As Homer Simpson once quoted: “Alcohol – the cause of, and the solution to all of life’s problems”. And what a wise quote for a simple cartoon man!
The above photo was taken when I was bridesmaid for my younger sister’s wedding in 2010, back when I was an active alcoholic. I prided myself on that day as I didn’t get drunk until the day was over, and then I played ruthless catch up. I started drinking at about 9pm, not finishing until the resident’s bar shut at 6am, and the only reason I stopped drinking is ‘only’ because I could not get anymore, and not because I chose to stop.
We live in a society where alcohol is easily accessible, where births, marriages, deaths and everything in between revolve around alcohol, and drinking, getting drunk, having fun. Alcohol advertisements are everywhere and unavoidable if you walk down the street or watch TV – tempting those with the lure of the fantasy of how drinking alcohol can make you look cool, or funny, smart, and vivacious. And to many, that fantasy is a reality – it takes the edges of this harsh world somewhat. People relax more, unwinding after their long week, catching up on gossip in the warm, safe confines of a cosy pub or restaurant.
But, what if you were allergic to alcohol, and it was slowly killing you? What if alcohol is no longer a social lubricant, a crutch, a friend? What if it turns against you and leaves you cowering in a shivering wreck of terror and fear because you had one too many the night before, or the previous few days before? What if the thought of stepping outside to contribute in society, be convivial, going to the shop, even putting on your shoes or peeling yourself off that couch leaves you in a state of extreme panic and distress? What if you have to bring beers to the shower in order to calm yourself enough to wash, so you can go back out and get yet more alcohol?
This is a very real story, my story, my story of picking up a drink in my teens to ‘cure’ my social anxiety, to make me fit in, to give me self-esteem, to make me feel invincible – how to be ‘a part of’ instead of ‘outside of’, how to have fun, and laughter, those hazy days of summer spent in a pub garden with friends, the craic, the banter.
Until, and very quickly, the allure of alcohol far outweighed anything else in my life – my friends, my family, my job(s). To where I was absolutely consumed by thoughts of my next drink, my next hit, my next high. I trampled on others to get a drink, I was a chameleon in order to ‘fit in’ with whoever was having the most fun in the pub, those who stayed latest as they drank like me, or similar to me. Ending up at house parties, and early houses with strangers because one drink was too much, yet a hundred was just not enough. I ended up in situations where no girl, then woman should end up in, but I allowed it because I had to have just one more drink, and then definitely another, and perhaps another several, though it had been my third day out ‘partying’.
Friends and family walked away from me, though I had hidden as much of my problem drinking from them as possible – I drank away from where I would be known, I went out on my own where I knew nobody so no one could phone me the next day with cringe worthy stories of how I had acted the previous night. It got so much, that I started to drink at home, where nobody could see me at all, it didn’t matter how drunk I got, it didn’t matter if I had 3, or 4 bottles of wine because nobody would know. It didn’t matter that I staggered around my house, all on my own, crying because I was so lonely, that nobody cared about me, that I just couldn’t stop being a slave to this King Alcohol.
What I didn’t realise is during all this, the person that I hurt the most was myself – I knew, I knew how many bottles I had drank the previous night. I used to put all my empty bottles in a backpack stuffed with scarves and towels so the clinking of the empties was less obvious when I skulked to the bottle bank, praying I wouldn’t meet anyone I knew and promising myself I will never drink again. But, yet, somehow, ending up in the supermarket (or whatever shop I hadn’t been into recently as I didn’t want anyone to know that I was, and am, an alcoholic) with a basket of pretend shopping (like cheese, and eggs perhaps) and ‘oh look! A special offer on the French wine! I must simply buy 3 or 4 bottles for the house party later’, though there was never any house party, just myself, my crutch, and so many tears of frustration, anger, despair, loneliness. If only I could just stop drinking, but how? How in this country where every celebration revolves around alcohol?
It took me to such a low breaking point of deciding whether I should jump the ship of life, or give up, totally broken, a shell of a human.
I chose life. I chose to seek help wherever I could find help, and help I got, and I still get. I am in a fellowship where I am on a 12 step programme. I sought help with therapists, my doctor, with reading about my addictions, I turned to nature, music, helping those less fortunate than myself.
Today, I am no longer consumed with the overpowering urge to just escape from reality. Today, I have peace, I have hope, my family, new friends who are on the same journey of recovery as myself. I have the simple joy of my life, my little adopted dog, who has shown me how to love, how to love myself, how to love others. Today I can help others who are in that same dark hole of despair.
I chose life on that bleak and dark day at my jumping off point. Today, and every day, I choose life.