How to tell if it's PAWS?

The last few days have been a bit odd.

First I had a major attack of The Glums, and then I boomeranged out into a world of fluffy pink clouds and dolphins....

.....and now I'm back on an even keel (I think!)

Which all got me thinking why? And how can we tell the difference between Post Acute Withdrawal Syndrome, known as PAWS (I've done several posts on this if you want to read more about it), hormones or just general bleurgh?

I imagine that everybody's experience is somewhat unique, but - for the record - here is mine:

General bleurgh: usually has a trigger, and you can often apply logic and come up with a solution

e.g. I'm feeling really grumpy because I've had no time to myself for weeks. Logic: if I go for a long walk and a coffee, and possibly apply a large slice of chocolate cake, all will seem better.

Hormones: usually involve irrational and self righteous anger

e.g. I have no idea why I'm so pissed off, but it is absolutely not my fault in fact it's yours! I would be fine if you just ......(insert as appropriate e.g. picked your clothes off the floor/loaded the dishwasher once in a while)

PAWS: usually characterised not by anger, but by general lassitude. A feeling of "what's it all about anyway? Why bother? What's the point?"

Plus - and here's the biggie - it's accompanied by overwhelming, unaccountable, fatigue. The sort that requires an afternoon nap to allow you to function properly.

Another clue is dippiness. The feeling of wading through soup. Forgetting names, why you walked into a room, searching for your glasses when they're on the end of your nose.

In retrospect, what I had a few days ago, and have had every six weeks since I quit drinking, was PAWS.

But what I read was right. It does get easier and pass more quickly. My first attack (at around 42 days) lasted about a week. This one had been and gone in 36 hours.

So, my parents have joined us on the family holiday in Cornwall.

This brings back vivid memories.

It was in Cornwall last summer that my Mother told me, kindly and gently, that she thought I was "drinking too much."

Did I thank her for her concern, think about it rationally, and decide to take action, thereby leading to where I am today?

Hell no!

I yelled at her big time. I made her cry. I called her interfering, cruel and a hypocrite. I stomped off to my room clutching a goblet of vino and spent the rest of the week making snide remarks about Attilla-the-fun-snatcher, and suchlike.

She hasn't said much about the fact that I've not had a drink for nearly six months. Understandably she's a little nervous about broaching any personal subjects around me.

I'm wondering how long it will take, and what she'll say. If anything, ever.

My Dad thinks I'm on some kind of fad diet and keeps banging on about my new trim(mer) figure, bless him.

Love to you all,

SM x