Will I Lose all my Friends?

This is the question that haunted me when I first quit drinking. In fact, I posted with this same title back on day 13. (To read that post click here).

And the truth is that I didn't lose any friends, in that no-one called me up to say Good God, you are SO BORING that I never want to see you again. (I really had expected that to happen).

What has happened, though, is that there are some friends who contact me a lot less. Needless to say, generally the ones who can't contemplate the idea of a night out without getting totally hammered, and don't want a sober person there pouring rain on their parade.

I'm not angry about this. I get it. I would have done the same, back in the day. I would have justified this to myself as being 'because they're no fun any more', when actually I was just worried that it would shine a light on my own out of control drinking.

This slight negative is, however, totally drowned out by the positive, which is that I have made lots of new friends. 

I hadn't made many new friends for years. It felt like too much effort. I was also somewhat aware that my old muckers would be more forgiving of any wayward antics than brand new, shiny friends.

But now I have a much wider social circle, including several women who hardly ever (or never) drink, the ones I would have written off in the past as being 'not my type.'

Then yesterday the lovely people at Go Sober for October sent me these fascinating statistics from a survey by Macmillan Cancer Support.

7 MILLION BRITS DITCH THEIR FRIENDS FOR DRINKING TOO MUCH

Apparently, 13% of adults (6.7 million people) have stopped going for a drink with at least one friend because they believe they drink too much.

And a Go Sober survey found that one quarter of UK adults avoid drinking with certain friends because of the way they behave after a tipple. 54% say their friend gets too aggressive, and 47% say they get too loud.

This is all driving a trend towards 'soberlising' - socialising without the booze - which is particularly popular amongst the young.

So, don't fret about losing your friends when you STOP drinking, worry about losing them if you CARRY ON!

And if you need some fabulous help and encouragement, then join my friends over at Go Sober for October.

(You'll also be raising money for Macmillan Cancer Support who were a huge help to me through the whole breast cancer thingy).

In other news, are any of you called Nigel? Apparently NOT ONE baby was named Nigel last year in the UK. This makes me sad, as my first ever snog was a Nigel. On a school trip, aged eleven. Just saying.

Love to you all,

SM (Clare)

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

Alcohol, Relationships and Happiness

There are, I think, three main phases in the sober journey.

Phase 1, The first 100 days, is all about physical detoxing, grit, determination and a rollercoaster of emotions.

Phase 2, the next six months or so, is all about introspection. We spend hours, days even, thinking about ourselves.

We ask questions like how did I get here? Am I happy? Am I an alcoholic? Am I a good mother?

Then, at some point, we stop looking inward and start looking outward. We start becoming fascinated by the really big things.

The questions I've started asking are along the lines of: what makes a good person? What are the most important things we can do for our children? Is there a God? And, my current obsession: what makes us happy?

So I found a TED talk by Robert Waldinger called 'What makes a good life? Lessons from the longest study on happiness.' (Click here to see it for yourself).

Robert's talk is based on The Harvard Study of Adult Development which studied 724 men and over 2000 of their children over 75 years, asking them about their work, home, health and happiness.

The study found that wealth did not make people happy. Nor did fame. Nor did Leaning In.

What made these men happier and healthier was good relationships.

The study concludes that the more socially connected you are to friends, community and family, the happier and healthier you'll be, and the longer you'll live.

Lonely people (and 20% of the adult population of the USA describe themselves as such) are less happy, their health and brain function declines at an earlier age and they die younger.

The single biggest predictor of a happy, healthy life aged 80 was being satisfied with your relationships at the age of fifty.

This is really important for us, because if you are addicted to booze it becomes increasingly hard to maintain strong, happy relationships.

Over time we alienate more and more of our friends and family, avoid spending time with anyone who doesn't drink enthusiastically, and spend increasing amounts of time drinking on our own.

If you let yourself get to the classic 'rock bottom' you can find that your family and friends have, finally, given up on you.

This is one of the many reasons why alcohol does not make us happy. In fact it makes us lonely and miserable.

I didn't get this when I first quit. In fact, one of my biggest fears was losing all my friends. I thought I'd never be invited anywhere again.

(see my post: Will I Lose All My Friends, written on day 13)

This isn't what happened.

Looking back now I realise that I hadn't made many new friends for years. I used to say I have far too many friends to keep in touch with as it is. I really don't need new ones.

And the only really old friends I saw frequently were the really big drinkers. My other friends had gradually drifted away, probably because I made very little effort to nourish those relationships.

Now (with the possible exception of my friends who, like me, are 'problem drinkers') my old friendships are way stronger. I've taken time to see them, to help them, to listen to them. I've remembered birthdays. I'm making up for lost time.

And I've made a number of really good new friends. One of my best new buddies hardly drinks. Never has. Doesn't like it. There is NO WAY I would have wanted to be friends with her in the Old Days.

Then I wondered how much of this is in my imagination? Am I fooling myself? Is it all self justification?

So - right now - in real time, I am going to do a scientific experiment.

Every Christmas for the last ten years I have bought myself a present: a traditional, leather bound Smythson's desk diary. It lives in the kitchen and details the whole family's social, school and work commitments.

I'm going to look at June 2014 (towards the end of the Drinking Days) and June 2016 and compare the number of social events in both. I'm going to include any pre-arranged event like parties, date nights, dinners, meeting a friend for lunch, coffee or a dog walk, and exclude anything child related (like class parties, sports days, speech days etc).

I'll be back in ten minutes....

Right, scores on the doors are:

June 2014: 12 social events
June 2016: 19 social events

That's a fifty percent increase. Scientific proof that quitting drink improves your relationships and therefore, according to Robert Waldinger, makes you happier, healthier and live longer.

So, go be happy!

Love SM x

Partners Who Drink

One of the questions I get asked most by e-mail is How can I quit drinking if my partner still drinks?

If you wait until you reach rock bottom before you try to quit, your partner, friends and loved ones (if they're still talking to you) are generally begging you to stop. It's obvious to everyone that you're slowly killing yourself.

However, if you - very wisely - decide to stop drinking well before you get to that point, you're more likely to be met with bemusement, antipathy, maybe even hostility.

I know that Mr SM thought I drank too much, as did my mother. Both of them had mentioned it, gently, once or twice. BUT neither of them expected me to actually quit. They wanted me to cut down. Moderate (ha ha). Be more like them.

Now I'm able to look at things with the benefit of hindsight, I thought it might be worth going through all the things we're scared of so I might be able to reassure you a little, if you are now where I was then.

1. He will not support me

The big question here is does he have a drink problem too?

If your partner is a 'normie' then you will probably find he is way more supportive than you expect. 'Fess up. Sit him down and tell him how bad the drink is making you feel. I bet he's been worried about you, or - if not - he will be by the time you've had that conversation!

Plus, here's an amazing thing you discover when you get sober - other people are WAY less bothered by alcohol than we are. 

For us, the idea of having a partner who DOESN'T DRINK was horrifying! No partner in crime - yikes! However, for them, drinking - or not drinking - is much more of a non-issue. A case of 'whatever.'

Even if your partner is a little apprehensive at first, they may well come to see the benefits. Mr SM loves the fact that he now drinks a lot less - he's slimmer, healthier and happier now that I'm not cajoling him into drinking half a bottle of wine every night.

HOWEVER, if your partner also has a drink problem, he will not like the idea of you quitting AT ALL. This will inevitably make your life a lot harder, as you'll probably have to deal with him trying to persuade you to 'just have the one', as well as the wine witch.

All I can advise here is that you stay strong. Remember why he's being unsupportive. It's not because he doesn't love you, it's because you're making him confront his own demons.

Remind yourself that you're doing this for yourself, and that, in doing so, you may also help him. The best way to persuade someone else to quit drinking isn't by nagging (as we all know, only too well) but by showing them that it's not only possible, but miraculous.

2. How can I quit when there's booze in the house?

I never emptied the booze cupboard or the wine racks. I also never asked Mr SM to stop drinking in front of me. I figured that the world is full of alcohol and of people drinking. We can't change that, so we might as well get used to it.

Plus I was worried that if I asked Mr SM to majorly change his own lifestyle he'd be less supportive.

Actually, within a pretty short space of time, Mr SM cut down on his own drinking and discovered a love of Becks Blue (I can get quite aggressive if I discover that he's drunk my stash), so he only drinks at home now a couple of times a week.

HOWEVER, if it is too tricky for you to deal with alcohol in the house, and being drunk under your nose, then I'd suggest asking your partner to not drink at home for a defined period of time. Maybe 100 days.

Setting a time limit makes it less of a scary imposition for them, and you may find that they are a LOT more sympathetic to you when they realise how tricky not drinking can be! Once the 100 days are up they may decide to join you, or - at least - to cut down significantly.

3. Will he still love me?

This was my biggest fear. A month into not drinking I wrote this post: Not the Girl he Married. I was terrified that I'd totally wreck our relationship by turning myself into someone different.

Looking back now I find that all rather ironic. Think about it. If you're still drinking (too much), are you really now the girl you were back then?

After a decade of abusing booze I was two stone heavier than the girl Mr SM married. I wasn't the go getting, energetic, enthusiastic bon viveur of those days. I was depressed, stuck in a rut, and a social liability.

Who was I kidding?

I am now, after fifteen months of not drinking, way more like the girl he married than I was by the end of the Drinking Days. An older, wiser and more wrinkled version perhaps, but still the same girl at heart. The girl that, for a long time, I'd lost.

4. Can we still enjoy the same things?

Yes! Although in the early days you may need to make some changes.

Initially I accepted fewer invitations. I also avoided going out for dinner a deux - it just didn't feel right without drinking. I ate early with the children, rather than sharing long, boozy dinners with the husband.

BUT those things come back. Gradually, and when you're ready. And you find that there are many new things that you enjoy doing together - without booze.

When I did start doing more parties, dinners etc, I found fake booze really helpful - for me and the husband.

He feels much more comfortable drinking a mojito if I'm drinking a virgin one, or having a beer if I'm drinking Becks Blue. It gives the illusion of us both being on the same wavelength, and that makes a big difference.

So, please don't let worrying about the people you love stop you stop drinking. You're doing the best thing for you, for them, and for your relationship.

JUST DO IT!

Love SM x

Sober Dinners

The thing we all seem to struggle with initially when we quit drinking is socialising.

It doesn't take too long before you're pretty comfortable staying in, dressed in your comfiest PJs, watching the latest box set and clutching a hot chocolate, BUT venture out to a dinner or a party and you're all.... ill at ease and scratchy.

This bothers us a lot, as often we enthusiastic imbibers are outgoing, sociable types. That's partly what got us into this mess in the first place, right?

Well, last night Mr SM and I were invited out to a smart Italian restaurant with seven others for dinner. The sort of evening that would have filled me with horror six months ago.

Dinners, for ages, made me feel twitchy. I'd worry that I was being really boring. I'd be obsessed by how much everyone else was drinking (not a lot, as it turned out. Who knew?).

I didn't know what to do with my hands which had spent ten years constantly clutching a cigarette, then the next fifteen wrapped around a wine glass.

But, last night, I realised that I was feeling rather.... relaxed. Comfortable. Not 100%, but well over ninety.

One of the issues with dinners down my way is that the conversational topics are often confined to (1) Idle gossip (2) The housing market and (3) Which schools you're trying to get your children into. This drives me quietly insane.

Then last night I realised that I'd been as big a culprit as any.

Back in the drinking days, after a few glasses, when my brain had gone all numb and sleepy, I'd fall back on the tired old topics, and reel out some boring old anecdotes. Plus, I'd completely fail to listen to anyone else.

Last night, down my end of the table, we talked about all sorts of stuff - none of it related to our children or house prices.

We discussed the terrible situation in Brussels. We talked about the 'fight or flight response' and whether we would be the hero on a sinking ship, or freeze and drown.

We laughed about how Stalin, in the second world war, thoughtfully sent condoms to the British troops (whose rubber factories were busy making tyres for army vehicles), but made them all extra large and labelled them 'medium,' which got us onto a random (rather x-rated) conversation about penis size.

We moved onto Madonna, and her custody dispute over Rocco, and if Jon Snow really was dead, or whether he'd be revived by the witchy woman with red hair in time to deal with the White Walkers.

It struck me that, being completely sober, wide awake and relaxed, I was firing on all cylinders.

By that point in the old days I'd have passed through the overly loud and domineering stage, and would have moved onto bored, tired and desperate to leave.

I'd done my usual trick of accepting a glass of wine at the beginning of the evening, then leaving it in my glass. No-one notices you're not drinking it, but it just avoids all the 'why are you off the booze' conversations.*

(I'm perfectly happy now with people knowing I'm not drinking, but often they're not. It makes them really uncomfortable, so I just try to avoid the issue.)

So, at the end of the meal, everyone's wine glasses were empty apart from mine. The guy on my right leant over and said, quietly, "Are you going to finish that, or would you mind if I did?"

Oh what joy!

Firstly, it reminded me how crazy I would have been driven by someone else's full glass of wine in the past. How I would have agonised over whether to say anything, or whether they'd notice if I just grabbed it.

Secondly, imagine, I was seen as the person who didn't feel the need to finish a glass of wine - who would just stop when she'd had enough, even if her glass was full. Ha ha ha. How wonderfully ironic.

As we left, I offered a lift home to two of friends who lived near us, much to their joy and amazement. ("You drove?"). As pretty much no-one else drives to dinner in central London, I'd nabbed a (free) parking space right outside the restaurant.

Sober dinners - I think I may have cracked it....

HAPPY SOBERVERSARY to Jennifer from Canada, who's been with me since the early days. Huge congrats Jennifer - you rock!

And so do all of you.

Love,

SM x

* Please DO NOT try this until you have read the cautionary tale and caveats here.

Hell is Other People

You know what? After the first 100 days or so of being sober, it would be really, really easy if it weren't for everybody else.

(See the post I wrote on Day 88 titled Dear Friend. Click here).

You get to a point, relatively quickly, where you are quite happy on your own without booze. But we can't live life on our own, and everybody else drinks.

It's difficult to constantly remind yourself that alcohol is a poison when you see people paying vast sums for 'fine wine' and sipping it reverentially.

It's tough to remember that alcohol causes stress and anxiety, rather than relieving it when you're surrounded by people talking about looking forward to 'wine o'clock', so they can properly 'chill.'

It's hard to be relaxed about being sober at a party when the world seems to think that the only way to socialise is when inebriated.

It's easy to think surely they can't all be wrong? I can't be the only one who's sees it like it is.

But just because 'everybody else' believes something does not make them right.

I went to see the movie The Big Short with Mr SM. It was brilliant. The simplest, most engaging and the funniest explanation of the global financial crash that I've come across.

The movie is the story of the (very small) group of people who predicted the housing market collapse in the US, and foretold its implications. As a result, they bet against the mortgage market, which was, at the time, seen as rock solid by 99.9% of 'financial experts.'

They were viewed as lunatics. They are now acknowledged as visionaries, and are all billionaires.

There were many conversations during the film along the lines of "surely they can't all be wrong?" "Why does no-one else see what's really going on?" "You have to believe in yourself."

There's a genius (with Asperger's) in the film called Michael Burry. He drove his hedge fund into the ground for two years, against the advice of all his investors, betting against the market.

It was hugely stressful. More and more investors pulled funds, or threatened to sue. Everyone called him crazy. Did he go out and get drunk to unwind? No, he blasted out rock music really loud and played imaginary drums.

(Incidentally, I find playing air guitar, and/or singing badly, to loud music a great way of beating off the wine witch. Pick music from your youth, from simpler days that didn't involve too much booze and aren't loaded with drunk memories. I go for Queen, Bowie, Eurythmics, Dire Straits, even ABC).

The ones getting loaded on champagne in strip clubs were all the bankers who believed that the good times would go on for ever.

The clever guys weren't in the bars - they were watching their spreadsheets, drinking coffee, and wondering how everyone could be so blind.

Zigging while everyone is zagging is HARD. But it's also COOL. And it's the right thing to do.

Since I titled this post with a quote from Satre, I'll keep up the intellectual theme and end with a Nietzsche quote:

The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.

I'm throwing a party tonight for 75 people to celebrate my birthday, beating cancer and (secretly) a year of being sober. I'll be the only one not drinking alcohol. But that's okay. I've always wanted to be unique.

(It just seems a little unfair that I'm the one paying the bar bill)

Love SM x

Sober Mornings

As it's half term, and no school for a week, my mornings go something like this:

Mr SM leaves for work.

Mrs SM revels in peace and quiet and having giant bed to self for about ten minutes.

Tiny footsteps are heard creeping down corridor. Door creaks open, and #3 climbs into bed, snuggling up, all warm and cosy and sleepy.

Medium sized footsteps are heard charging down corridor. Door flies open, and #2 dives into bed, curling up on the other side, all rumpled and bouncy and boysy.

Big footsteps are heard stomping down corridor. Door becomes prop in dramatic entree of nearly-a-teenager who pretends, just for a moment, that this mass snuggle fest is way beneath her, then shoves everyone over and climbs in too.

Small, but multiple, footsteps are heard careering down corridor, and an enthusiastic furball who can't believe his luck (pack hugs are his favourite thing. Alongside smelly socks and defenceless cats) dives into the mass of arms and legs, spreading love and dog breath liberally.

For about fifteen minutes (until we start getting hungry), the five of us just hang out, and I feel REALLY LUCKY that there are so many people who think the best place in the world to be in the morning is my bed.

Because it didn't use to be like that.

In the drinking days I would wake up after a fitful, sweaty, restless night feeling grumpy. If a small person came into my room I'd be likely to hide under a pillow, or yell, or both simultaneously.

If I'm ever tempted to crack open the vino I think about my wonderful sober mornings, and I'm just not willing to give them up.

Love to you all,

SM

HUGE CONGRATS to mythreesons on making one year, twelve whole months, 365 one day at a times, sober! Awesome x

Sober Valentine's

I mentioned a while back that I first spotted Mr SM twenty years ago, at a Hogmanay party, resplendent in his kilt, sporran and tartan socks.

What I neglected to mention is that, at the time, I was snogging his best friend.

I carried on having a tumultuous relationship with the best friend for three years (on and off).

In that time, Mr SM became my best friend too.

He was my go-to person when I wanted someone to laugh with, lunch with, shop with, or just hang out with, whenever the boyfriend wasn't around (which he often wasn't. That should have been a clue).

I would try to fix him up with my girlfriends, then get oddly cross if it worked.

He was Harry to my Sally.

Then, inevitably, the gorgeous, but caddish and slightly unfaithful, boyfriend and I split up.

I knew it was coming, I knew it was the right thing, but I was still distraught. So I called Mr SM, and we went out for dinner at a local gastro-pub (back when gastro-pubs were a New Thing).

I cried on his shoulder. I got drunk. Then I kissed him.

Had I not been drunk, I would not have kissed him.

Because my heart had just been broken, and everyone knows that you don't jump into a new relationship three days after your heart has been broken.

Had I not been drunk, I would not have kissed him.

Because he was my best friend, and everyone knows that you don't mess about with your best friend like that or it all goes horribly wrong. You lose that easy going, uncomplicated relationship forever.

Had I not been drunk, I would not have kissed him.

Because everyone knows that there is a code of honour amongst friends, and your ex's bird is off limits, at least for a decent length of time. We were playing with fire.

So, the moral of this story is: do not regret your past, because it is your past that got you here, and where you are - I hope - is not all bad.

And the other thing it's made me realise, is that just because I am sober does not mean that I shouldn't be - once in a while - impulsive, reckless or stupid.....

.....because sometimes that's where the magic lies.

So, go do something really silly. You don't have to be drunk, you know.

Happy Valentine's Day!

SM x

P.S. In case you were wondering what the reaction of the caddish best friend was, it wasn't good. But he got over it. He's now Godfather to #1.

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

Reasons to Quit Drinking #6: Because You're a Parent

You might not actually be a parent. You might be a step-parent, a Godparent, or planning to be a parent someday. Maybe you're looking after your own aged parents. The principle is the same.

Drinking (a lot) makes us rubbish parents.

For a start, there's the physical stuff. Good parenting requires really high energy. Which is not at all compatible with several hours a day spent hungover. Or drunk.

Also, you really need to be present. And I don't mean just in the room (although that helps too, obviously), I mean paying attention.

Even sober I have to confess to frequently checking my mobile in mid conversation with my children, and answering uh huh to any question they ask (which doesn't fool them for a instant).

But when I was drinking I was a lot worse.

Far too much of my head space was taken up with thinking about booze.

In the morning I'd be thinking about how much I (shouldn't have) drunk the night before, and how to get through the day feeing under par.

In the afternoon I'd move onto when I could poor the next glass of wine, which shop I could duck into on the way to the school run, and so on.

(See my post: The Wine Witch for more on those infernal internal dialogues)

Plus, alcohol makes us miserable (if you don't believe me, read my post: Reasons to Quit #4). It leaches the colour out of life, and makes it difficult to appreciate the little things.

And being with children is all about the little things: discussing the smell of PlayDoh, playing Pooh Sticks, kicking leaves, drawing smiley faces in the fog on the car windows - you know what I mean.

Once you quit, you'll find yourself much more able to be in the moment, and to see things through the eyes of your children.

(See my post: 7 Months Sober, for more on this).

And, you know what? Our drinking doesn't just affect their childhoods - it affects their adulthood too.

I'm sure that part of the reason I was so comfortable with drinking every day, was that I grew up in a family where drinking gin and tonic before dinner and wine with dinner every night was normal. I never questioned it. It was just what (sophisticated) adults did.

Christmas 2014 I realised that all my Christmas presents from my children were wine related! A bottle stopper (as if there'd ever be anything left in the bottle!), a corkscrew, and a mug with the caption I wish it were wine o'clock.

Now my kids LOVE the fact that 'Mummy doesn't drink.' They boast about it. And, I hope, I'm showing them that you can be a normal, fun, sociable adult without the constant prop of booze.

BUT, for me, the biggie, the main reason why quitting drinking is a no brainer if you are a parent is this:

What happens when the s**t hits the fan?

We may not have been brilliant parents when we drank, but we kept it all together, didn't we? Our kids were happy, well adjusted, well turned out, achieving..... Because we put them first. Always.

Well, sure. And that's all fine when life is going okay. But, here's the bad news: it doesn't always go okay.

Sometimes kids get dangerously ill in the middle of the night. Someone (capable) has to take them to A&E.

Sometimes parents get divorced and someone needs to hold it all together, and be civil to the utter bastard (their father).

Or....as happened to me.... sometimes Mummy gets cancer and has to put her children first when her world is falling apart.

If those things happen when you're drinking, all the wheels come off.

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

Stop drinking now and, baby step by baby step, you'll find yourself being a better and better Mum (Dad). Without faking it!

And, if life does throw you lemons, you won't be running and ducking, you'll be running a lemonade stand, baby.

Love to you all,

SM x

What's Missing?

The end of a year is a good time to ask yourself some big questions.

I was listening to an interview recently with the astrologer Russell Grant. He was talking about the years he spent with debilitating depression. He weighed 27 stone, and had become a virtual recluse.

He says that he woke up on January 5th, 2009, and knew he had to get his life back. He asked himself "What's missing in my life?" He realised that 'joy' was missing, and that it was musical theatre that gave him joy.

He went back into theatre, regained joy, lost the weight and got his life back.

He says that everyone suffering from depression should ask the question what's missing in my life?

I think the same is true for anyone struggling with alcohol addiction, because often we use alcohol to plug a gap.

Looking back, what was missing in my life - seemingly so perfect - was self respect.

I'd always been incredibly lucky. I did really well at school and University. I had lots of friends. A loving family. My luck continued, and I found a career I loved and was very good at.

I was made a Board Director at the age of thirty, and by 33 was a Managing Partner, running a huge team of people.

But by the time #3 was born, trying to 'have it all' was driving me crazy. And I didn't want to miss seeing my kids grow up. So I quit.

I thought I'd be the perfect full time Mum. Endlessly patient, fun, creative. I'd be constantly baking cakes and making models out of sticky back plastic and empty cereal boxes.

But I wasn't very good at it. Not bad, but not great. And I wasn't used to not being great at my life.

I'd been used to constant accolades - prizes, promotions, pay rises. And you don't get any of that as a full time Mum.

The most you can hope for is that you get to the end of the day and the children still have thirty fingers and thirty toes between them (presuming you have three children. If you only have two that would be kind of weird), and no-one's currently throwing a tantrum or beating up a sibling.

Slowly, so slowly I barely noticed, I lost my self respect.

And the hole that was left behind I topped up with vino.

You know the problem with that, don't you?

Alcohol has a terrible way of taking that very thing you're trying to fix and making it worse. Drinking a bottle of wine a day doesn't give you self respect, does it? Instead it strips away any you had left and makes you really hate yourself.

The more I drank, the more I disliked myself. And the more I disliked myself, the more I drank.

People mail me telling me that they starting drinking following divorce or bereavement, because they were lonely. Totally understandable!

What was 'missing' was companionship. But drinking doesn't give you that, at least not once it's out of control. Instead you end up drinking at home alone - holding a pity party for one.

Many of us drink to cope with anxiety, stress or fear. We're missing courage. But alcohol takes all that courage away. It makes us unable to cope with anything much at all when we're sober, and dealing with problems drunk is never a good idea!

I stopped drinking nearly ten months ago, and - slowly, slowly, I've found my self respect returning.

I'm a better Mum. In quitting the booze I've done something incredible that took real courage and perseverance. I've been writing every day (which I've always wanted to do). And I've faced up to (and, hopefully, beaten) cancer.

I really, really like myself.

So, ask yourself 'what's missing?' And you know what? You won't find whatever it is at the bottom of a bottle, but if you put the bottle down I bet you'll find it comes back, in spades.

Just do it.

Love SM x

Coping With Christmas Sober (Part 2)

Yesterday, in Coping With Christmas (Part 1) (click here to read), I wrote about limbering up for my first Sober Christmas.

Step 1 of the workout was the, somewhat painful, revisiting of the reality of Christmas Past.

Step 2 (today's post) is about finding another way of celebrating Christmas.

Since this is all new to me, I've enlisted the help of the fabulous Wayne Dyer. Wayne died earlier this year, but, thanks to the wonders of the interweb, his wisdom lives on.

Wayne talks about reclaiming 'what should be a time of appreciation, excitement, joy, and peace'.

That description sounds a million miles away from my usual experience of Christmas! Peace? Appreciation? Excitement?

My feelings about Christmas would usually encompass panic, trepidation, queasiness, exhaustion.... Peace? Definitely not. Apart from a fleeting moment when I'd just poured the first glass of wine of the day. Oh. There's the problem....

Intrigued, I read on. How, oh wonderful-Wayne-guru can Christmas possibly involve appreciation, excitement, joy and peace.....and no alcohol?

Here's Wayne's mantra for 'rekindling the spirit of love, and living life to its fullest' over Christmas:

1. I’ll let the holidays flow, rather than trying to make them fit into a fixed schedule.

2. I’ll remember that people are more important than things.

3. I’ll relax my expectations for myself and others this year.

4. I’m going to live in the present moment and enjoy each activity for itself instead of always thinking about what is ahead of me.

5. I’m going to approach the holidays with a sense of joyful anticipation and wonder, just like I did when I was a child.

All easier said than done, but I've been repeating 1-5 daily, hoping that it'll all sink in. It does rather go against all my natural inclinations. NO FIXED SCHEDULE? Are you kidding? NOT THINKING AHEAD? Nothing will ever get done!

I read Wayne's list out to the family. They snorted with derision. "Doesn't sound like Mummy, does it children?" said Mr SM, staring pointedly at my To Do List and Holiday Planner.

Well, I'm going to prove them wrong.

The trick, I think, is in the line 'just like I did when I was a child.' #1, #2 and #3 do all of the above naturally (apart from number 2, obvs!). So I'm just going to try copying them.

No more blurring off all the edges. No more wading through the days numb or hungover. Just joy, anticipation and wonder in glorious technicolour.

Bring it on!

Love SM x

Alcohol and Marriage

I read many stories of marriages breaking down when the wife (or husband, or both) stops drinking.

Some of these women were drinking too much because their marriage was already toxic. As soon as they stop drinking they can't hide from the truth any more, and can find the strength and courage to leave.

Sometimes they stop drinking too late. Years of alcohol abuse has taken such a toll on the marriage that it can't be repaired. Which is a fabulous reason not to wait until you get to 'rock bottom' to quit. Rock bottom can be a very lonely place.

Then there are the co-dependant marriages. The husbands that really don't want their wives to stop. They'll pour her glasses of wine and wave them under her nose saying "go on, just the one. You deserve it!" She has to leave if she really wants to quit.

Well, I married Mr SM fourteen years ago today. I cannot tell you how grateful I am that I quit before I drove him away.

Elizabeth Gilbert (author of Eat, Pray, Love) writes To be fully seen by somebody, then, and beloved anyhow - this is a human offering that can border on miraculous.

There is no doubt that over the last fourteen years Mr SM has 'fully seen' me, through all my ups and downs, tempers and sulks, in richer in poorer, in sickness and in health.

(Especially now that he reads my blog posts).

And, miraculously, he seems to love me anyhow. Wonky left boob and all.

To be fair, he's not perfect either. He has a terrible habit of leaving wet towels on floors, and dirty plates on top of the dishwasher rather than in it.

There is more tummy to love than there was fourteen years ago, and a little less hair. He's Scottish, so very 'careful' with money, and has been known to put gaffer tape over the central heating controls.

But I wouldn't have him any other way.

I loved him the minute I met him, twenty years ago on New Year's Eve.

He was wearing a kilt, and I've always had a weakness for men in skirts. He made me laugh - a lot, and he was one of the kindest people I've ever met.

We became best friends, but, back then, I was still in thrall to the bad, arrogant boys. The ones who'd make you feel grateful for their time and attention, however begrudging.

So it was four years before we kissed. I felt my foundations morph from sand to rock, and wondered why on earth I'd taken so long.

Since then, Mr SM has loved me patiently through thirteen years of over-indulgence and bad behaviour, and supported me quietly when I threw in the towel nine months ago.

(See Secret Drinker Hits the High Bottom)

Only he could make me laugh through a cancer diagnosis and treatment.

I think marriage is like a piggy bank. Every time you do something thoughtful for the other person you put a token in the bank. When you treat them carelessly you take one out.

In a strong marriage, the piggy bank gets really full - there's plenty there to see you through the bad times.

I ran my piggy bank right down to the bottom.

This morning Mr SM bought me wedding anniversary scrambled eggs on toast in bed. I started sobbing into the egg. He looked alarmed, assuming he'd done something terrible.

But I was crying because I'm just so terribly grateful. Not just for the egg. For everything.

Quit drinking, and top up that piggy bank before it's too late.

Love 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.

The Abusive Lover

There's a lady living next door to you. You don't see her that often. In fact, you almost get the impression that she's avoiding you, that she's hiding something.

You can tell she used to be beautiful. She has gorgeous, slanting eyes like a cats, and a thick mane of blonde hair. But she dresses not to be noticed. In shapeless black. And she's (to use an expression of your mothers) 'let herself go.' She's overweight and puffy, and, when she wears makeup, she wears it like a mask.

Then, one day, you ask her in. You make a pot of tea. And you ask her about her husband, Sam, the large, jovial, slightly-too-loud chap you've met a number of times over the garden fence.

She tells you about the time they first met. She was really young. Gorgeous (although she didn't know it). She seemed confident, popular, one of the crowd. But inside she was riddled with insecurity. She felt like a sham. Don't we all when we're seventeen?

Then she saw Sam, across a crowded room at a party. He enveloped her in his big, bear like arms, and she felt like she'd come home. She was safe. When she was his girl she felt 'more.' More confident, more beautiful, more witty.

They were soul mates. Partners in crime. He made everything more fun, and everyone loved her more and more. She loved herself more.

He was cool, sophisticated. Everyone admired him and wanted him at their parties. As soon as she saw him her shoulders relaxed. She felt at ease and able to cope with anything.

As she tells you all of this, she looks sad. You watch, mesmerised, as a solitary tear falls into her cup of tea. You wonder, idly, if she'll be able to taste the salt. She's hunched over her cup, like she wants to disappear into it.

She tells you how things changed....

Gradually, so slowly that she'd hardly noticed it happening, he became different. Their relationship became different.

Where once he'd made her feel popular, sociable, and they'd constantly been out partying, now he just wanted her home. He didn't like her having other friends. It's like he was worried that they might find out about him, see what their relationship was really like. So she's lonely. Isolated.

Once he'd given her confidence. Made her feel ten foot tall, and able to take on the world. But she's not achieved anything without him for many years, and she's convinced she no longer can. Without him, she says, she's nothing. She's terrified, stressed, unable to cope.

Once he used to protect her. She felt so safe. Now he hits her. Regularly. She shows you the bruises. A rainbow of colours, from deep purple to mustard yellow. She tells you she hurts all over. Inside and outside.

You can't stay quiet any longer. Why don't you just leave him? you ask. He's not good for you. He's killing you, taking away everything you are, bit by bit.

She tells you she's scared. She can't sleep when he's not there. She can't cope with life - she's forgotten how. She's weak and useless.

He's made you feel like that! you yell. You could cope before him. You were strong, independent, able. You will be again. Just ditch the bastard!

But she loves him, she tells you quietly. And he loves her. And it used to be so good. She still remembers all the wonderful times they had together.

You cannot love someone who treats you like this! And those good times were decades ago.

And, you know what? She does leave him. Not immediately, but a few weeks later. And she's looking better already - there's a bounce in her step. You see her confidence, her beauty and her strength returning, like the green shoots of daffodils in spring.

But she takes him back.

"It's different this time!" She says, like they all do. "Those months away from me made him think. It's all fine now - just like when we first met!"

But abusers don't change their spots. It only takes a few weeks before you can hear her crying again through the dividing wall. She's back to wearing black and hiding from you.

Why? you want to yell. Walk away! Take your life back! He makes NOTHING better, he just makes it worse. He is NO GOOD FOR YOU!

Well, just remember that, my friends.

Love SM x

(Today's post was for Suzie, who commented on my post yesterday).

Will I Lose All My Friends? Part 2

One of the areas of sober life that I'm still getting to grips with is socialising.

I still find parties a bit odd. Funnily enough, I don't find myself drawn like a magnet to the bar. I'm happy with a diet coke. Deliriously so if they serve a virgin mojito. But I do feel a bit 'scratchy'. Like I'm on the outside looking in.

On the upside, I always get to drive home. I don't have to worry about slurring, accidentally insulting anyone, constantly having to queue for the loo, or banging into furniture. I don't wake up the next morning feeling like death and dredging the memory banks to see what I have to hate myself for.

And parties are getting easier, but they're still a work in progress.

This was a big concern of mine in the early days. Back on day 13 I wrote a post called Will I Lose All My Friends? (click here). I was worried that, without the drink, people would find me unbelievably dull, and would gradually drift away.

I realise now that the mistake I made was to assume that most socialising has to happen at parties, or, at least, in the evening.

Looking at my diary this week, I have a social event every single day.  At least one. But I only have one drinks party. The rest are mid week lunches with girlfriends, coffee and cake dates and long rambling dog walks. And - you know what? This type of 'socialising' is completely transforming my friendships.

When I relied on parties to catch up with friends, I found that you would only ever chat to one person for fifteen minutes. Tops. And you'd only cover the basics. Plus, once I'd had a few drinks it was all about me, me, me. Even if someone did give me some details about their own lives I'd forget them.

Party conversations in my neck of the woods revolve around the same general topics:

(1) Children and schools. Especially the 11+ and Common Entrance exams. To tutor, or not to tutor? Which/how many after school activities to arrange. Gripes about the nanny/au pair.

(2) House prices and home improvements. The problems with builders. The next door neighbour's triple decker basement dig out. Side returns. (Never heard of a side return? Count yourself lucky...).

(3) Where you're going on holiday. Also an opportunity to boast about the second home, and the children's prowess at skiing/French/scuba diving.

The other big conversational topic is gossip. I was a big fan. There's nothing that we people with dark, festering secrets love more than hearing about the imperfections of other people's lives. I especially loved tales of anyone deemed to have an addiction issue. Yay! I'd think. See - I'm not that bad. And even if I am, at least I'm not the only one....

 But this endless, mindless chitter chatter, one upmanship and gossip is bad for the soul. And it doesn't nourish friendships.

I remember when I was a teenager, and in my early twenties, I used to spend hours with girlfriends discussing the meaning of life. We knew each other inside out and back to front. We'd exchange hopes, dreams and fears ad infinitum.

Then, for the last decade or so, we'd just meet up at parties and spend ten minutes talking about whose au pair was shagging their husband, and whether it made more sense to do a basement conversion or develop the attic.

But now, I might not be so brilliant at parties, but almost every day I spend an hour with a good friend. We talk about stuff that matters. I listen. I remember. I send them a text wishing them luck on the day of a big job interview. I take round flowers when they're not feeling well. I'm starting to be a good friend again.

I'd completely forgotten the truth that, with friendships, as with life, you get back what you put in. If you see your friendships as merely a source of idle gossip, then you can't rant and rave when it transpires that that's all you are to them.

The question I really should have asked myself isn't 'Will I lose all my friends?' but 'How on earth do I have any friends left?'

Love to you all,

SM x

Making Amends

A few days back, I mentioned that this time last year - also on holiday in Cornwall - my Mum told me she was worried about my drinking. She also said that I needed to lose weight.

I was, obviously, very aware that she was right on both counts. So, you'd think that I would agree with her, thank her for her maternal concern and resolve to take action.

You'd be wrong. I threw all my toys out of the pram. I accused her of being cruel, ignorant and hypocritical. I stomped off to my room with a goblet of wine and then made snide remarks for the rest of the week.

When I wrote about this, almost in passing, you lot jumped on it and told me - quite rightly - that I should apologise to my poor mother and tell her she was right.

I have to confess that the thought hadn't even crossed my mind. Isn't that awful?

We don't really do 'talking about emotional stuff' in my family. In fact, I wonder whether the British 'stiff upper lip' thing is part of the reason we're so renowned for drunkenness. We need some way of dealing with the emotions we feel unable to display or discuss.

My reaction was: that was twelve months ago. Water under the bridge. It's obvious that I'm sorry and she was right - look at me! A stone (14 pounds, 7 kilos) lighter, and nearly 6 months sober - obviously I took it on board...

But saying sorry is the right thing to do. It's good karma. It's what we teach our children. And I know, from my kids, that a belated apology usually means more, and is more thought through, than a knee jerk one at the time.

One of the cornerstones of AA (still haven't been; still planning to) is 'making amends'. The Big Book states that in order to achieve freedom and serenity you need to make peace with the past.

Likewise, Beck - in his book 'Alcohol Lied to Me' (it's good, if a little preachy and irritating at times) is adamant that 'living in the present' is key to success. He states that worrying about the past or the future gets in the way.

So, I've been trying to find the right time to say sorry. I kept putting it off. It stuck in my throat. I was fighting against years of conditioning.

Eventually I cornered my poor Mum in the kitchen.

"I've been meaning to say something to you," I blurted out.

She looked startled. Like a hedgehog in the headlights.

"When you told me last year that I drank too much and was too fat I was horrible to you. I made you cry. But you were right, and I'm sorry."

"Gosh, I'd forgotten about that," she said (probably fibbing), looking stunned but rather....chuffed. "I'm sorry if I was a little blunt. But look at you now! I'm so proud of you - what willpower. You really don't want to turn into a slob."

(I'm aware that my Mum hadn't got a handle on the real issue. Her major concern was me 'letting myself go', but I don't think that matters).

We hugged. We coughed in a rather embarrassed fashion. We carried on chopping vegetables and changed the subject.

But I feel a weight off my shoulders. And I think I made my Mum really happy.

'Making amends' is about more than saying sorry - it's about putting things right. But I know that, as far as my Mum's concerned, quitting the drink (and, as a result, losing the weight) is all the reparation she wanted.

So, all is good with the Universe, and I hope all is good with you too....

Thank you for making me do that. As always, you were right.

Love SM x

The 3 Day Weekend

Day 113.

I realised this morning that I now manage to fit about 50% extra into my weekends. That means that my 2 day weekend is the equivalent of 3 days BS (before sober).

This didn't happen overnight. Initially I was so exhausted that I spent a fair amount of the weekend catching up on rest. Plus I spent an inordinate amount of time reading and writing about booze.

But gradually, over the last 113 days, the amount I can squeeze into a weekend has gone up and up.

So yesterday - Sunday - was Father's Day. I corralled #1, #2 and #3 into the kitchen early to make Daddy's 'special breakfast', collect flowers from the garden and find their home made cards.

We sang "Happy Father's Day to You" while trooping up the stairs, then all piled into bed together (including the dog).

I then spent 2 hours with #2 sorting out all her clothes - putting winter stuff away, taking out summer clothes inherited from big sister, going through bags of things donated by kind friends with older girls, and bagging up clothes she's grown out of for the charity shop.

Next I helped #1 make rocky road brownies for the school bake off competition today.

We then all went out for Father's Day lunch, scooping up a friend's daughter en route (she's a single Mum and badly needed some time to herself), followed by Jurassic World at the cinema (great movie!).

Got home and helped #2 make millionaire's shortbread for school bake off while chatting to my friend (and pouring her a glass of wine!) who'd come to pick up her daughter.

Supper, baths, homework, read children stories, read papers with husband, crashed out exhausted.

I woke up today feeling shattered, but in a good way. I helped #1 and #2 arrange their bake off entries on plates and take them, beaming with pride, into their classrooms.

Now this time last year I would have woken up with a crashing hangover. Tried very hard to rustle up enthusiasm for Father's Day breakfast, after which I would have hibernated with the papers, feeling like I'd done my bit for a while.

At midday I'd have made myself a Bloody Mary to 'take the edge off'. Actually, I'd have made it at 11.45am so it'd be ready to drink by 12!

I would have gone out for lunch (without helping a friend out by taking an extra child - I'd have thought 3 kids quite enough to cope with, thank you very much), and drunk at least half a bottle of wine.

I'd have fallen asleep in the movie and missed at least half of it.

As soon as we'd got home (about 5pm) I'd have opened a bottle of wine (you don't have to wait until 6pm at the weekend!). I would deliberately forget about the bake off competition.

At bedtime one of the children would have said plaintively "what about the bake off tomorrow?" at which point I'd reply "it's far too late to start baking now! You should have remembered earlier." There would be tears (them) and shouting (me).

Homework done badly. Bedtime stories skipped. Everyone would go to bed cross. I would wake up feeling, not as hungover as Sunday morning, but toxic. Like a petrol car that's been filled up with diesel.

I'd have felt horribly guilty on arrival at school as I'd see all the children walking in proudly proffering their bake off entries. I'd resolve not to drink again. And I'd make it to 5pm.

It's realisations like this that make me wonder why on earth it took me so long to stop.

Love to you all

SM x

Introspection

Day 99.

Thank you so much for your comments on my horribly self indulgent post yesterday (see Feeling Down. Fighting the Witch).

I'm a little embarrassed about the fact that many of you are dealing with bereavement, divorce, redundancy and other proper problems, and I'm getting my knickers in a twist about not being invited to a party!

I received a hugely kind and perceptive e-mail from a reader who pointed out that whilst we gear ourselves up for the trials and tribulations we are expecting (like drinks parties), it's the unexpected small things that can catch us unawares.

So, yesterday, instead of just pouring a few drinks and forgetting about my trivial upset, I dealt with it in a proper, grown up way (once I'd finished sulking, throwing my toys out of the metaphorical pram and blogging petulantly). I thought about it long and hard. And I came to the conclusion that....

.....I'm bloody lucky I get invited to anything, all things considered.

You see, drinking makes us (or me, at least) horribly self centred. After a few drinks I only ever wanted to talk about myself. I had to be the centre of attention. If I didn't already know someone, or think they looked particularly interesting, I wouldn't bother talking to them.

I think I got away with this horrible behaviour for years by being the proverbial 'life and soul of the party', but as my alcohol tolerance grew I'd morph very quickly from 'life and soul' to 'boorish drunk'.

I never got overtly drunk (which is how I was able to get away with it for so long). I never fell over, vomited or caused arguments. But I would tell the same (dull) story several times. Forget people's names. Fail to introduce people to each other. Neglect to ask people anything about their own lives.

I confess that, more than once, at a dinner party I would totally ignore the person on one side because I found the man on the other more interesting and couldn't be bothered.

I have not been a very nice person. At all.

I was thinking about what people would say about me if I was knocked over by a bus tomorrow. They might talk about my past career success. About the fact that I sang in ABBA's backing group as a child (yes, really). That, despite myself, I managed to raise 3 extraordinary children.

What they wouldn't say is that I was the first person they'd turn to for help. They wouldn't talk about how I made them feel like the most important person in the room. Or that I'd made a huge difference to anyone's life. They might say that I was a great laugh - until suddenly I wasn't any more.

Frankly, I was far too busy thinking about myself and staring into the bottom of a glass of Chablis.

In yesterday's Times, Alistair Campbell wrote that he was fed up with hearing that Charles Kennedy 'could have been a truly great politician' but for his drinking. Campbell (also an alcoholic) argued that Charles's battles with drink, his frailties, foibles and vulnerability, were what gave him the humanity and compassion for which he was so well loved.

Anne posted something similar in a comment on this blog. She wrote 'those of us who are able to break the chains - however rusted or gilded they may be - are some of the strongest, most inspiring people in the world'.

I have realised that now is the time for me to make sure that people can talk about me in that way. About my humanity, compassion, strength and inspiration, not just my ability to tell a (bad) joke at a party.

I am going to focus on being a really good person. Kind. Thoughtful. Selfless. It's time to grow up, SoberMummy.

(And perhaps I'll start being invited to parties again).

Love to you all,

SM x