Problem drinking and depression are so intertwined that it's often impossible to tell which came first; do we drink because we're depressed, or are we depressed because we drink?
In fact, it can work like a downward spiral, sucking us in, like a spider down a plughole.
As you drink you flood your brain with dopamine. Do this often enough and heavily enough and your brain reduces the amount of dopamine it produces naturally to compensate. This means that without alcohol you will feel depressed. Then, when you drink, the dopamine produced just takes you back to normal levels. In other words, you start to feel - because it's true - that only alcohol makes you happy.
To be honest, I didn't think that I was depressed. I just felt flat. A bit bleurgh. Like all the colour had been leached out of the picture, leaving it sepia. But because it happened so gradually, I hardly noticed.
But now, especially down here in glorious Cornwall, it feels like the knobs have been adjusted and we're back in glorious technicolor. The old brain has turned up the volume on the rusty dopamine producers and I don't need to booze to feel high.
So today I was walking up a cliff path with #3 picking blackberries. She'd put a few in the bag, but even more were smeared over her hands and face. I pretended not to notice as I imagined the crumble we'd make later. I could smell the sticky, tart blackberries and the sweet, crunchy topping. Custard or clotted cream....? One of life's eternal dilemmas.
I saw a woman walking towards us. I smiled at her. I was pretty sure that the sweet old lady was admiring my great parenting. Healthy, outdoor fun with the kids. Well done, Mrs SM!
As we passed each other she looked at #3 shoving another blackberry into her mouth.
"Dogs pee on those, you know," she said.
She took my happy balloon and pricked it, the miserable old crone.
Which made me think: do you want to be the person smelling the crumble, or the one seeing the wee?
Because I'm smelling the crumble, and it's only now that I realise how much time I wasted looking for wee.
Love to you all.
SM x
Tuesday, 4 August 2015
Sunday, 2 August 2015
Drinking with Keith Floyd
It's exactly 5 months since I last drank alcohol.
By way of celebration, and inspired by my post on ancestry and the Celts the other day (see Alcoholism and Ancestry) I thought I'd take a little trip down memory lane.
More than twenty years ago, when I was a bright eyed, bushy tailed graduate just starting out in advertising, I was working on the Irish Tourist Board account.
I was in heaven. I loved Ireland. My clients were crazy, but great fun. If I asked them to meet me at any time after 5pm to look at some creative work they would insist on going to 'Meeting Room P' or, in other words, the Coach and Horses Pub. Once there they would merrily dissect and destroy whatever lovingly crafted work I presented over several pints of Guinness.
Once a year the Irish Tourist Board did the Grand Tour. They'd pick a region of Ireland and we'd spend a week visiting all the attractions and staying in the best hotels on offer. We'd 'work' all day, and all evening we were wined and dined like kings.
The evening would invariably end with a lock in, a sing song and lots of impromptu dancing. No-one went to bed before about 4am. Ever. Their stamina was extraordinary. I'd just spent three years as hard living student, yet there was no way I could keep up with this crew.
And their Christmas party.... I don't know where to begin. The truth is that I can remember very little detail, and neither - I suspect - can any of them.
The first big campaign I worked on with the Irish Tourist Board starred the famous, drunken, TV chef Keith Floyd eating (and boozing) his way around Ireland.
The first time I met Keith was when he came to London (from Devon) to shoot a press advertisement. My job (as the lowly junior) was to meet him at the station at around 10am and escort him to the studio.
I turned up early. I'd checked and double checked everything. I saw the train come in and waited by the gate for Keith to come through. I waited and waited. No Keith. I called his agent (from a payphone. We didn't carry mobiles in those days - imagine!) who told me that he'd put Keith on the train himself. I got the station to put an announcement over the tannoy. Still no Keith.
Eventually, palms sweating and heart racing, I called the hotel Keith was booked into that evening. "Mr Floyd has been in the bar for the last hour," they told me.
I collected him. He was contrite. He confessed to giving me the slip because they'd refused to open the bar on the train on account of it being breakfast time.
Despite (or perhaps because of) being drunk, Keith performed brilliantly. The photographer and crew forgave him for keeping them waiting for nearly two hours.
After the shoot he took me to a famous oyster bar on Piccadilly where, predictably, we got seriously merry, and he bought me my first oysters. "Isn't it like when the moonlight kisses the ocean?" he asked me. I thought it was like swallowing snot, but nodded (ever the people pleaser).
Keith died a few years ago at the relatively young age of 65. He had a heart attack. The last decade of his life was plagued by illness - including a stroke and bowel cancer. I'm sure that if he'd quit drinking he would have lived longer.
I wonder if Keith Floyd regretted any of it. Because, you know, I now accept - with a degree of serenity - that my drinking career is over. I'm happy to move into Phase Two. But I'm not sure that I regret much of it. For a while back there it was a bloody good laugh.....
....until it stopped being so.
Love SM x
By way of celebration, and inspired by my post on ancestry and the Celts the other day (see Alcoholism and Ancestry) I thought I'd take a little trip down memory lane.
More than twenty years ago, when I was a bright eyed, bushy tailed graduate just starting out in advertising, I was working on the Irish Tourist Board account.
I was in heaven. I loved Ireland. My clients were crazy, but great fun. If I asked them to meet me at any time after 5pm to look at some creative work they would insist on going to 'Meeting Room P' or, in other words, the Coach and Horses Pub. Once there they would merrily dissect and destroy whatever lovingly crafted work I presented over several pints of Guinness.
Once a year the Irish Tourist Board did the Grand Tour. They'd pick a region of Ireland and we'd spend a week visiting all the attractions and staying in the best hotels on offer. We'd 'work' all day, and all evening we were wined and dined like kings.
The evening would invariably end with a lock in, a sing song and lots of impromptu dancing. No-one went to bed before about 4am. Ever. Their stamina was extraordinary. I'd just spent three years as hard living student, yet there was no way I could keep up with this crew.
And their Christmas party.... I don't know where to begin. The truth is that I can remember very little detail, and neither - I suspect - can any of them.
The first big campaign I worked on with the Irish Tourist Board starred the famous, drunken, TV chef Keith Floyd eating (and boozing) his way around Ireland.
The first time I met Keith was when he came to London (from Devon) to shoot a press advertisement. My job (as the lowly junior) was to meet him at the station at around 10am and escort him to the studio.
I turned up early. I'd checked and double checked everything. I saw the train come in and waited by the gate for Keith to come through. I waited and waited. No Keith. I called his agent (from a payphone. We didn't carry mobiles in those days - imagine!) who told me that he'd put Keith on the train himself. I got the station to put an announcement over the tannoy. Still no Keith.
Eventually, palms sweating and heart racing, I called the hotel Keith was booked into that evening. "Mr Floyd has been in the bar for the last hour," they told me.
I collected him. He was contrite. He confessed to giving me the slip because they'd refused to open the bar on the train on account of it being breakfast time.
Despite (or perhaps because of) being drunk, Keith performed brilliantly. The photographer and crew forgave him for keeping them waiting for nearly two hours.
After the shoot he took me to a famous oyster bar on Piccadilly where, predictably, we got seriously merry, and he bought me my first oysters. "Isn't it like when the moonlight kisses the ocean?" he asked me. I thought it was like swallowing snot, but nodded (ever the people pleaser).
Keith died a few years ago at the relatively young age of 65. He had a heart attack. The last decade of his life was plagued by illness - including a stroke and bowel cancer. I'm sure that if he'd quit drinking he would have lived longer.
I wonder if Keith Floyd regretted any of it. Because, you know, I now accept - with a degree of serenity - that my drinking career is over. I'm happy to move into Phase Two. But I'm not sure that I regret much of it. For a while back there it was a bloody good laugh.....
....until it stopped being so.
Love SM x
Saturday, 1 August 2015
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
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
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