Flashback Soberistas blog from 5 months sober
When I look back at my adult life for as far as I can remember there has been a fundamental lack of contentment. My bookshelves in my 20s and 30s were a testament to this – Be Your Own Life Coach, Authentic Happiness, The Life Audit, The Road Less Travelled, The Surrendered Wife (WTAF?!). I always felt like I was searching for something outside of myself that would finally make me happy, but happiness always seemed to dance away from me just ahead, always elusive.
In my teens I was shy and anxious, a bit of a loner and a geek (before there was any chic about it). I had been bullied as a young teen and when I was around 15 or so and started drinking alcohol and smoking at parties it was like a revelation to me. Now I could be one of the cool kids, the rebel I had always felt myself to be inside. Now I could be the ‘real’ me. I made some amazing friends in the later years of high school, two of whom are still like my sisters. We were young, had zero real responsibilities and laughed all the time. But I still thought I wasn’t happy. I’ll be happy when I have a boyfriend I thought.
I went to university. I met my first boyfriend and fell in love for the first time. I was away from home, spreading my wings and madly in love. But I still wasn’t happy. My drinking got heavier and more frequent. I had a life threatening fall while I was drunk. I missed many seminars and lectures due to hangovers. I started blacking out. I fell out of love with my boyfriend. I’ll be happier if I’m single again I thought.
I finished uni and started my first job. I had lots of dates and even more drunken one night stands. I made some more amazing friends. We went out every weekend drinking and the rest. Feeling hungover on Monday and depressed on Tuesday became the norm for me. We had weekends away doing all sorts and brilliant holidays in Ibiza. To be honest my mid to late 20s were a blast in a lot of ways and looking back I don’t regret them at all. But I still wasn’t really happy. It’s because all my friends have boyfriends and I’m single I thought. I’ll happier in another city, a fresh start. I’ll move to London.
I moved to London, spent more time with my school friends, lived in great house with a lovely housemate, did a masters course which I was interested in and really good at. I still kept going out and getting shit faced. A terrible thing happened to me. Then my lovely house got burgled. Then my lovely housemate got attacked in the street outside our house. I was as far from happy as I think I’ve ever been. I need to go home to Manchester I thought, I’ll be happy back in Manchester.
I came home, I lived with close friends, I got a different job in the field I’d trained in, doing what I thought I really wanted to do. I hated it. My boss was a sociopath and the work was hard and harrowing. My drinking continued. I was allowed to smoke in my office and I chain smoked all day long. I was unhealthy and anxious and depressed. It’s my job, I thought. I’ll be happy in a different career.
I left my job with no other job to go to. This was a really good move. Seriously. I didn’t starve or end up on the streets. I got temping admin work straight away and I could just about make ends meet. I was still reasonably free of responsibilities and I proved to myself, for the first time, the truth of the saying ‘leap and the net will appear’. I drank less as I couldn’t afford to go out. Not that much less but a bit at least. I got a job in the public sector which I loved and where I’ve been ever since.
My life on the surface was fun and free again. I wasn’t happy. It’s because I’m single I thought. It’s getting beyond a joke now (I was 29). I went to weight watchers and lost two stone. I went on lots of dates. I met the man who became my husband (drunk in a nightclub ironically) and fell in love again. The drunken nights out with friends continued. I got drunk at lots of weddings. I wasn’t happy.
We decided to move in together. Then I’ll be happy I thought. We bought a house. He didn’t propose. I’d be happy if we got engaged I thought. We got engaged. I’ll be happy when we’re married I thought. Due to my stellar organisational skills and general desperation we tied the knot six months after we got engaged. I got married with a huge bruise on my arm from getting shit faced at my hen do. I got shit faced at the wedding and can’t remember half of the reception. The day after our wedding I cried and said to my new husband that I would stop drinking if he wanted me to. He laughed it off and that was that. We went on honeymoon to Paris. I wanted to go out and get drunk and we had a big argument because he didn’t. We came home to commence marital bliss. And I wasn’t happy.
All my friends started having babies and disappeared into this strange new world where I didn’t speak the language. I felt as lonely as I’ve ever felt. I need to have a baby I thought, then I’ll be happy. I got pregnant. Miscarried. Got pregnant again. Miscarried. Was forbidden by the doctor to try again for six months while my womb recovered. My friends all continued their parenting adventure together. I became seriously depressed. When I drank I got completely out of control, having blackouts that lasted hours. I started secret drinking, alone at home after nights out when my husband was in bed.
One night I did this when my parents were staying with us. It was the day after what would have been my due date if my second pregnancy had lasted. We had opened the champers to toast finishing our decorating. I drank most of it. I stayed up drinking gin on my own when the others had gone to bed. The next day I had to call in sick to work. I couldn’t stop crying. My parents were so worried about me. In some ways that was my first day 1. I won’t drink until I’m pregnant now I thought. I must have a baby, if I have a baby I’ll be happy. I stopped drinking, totally and completely, for the first time. I was miserable. I missed it, I hated social occasions, I cried a lot. But I got pregnant and this time it stuck. I was so anxious the whole pregnancy. So relieved to be pregnant as well but not really happy still. I’ll be happy when I have the baby I thought, when I know she’s ok.
I had my eldest daughter. My anxiety increased. She didn’t sleep well so neither did I. Even when she did sleep I stayed up at night anyway, panicking about cot death, choking, meningitis. She would only nap in the day if I pushed her in the pram. I walked round my little town in the rain, often with tears rolling down my face that nobody saw. I barely saw my husband. I barely saw my friends. And I was thoroughly miserable. I stopped breastfeeding and started drinking again, not as heavily but more regularly. A bottle of wine over the weekend crept up to two. I wasn’t happy. We need to move house and I need to get pregnant again, I thought. Then I’ll be happy.
After nearly a year of trying and a fortune spent on acupuncture, herbalism and homeopathy I got pregnant again at 38. I stopped drinking, I felt better. We inherited some money and moved to an area I’d wanted to live in for years. I had my second daughter and started drinking again even though I was breastfeeding. My friends had done it with their seconds, it’s fine I thought. But I also hated myself for doing it and was tormented by anxious ‘what if’ thoughts. I felt worse again. And then I felt much worse.
When my littlest was five months old I found myself hysterically sobbing in front of the health visitor because she wouldn’t sleep. She packed me off to the GP who said I had postnatal depression and gave me pills. I took them and started to feel, for pehaps the first time in my adult life, happy. No ifs or whens, just happy right in that moment. I started to properly appreciate all the wonderful things in my life – my husband, my home, my job, my beautiful children. It turned out that they did make me happy after all, when a chemical imbalance in my brain wasn’t skewing my perception. Even in the depths of my depression, desperately chasing happiness, I had made good choices. Phew!
Then, of course, I ruined it by drinking. A night out for someone’s 40th. Blacked out for hours, could barely face my kids the next day. Oh well, I thought, at least I didn’t carry on drinking when I got home, I’m so sensible and mature these days. A night out for my 40th. I carried on drinking when I got home. Days and days of depression afterwards.
Then I just knew I was done.
Now I am just over five months sober and I am truly, honestly happy. I’m still taking the pills but I’m also working hard on so many lifestyle changes to hopefully get myself to a place where I don’t need them anymore. I eat healthily (mostly!), I exercise, I meditate. I sleep. I laugh. I live. I really, properly live, and I love my life.
If you’ve made it to the end of this saga you deserve a medal for your patience. I just wanted to write it all down to remind me of the biggest reason of all for me to stay sober. Did my depression cause my drinking or did my drinking cause my depression? Who knows but they went round and round in a horrible twisted dance my whole adult life. And I know now without a doubt that without my sobriety it all just falls apart. All these wonderful things I’ve surrounded myself with, the life I’ve built while chasing happiness, can only bring me happiness if I’m capable inside of feeling it. The treasures of my life were hidden from me for so long but they were always there, waiting for me to be able to see them with clear eyes, unclouded by depression, untainted by alcohol. So, if I’ve only learned one thing so far on this journey that’s it – I can chase happiness all I want, but I only have a chance of catching it if I am sober. That’s the choice I make each day – drink and be miserable or be sober and happy. And I choose happiness.
