Posted by Skyhook
on Sun 16 Aug 09, 11:26 PM to Skyhook's blog.
There is a fair chance you won't consider nominating me for the ''Simon Cowell is straight?' Unexpected Revelation of the Year' award when I admit I like a drink. I'd quite probably be in with a shout for the 'No Shit Sherlock' gong though.
Because yes, I do like a drinky. Or rather, I like several. Like everybody I enjoy doing things I'm good at, and through a gruelling, years long programme of sustained quaffing I've developed a certain talent for 'the bevvy'. It's been a selfless campaign – or should I say selfish?
Or it was. I have now been sober for 45 days.
Alcohol is a blameless friend. Happy? Celebrating? Then share the good times with a beer or a cheeky drop of fizz. Black cloud shadowing you? Feeling like the world is passing you by? You're the punchline to a joke that no-one is telling you? Then commiserate with a beer or cheeky drop of fizz. Alcohol is there for the best of times, it's there for the worst of times.
Which is all perfectly fine. Great in fact. Alcohol is a wondrous thing, a power for good! No, I'm not being sarcastic. Think of all the great works of art, think of all the music, the literature, the inventions made by people three sheets to the wind. Think of all those fantastic nights, the ones were you have never felt so alive, the nights you never wanted to end that've been eased, lubricated, flowed along by the sauce. Friendships, lovers, moments, connections, all with that common link – the squiffyjuice.
Of course, there have been quite a few lives wrecked too. But hey, you can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs.
You know that cliché? The alcoholic, often on the road to recovery, says “I don't even like the taste of alcohol”, implying that all they wanted was to get wasted, and alcohol was just their chosen taxi to Brainspam Street. Can there be a much sadder sight than a shambling twitchy wreak of an alcoholic declaring they don't even like the taste of booze? For chuff's sake, look at yourself, you've spent a lot of time, effort and memories you'll never get back on chucking large quantities of something you don't even like down your gob-hole.
I personally love the taste of alcohol. Lager, wine, Southern Comfort (straight, no ice), cider – oh sweet, refreshing cider! You may make my pee smell like something that could dissolve iron the morning after but that eye-watering first whazz of the day is a small price to pay for all that appley goodness.
So. Am I an alcoholic then? I honestly don't think so.
Bet they all say that.
What I do know is I was drinking far too much. Did/do I have a problem? A dependency? I don't know.
No sob stories here. Yes, I've had some tough times in my past (me and countless others) but nothing or no-one drove me to drink. Neither did cans magically open or bottles mysteriously un-cork themselves and pour their contents down my throat, like a twisted scene in Fantasia. Beer taps didn't fly across barrooms then wedge themselves in my cake-hole, valve jammed open while I went glug glug like an emptying bath plug.
I drank because I like alcohol, I like what it does to my brain. I like how it makes my perception, my thoughts, different.
I'm not an aggressive drunk. Or a maudlin tearful one. Or a wacky dance on tables paaaarty animal. Yo, dude.
I'm told I'm just like me, only more so. Perhaps a bit more spikey in banter, and I talk slower and more carefully but that's it. That's not to say I've not been the aggressive/maudlin drunk in the past. But life is so damn good right now that none of those triggers or catalysts that would set me off in the past never cross my path now. And of course I'm self aware enough now to recognise their malignant presence.
So what, exactly then, is my problem?
I'd say a lot of it was habit. When I was single I'd pop to the pub after work with a mate, when I'd get home the first thing I'd do was grab a beer. And that'd be it. I'd just keep on drinking steadily. When you drink on your own it's hard to notice how muldered you've become.
And when I got married? Fewer trips to the pub, but the routine, the habit was still there. Home from work – grab a beer. I was still functioning, there were no arguments, I wasn't drinking anywhere near as much as when I was single, but, but, after that first drink – I'd still keep going. Habit. Dependency? I'd worry if there were only a few drinks in the house.
As nothing was outwardly 'wrong' it was easy to keep going. Family life was happy, work was good, no problems. Except – I was drunk almost everynight. Still walking, talking, fucking, but squiffily.
I've lived with a drunk in the past and I know it's a stress at best, terrifying at it's worst. I didn't want to be like that – I wasn't like that. Yet.
A few lagers, a bottle of wine. Three litres of cider, maybe a tinnie or two. And so to bed.
Grow up.
I'd been getting bored of my need for drink for a while, yet perversely was pouring more down my neck. Mrs S called me on it. We sat down and talked. I faced up to how much I did actually drink – oh, I knew already but as I hadn't pissed out my shrivelled liver or gone Simpson yellow yet, as I wasn't living in a warzone it was easy to ignore – everything was just fine. Blurry but fine.
Except it wasn't. Live with an alcoholic and you'll know that when they are with their liquid best friend there is always something absent about them. They are there, walking talking, chatting, discussing – but they aren't fully there, aren't fully yours. I didn't want to be like that any longer. History, rock n' roll, cinema – all littered with tales and heroes full of decadent sleazy alcohol and drugs charm. Romantic way to go though, innit? No, not really.
So, I stopped drinking. There and then. Mrs S thought I'd need help, and that she'd need a supportive voice – alcoholism is a selfish thing, and so is the recovery, being positive and taking steps yourself is fine, but even that excludes your loved ones, it's an internal thing.
I knew I wouldn't need help. I didn't need to read of similar cases, I didn't need to stand in a group and say “Hi, I'm Skyhook and I'm an alcky”. I can't think of many things designed more perfectly to send you running straight to the nearest pub. Mrs S, of course, had trouble believing this, which is perfectly understandable. But what could I do?
No use making promises – they are just words. All I could do was not drink.
It was scary. Not drinking. Sobriety – being stuck with a clear brain, my brain without the sharp corners boozily rubbed off. Scary. It felt like I'd condemned myself too, a life prison sentence of denying myself drink, denying myself that pleasure. Now that was claustrophobic. And yes, there was a little anger in there too.
That first day after deciding to quit I did what anyone sensible would do – as soon as I got out of work I went to a pub. I ordered a coke (pint, with ice. No slice of lemon or cherry on a stick) then sat outside by the canal, had a ciggie and a quick browse on the 'net with my phone. The coke was bloody refreshing, I have to say.
Got home, and didn't drink. Not alcohol anyway, I had a raging thirst and downed gallons of fruit juice. And that set a pattern. Get home, drink fruit juice. There was usually a tough point at the start of the evening and another around nine o' clock when I – needed or craved are too strong words – wanted a beer but that and the claustrophobic feeling of denial usually passed after 15 minutes. Damn fruit juice tastes good. I can't deny being a right tetchy grumpypants for a few evenings, my nerves were a little frayed. But I have to say I was surprised at just how easy it was. I didn't get the shakes. I wasn't tormented by vivid nightmares. I didn't find myself sitting on a kitchen chair rocking backwards and forwards mumbling why's and why not's to myself as I looked at a single can sitting provocatively on the table. In fact there is still a three quarters full box of lager in the kitchen (£10 for 24 cans of Carling currently on at Asda, bargain hunters, profits have obviously suffered recently – I hold my hand up for my part in that) and right from the start I felt no pull looking at it.
Easy. I couldn't understand why or how though. Shouldn't there be shakes? Horrific cravings? A fierce internal struggle? Didn't get any of that. Oh sure, after a rough day at work I really fancied that drink when I got home, but not enough to actually have one, not now. The first Friday and Saturday came and went. That was a little hurdle jumped. We went to a motorsport event at Silverstone on the Sunday, instead of the traditional beer and deathburger I washed down my meat, bap and grease combo with more pop as we watched the races in the sun. And watched Nigel Mansell stall twice while attempting donuts, but that is another story.
The little events, normally enjoyed with a beer kept coming. First meal out? No problem – it feels weird ordering a round of soft drinks but again, stood at the bar there are no pangs for alcohol. The first gig – normally in the break (between Jane's Addiction and Nine Inch Nails in this case) I'd be heading for the bar – you need beer to enjoy a gig properly, right? Not a worry. An overpriced coke it was. Pub after work with my mate – now this was a bit of a biggie, he asked me when I'd fallen off the wagon. I said I haven't which prompted him to ask with a puzzled frown what was the point of going to the pub then? For the conversation, I said, for the atmosphere. And how good was it leaving a pub as straight as you were when you went in? In my case, very. We'd only have two pints normally anyway but even that would set the tone for the rest of the evening.
So why was it all so easy? The main reason, I believe, is just how much I wanted to quit. Of course I've 'quit' in the past, but that was in a rather half-hearted way in retrospect, no matter how much I meant it at the time. Playing at it. This time I'd truly had enough. I was sick of this hold alcohol had on me. Sick of always having to know how much was in the house, sick of it being a constant – on holiday, days out – there always had to be a beer. Because that's just the way things are.
This is for myself. Certainly my family will benefit but I won't quit for them, I won't put the reason for me not drinking on them. No-one and nothing made me drink apart from me, and it's not fair to hang my reason for cleaning up on anyone else. They are part of the reason – but it's not their responsibility.
I am honestly, truly enjoying sobriety. I won't deny a few rough times and pangs, but they pass, they really do. I only have to remember the reason why I'm doing this, and the benefits. I don't need that alcohol, as much as I miss the taste I'm enjoying non-alcoholic stuff even more so. Fruit juice concoctions, sitting in the park on a hot sunny day snuggling Mrs S with an iced hazelnut latte from Costa, head clear, no constant 'beer calculator/locator/clock' ticking in my head – it's truly ace. Being able to go to a pub and drive home, sober enough for the night not to be over, not having got grouchy because I couldn't have another beer because I was the driver – I'm not trying to convince myself here, it is honestly ace, but you'd have to be a heavy drinker to understand.
Or married to one. The worst, the most heart rending moment, was a couple of days after I stopped. Laid in bed, Mrs S curled up against me as ever, said softly “It's so good to have you back”.
I hadn't realised. I hadn't thought. I'd forgotten what it was like living with a drinker. There were no arguments or rows, we were still having fun, so I could easily tell myself everything was fine, and I could stop tomorrow. I could ignore the fact I was going to bed stinking of booze. I could ignore the fact I was slurring my words. I could ignore the fact I could drop to sleep (read: pass out) in an instant, mid sentence even. I was there, but I wasn't there. Do I look back with crushing guilt? Does the Pope poo in the woods?
“It's so good to have you back”. It's so good to be back.
It's so good to still be married. Talking after, she would never have walked out on me – but if I'd continued down the spiral I was on – we both know the ending to that. And I wouldn't blame her one iota.
I love that woman so much, I can't believe I allowed myself to get like this. But then that's what alcohol can do – it's the poison that tells you it's all going to be just fine, it's all going to be better if you will just take and keep taking your poison. Again, not that I'm blaming drink. No-one made me take it, other than myself. No-one or nothing is to blame, other than me. I made the choice.
I still will not consider drink a bad thing. The misuse of it yes, but in itself no. Neither can I see anything wrong with the odd bender.
Which brings me to a mate's birthday. A regular drinking buddy, we've done beer festivals, tours of town, tours of the scary backstreet pubs, messy nights. No aggro, but messy all the same. A bit of a pub crawl was planned, some of his mates came down. Heavy drinkers all, at the right time. Other times, they all run marathons. I kid you not. We met up at two, and I drove some of the gang to the first pub, a place that has a micro brewery that I've enjoyed in the past. Coke this time. No-one batted an eyelid. Three or four pints there, then on to the next pub, where they had a cider festival on. Oh joy. But as I stood at the bar I couldn't believe just how much the full glasses of our round stank – the smell was horrible. And I could drink three litres plus of that stuff a night? I had no desire for one then. Or coke, there is a limit to the amount of coke you can take.
“Make mine a bastard lemonade”.
We all sat outside in the sun, my mates cheerfully, happily sozzled, joking, telling tales, laughing and shouting at the Elvis impersonator on stage. Was it a horrible experience for me, being the sober little bubble in the middle of drinkers? Like that scene in Trainspotting when Renton is sitting mannequin still while everyone around him carries on living their life, the camera speeding them up as he's sat rock still? Frankly no. I was laughing along with them, happy among mates, enjoying the day and atmosphere, with no desire to drink. I got all the good times, all the laughs, but could still drive away and get on with my life after. It was a relief too. I never could keep up with these lads in the past, and odd as it may sound in the context of this blog I never liked being so drunk when I was out that I lost control, so having a good time without having to monitor my intake or match them pint for pint (man rules, ok?) was a pleasant change.
What does all this mean? I stopped drinking and kept to it. Sure there were pangs, I missed alcohol, but not that much. It was all comparatively easy. Does this mean I was never an alcoholic in the first place? Just someone who abused drink? Perhaps it doesn't matter. Perhaps that is just arguing over labels.
Will I ever drink again?
Yes. A resounding yes.
Anyone who has stopped or tried to stop drinking has thought that “I won't let drink control me”, along with the 'one day at a time mantra' – you know 'today I won't drink, tomorrow I don't know, but today I won't'. Change “day” for “hour” if you are a really bad case. Stopping drinking though, to me at least, isn't taking control back. The fact that you can't, won't drink because you don't know if one drink will lead to ten is still letting alcohol have a hold on you. I don't want that. Like going to the pub on that first sober day, like that first meal out, the gig, my mates birthday pub crawl; all familiar events turned to tests of myself, I have to drink again at some point.
I have to have a pint, just so I can stop. I have to know I can drink a couple then stop. I have to know I can control drink, not the other way around.
And if I can't? Then I am truly pathetic.
Oh alright, you've guessed already.
Lets go back to Wednesday, day 41 of sobriety. It was the three year anniversary of our first meet, so Mrs S and I went out for a meal. I still can't believe it's been three years, it still feels like three minutes and thirty years at the same time. We chatted, reminisced, planned for the future, laughed, kissed, snuggled – everything a young couple in love does. Yes, I know, enough to drive you to drink huh, reading that. Why not tonight? She suggested. Again she told me she was proud of me, of how I'd stopped and without any help. So why not try one tonight? Just to be clear here, she in no way pushed me! But she knew my feelings, that one day I would want to test myself with drink, that ultimately I hoped I could get back to drinking once in a while, only this time quality and occasion over quantity and only on days with a 'y' in them.
It felt odd ordering that drink at the bar. I felt like a kid again, expecting to be turned away. I took it back to our table, and finished my coke as we chatted. Then it was time for the first beer in 41 days. I wasn't sure what to expect. Maybe a refreshing taste explosion, every cliché ever seen in a drinks advert rolled into that first sip – I was fully prepared to sling my head back after and go “Aaaaaaaaaah!” The worry was I'd suddenly realise how much I'd missed drinking, that that first taste of alcohol would hit my brain and I'd be straight back where I started, needing more. Justifying it to myself – 'well, it has been 41 days and it is my anniversary'.
I raised the glass to my lips, all that fruit juice had been a revelation, so refreshing, but this, this was the real thing. I looked at Mrs S, smiled, and took that first drink.
Oh.
“Um, does this taste alright to you?”
I held out the glass, and Mrs S had a sip. “Yes, it tastes fine, there's nothing wrong with it.”
“Oh”.
Some time later, I was nearly half way down the glass.
“You aren't enjoying that, are you?”
And incredibly, I wasn't. I couldn't see what the fuss was about. It didn't taste anything special, it was a bit warm, didn't excite my taste buds – in fact I wanted my coke back.
Now, I don't doubt if I'd forced myself to have another beer I'd have enjoyed that one more, the taste would've come back. But I didn't need to have that second one.
I think it's all going to be ok.
If I see you around, mine's a lovely lemonade.
