I started going out-out when I was 16. I looked young for my age, I’d never had a serious boyfriend and I was woefully naive. Having just started my first job, my new friends took me up the town, somewhere I had no place being. This observation was shared by some of my new crew, who were were unimpressed by my obvious immaturity. In drink I went from being shy and placid to giggly, annoying and unpredictable.
My first taste
In my defence, I had probably only drank alcohol once before that night. I was 13 and I’d been invited to a school friend’s birthday party. Not that I was popular, I wasn’t: she’d invited the whole year, I doubt she knew who I was. Because I was painfully shy, I drank the proffered alcohol willingly and quickly. Soon after, all became foggy and I came to snogging a boy on a sofa in the middle of the room. I stayed there for the rest of the party, convinced that the love of my life had been in front of me the entire time. At the end of the night, I kissed him a sorrowful goodbye and tried to act sober as I walked in a zig-zag towards my dad’s car.
The next day was my first taste of drinker’s remorse. The lad I had made out with in full view of our entire year was, if it were possible, even less popular than me. In the cold light of day, I did’t fancy him at all. I thought about begging my mum to let me move schools, but I knew that was hopeless; she wouldn’t even let me take a sick day unless a body part was hanging off. I knew that I’d have to face my actions head-on, hoping that: a) nobody had noticed, or b) somebody else had done something far worse.
Of course, that wasn’t the case. Senior school in the 90s was brutal. The poor lad was waiting for me, I blew him off, and my school ‘friends’ jeered at me at every opportunity. I kept my head down and in a matter of days, it was old news. Still, it scarred me.
It gets worse
You’d think, then, that I would have learned my lesson. Not so. In fact it got much worse. Between the ages of 16 and 40 I often drank to excess. You see, drink turned me into somebody that I liked; it gave me confidence. When I drank I felt funny and pretty and flirty and sexy. Unfortunately, it also turned me into somebody I hated. In drink I could be bitchy and sycophantic and loose and unreliable.
That drinker’s remorse that I felt when I was 13, became a weekly occurrence. I would wake up the day after the night before hoping for oblivion. Instead, the entire events of the evening would run through my mind like a bad movie. I’d remember all of the things that I had said and done, cringing in shame. Drink made me a bad friend, an argumentative partner and, sometimes, a danger to myself.
I gave up a couple of times over the years and didn’t find it particularly difficult. It’s a weird one though, because alcohol is the only drug that you get peer pressured into not giving up. Night’s out can be difficult when everyone else is drinking and you aren’t. When your decision is shaky, it’s much easier to go along with the status quo.
The decision was made for me
When I was younger, it was just the remorse that made me sick. I never really suffered with hangovers. Or if I did, I could sleep them off and be back on the town the following night. That changed when I had my daughter. Then, every time I had a few drinks I felt like I might die. I also questioned what I wanted to model for her: I knew that I never wanted her to see me drunk. I continued to have a drink every now and again but only occasionally to excess.
Then perimenopause kicked in and even one drink could leave me with a raging headache. In the end it just wasn’t worth it. I had my last glass of red wine just after my 40th birthday, I was on holiday in Portugal. Maybe the timing was right because it was easy. Actually, it was a relief, never again having to debate the question , ‘should I have a drink tonight?’ And probably because I was certain in my decision, nobody else questioned it. Now, my friends and family know that I don’t drink and it is never an issue.
Being sober is more fun
These days I find that I have much more fun sober than I did drunk. I don’t have to be concerned about how much is too much, I don’t monitor my actions wondering how they’ll be construed and, when I wake up in the morning, I know that everything I did the night before, was a deliberate act.
That said, I don’t really go out-out any more. I’ve left that in my past. Last weekend though, I was at a family party. I ate, danced and was merry, I even stayed until the end. It was way past midnight when I got into bed and, because I am a creature of habit, I still woke early the following morning. For 3-days afterwards, I felt like I was walking through treacle. And that’s without the demon drink.
People tend to think that when you give up alcohol you lose all of the joy from your life. This couldn’t be further from the truth. These days I find joy in a more organic way: a walk in nature, a delicious meal, a well made cup of coffee, conversations with friends. My highs are now natural ones: a jog around the park, a gently yoga practise. Honestly, I never thought that I could be so happy.
Sober curious?
I can’t recommend Quit Like a Woman by Holly Whitaker highly enough.
