Two weeks without drinking and then I went to a friend’s house and had a single, tiny glass of red wine. I sipped it for an hour and went home to bed.
Last night, convinced this was definite proof that I was now a moderate drinker, I went to a welcome home party for an old friend and drank a bottle of wine and four beers.
I’m at a point of despair with this. I am nowhere near rock bottom. I’m a mostly happy, productive, successful person with family and friends and hobbies. But I can see how all of that might change. I can see how the everyday beauty of the ordinary life I lead is dimmed every time I drink. I don’t know how bad it needs to get before I know, really know, that I must stop.
I wasn’t going to write here until I had at least 30 days of not drinking behind me, because nobody really wants to read about one woman’s repeated drinking episodes, outrageous hangovers, mini periods of sobriety and failure to learn anything from her mistakes every single week. Hell, I don’t even want to write about it. But I miss your encouragement and I’m a little lonely in this process.
I also wanted to tell you about how I woke up with the first light this morning and watched the sky go from grey to gold to perfect blue. About how I stretched and rolled over and the hair under my face smelt warm and clean. About how I drank my coffee and went to an early dance class and sang in the shower. About how I managed to host a birthday party of eight-year-old boys and even enjoy it a little bit. About eating takeaway pizza for dinner and going for a walk in the cool autumn evening.
Nothing about this day would have been enjoyable if I was as hungover as I usually am on a Saturday. I’m so grateful to be here.
(Day 7, in case you were wondering)