I come into these sessions or blog posts only to realise that most of what I have to spew about is the same day-to-day stuff we all slog through, the small rituals and recurring thoughts that make up ordinary life. I originally planned to keep this page as a private diary or journal behind a password, but if that’s the case I might as well scribble in a physical notebook with a pen and tuck it away on a shelf. This is my first post in a while; I’m a few beers down and have taken an assortment of meds — whatever it takes to coax a very subtle grin onto my face. For a one percent lift in my mood I’d do almost anything; sometimes it feels like I could murder, though I mostly mean that as fierce, dramatic exaggeration rather than intent.
I made it to 267 days of sobriety, and I was deeply determined to keep going because everything in my life was moving in the right direction. The many benefits of staying sober were beginning to appear: I felt healthier, more hopeful, and more in control. I recently had a full blood test and the results were encouraging — my liver had improved from poor to what the doctors called perfect health, along with several other readings I don’t fully understand. I had put in so much work to reach this milestone, and I was over the moon about the progress I’d made. My medication was stable and at the correct levels, my family was proud and relieved, and I truly felt good. Then it all came crashing down. Empty beer cans from seven months earlier were found, and I was accused of drinking throughout those weeks and months when I hadn’t touched a drop. The accusation was devastating; it felt like everything I’d worked for had been dismissed and wasted. I felt defeated and, in that moment, I gave up.
I should have been doing this for myself more than anyone else but it was important for me to share with people, family, how well I was doing. I was kicking goals. After over 7 months without a drink I found myself saying f**k it! I have no creditability and I had no one to show off to then myself. It was time for a beer. I missed you so much! Now I am looking after number one with no other deterrents. I am in no way of dangerous territory. We’re talking a few beers not a few bottles of wine or spirits. I just feel hard done by. The people I was trying to impress and keep happy have turned against me. All of those difficult summer days and events where I could really have fallen back on a drink are over.
I have no other commitments to anyone but myself. I take pride in that, and it is a deliberate choice. I live by simple means and with clear priorities. I have gone on previous rants about this, but I don’t own all the toys and luxuries that most people seem to collect. Debt… nope. My largest outgoings are modest: a small amount of rent, a Netflix subscription, a prepaid mobile plan, this website, and a rather lengthy list of medication. I manage to put savings away every week. It genuinely worries me the kinds of trouble people get themselves into, often entirely needlessly — mortgages, new cars, the latest phones and gadgets, a stack of insurance and credit card bills, children and their expenses, and so on.
So while the whole world crumbles in front of me, I sit here with a few beers and my life feels quietly content. I’m not using those people who doubted my sobriety as an excuse to act recklessly, but in a sense that’s what I’m doing — only in a measured, responsible way — and I find myself happier for it.