Well, I meet my sponsor every two weeks, as well as at the Friday meeting (incidentally, he is the very person I've mentioned in these cyber-pages before - has the same name as me...) and he gives me homework. Today's was a list of those times I have tried to give-up and how it made me feel. Surprisingly, I got the wrong end of the stick and didn't write a list at all. No, again the frustrated scribbler in me came up with some pretentious ramblings. As it struck me as being a little like an instant post, here it is, unabridged (as it were):
"The first time I recall being aware of my growing dependency came after I’d moved back home the summer after my graduation. Plenty of booze had soundtracked my time at University, but I think that my dependency on booze was masked by copious amounts of dope, speed, and LSD.
Having my drugs pipeline cut-off once I’d moved back home, drink was my number one pastime. I remember one summer’s eve, I’d ‘decided’ not to get any drink in. That was when I really noticed the anxiety and discomfort. I managed to hold out for a few hours but, in the end, I was leaving the offie with 6 bottles of Newcastle Brown (my drink of choice at the time), the anxiety and discomfort having been swept away with that decision…
There would be countless times that this scene would be replayed, transposing the venue and choice of drink in a multitude of ways.
But, I continued drinking with my perceived lack of impunity – I hardly remember anytime in my twenties that I went back to any possible attempt at abstention.
My daughter was born when I was 29, pre-empting a turning-30 crisis one year earlier. It was from here that a number of attempts were made at stopping drinking; but they were always with the notion that it was merely a break – never contemplating the prospect of long-term abstention (seeing reports of celebrity alcoholics who had long-term sobriety and who had accepted that they just did not drink was completely bafflilng to me – the thought of not having the drink in my life was unfathomable!).
Of course, in the past couple of years, this has changed considerably. My attempts at stopping drinking were paved with good-intentions. Many a-time, I would decide ‘this Monday’ that I would not buy any cider, any wine. Of course today was maybe a Wednesday or Thursday, and this would mean me loading-up until that Monday came along. Sunday’s were spent finishing off the stock-pile, readying myself for tomorrow’s new resolve.
Monday would invariably start well. Pure, solid resolve. Yet, by the time the journey home was underway, I would always have a million-and-one excuses as to why this Monday was not the right day. I would inevitably succumb and the amount of times my wife would hear the infamous “I need to call at Tesco”, I (and she) lost count. She would look disappointed, but in my eyes, she looked fiercely judgemental! Even more excuse to definitely get the drink now! It was this type of vindication that I would look for everytime I tried to stop.
Eventually, I ending up seeing an Alcohol counsellor. This time, admitting I was a heavy drinker, and looking for that elusive control. Three times I tried a process of steady detox (fully aware of the dangers of alcohol withdrawal – add this awareness to a history of ridiculous hypochondria (did I ever mention, I had rabies once? Yes, I really did!!!) and, well, you can imagine my thought processes…) – cutting down by 5 units every two days.
What I fail to mention about these three attempts, is I always knew there was a ‘get-out clause’ just around the corner: an imminent all-inclusive holiday (I could hardly waste all that money and not drink!); my father-in-law’s 60th Birthday Party (it would be seriously rude for me not to partake in their generous largesse); an important Man City match (now you can’t have football without booze, can you?!). So I probably managed a cumulative 3-4 weeks not drinking.
Those weeks were garbage! I spent most of the time uttering a mantra of “Booze is nothing to miss!” without really believing it. I would walk past bars and pubs and look longingly in at the montage of happy-go-lucky, joyously fun-loving images of the vibrant, exciting people inside and want to be one of ‘them’.
In fact, there was one occasion where I did manage about 5 weeks of abstination. But, again, I had a particular motivation: I was due a liver scan having suffered with what I convinced myself was IBS, but then clocked up liver function bloods that were six times higher than an accepted ‘dangerous’ level. I had no choice, my hypochondriac brain was in overdrive – if it wasn’t just out-and-out cirrhosis, it would at least be HIV and my boozing had simply been a factor that had highlighted my impending demise.
I seem to recall that those five weeks went quite fast – it's amazing how obsessing about death, and the ignominy of being the architect of my own end seemed to send time flying.
Well, I had my liver-scan and lo-and-behold, not much to worry about. Yeah, a bit of fatty deposits but nothing too startling and my liver enzymes had settled to a relatively ‘hazardous’ state. Green light! Back to the blissfully loving arms of the beautiful booze I leapt, and by God, she made me most welcome!
So giving up and how it made me feel? Powerless, weak, and utterly at its mercy. I was aware of these feelings, but only like a distant echo, or like a car-alarm way off in the distance so as not cause any immediate distraction. Eventually, you just get used to it – as we know, like the frog who’s boiling his knackers off but just thinks things have got ‘a little bit warm’.
I was that frog. I see that now."
Peace. Out.
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