese. I want to toast marshmallows on the fire and swan around in a onesie.

And the incredible thing is, as I sat here, writing that list, picturing all the things I want to do, none of the images in my head had me clutching a glass of vino.

Isn't that amazing?

Love to you all,

SM x