I love June, the way the natural world just suddenly seems to explode into colour and beauty. I remember one day in June two years ago when, a few shaky months sober, I walked out of my front door one morning and felt like I’d been hit in the face with a tsunami of colour and light. Like someone had suddenly turned up the brightness level of the world by about a thousand. When I realised for the first, but most definitely not the last, time how much alcohol had been dulling the wonder in my life.
Because that’s what alcohol does fundamentally. It is a painkilling, anaesthetic central nervous system depressant. It dulls things. Pain (temporarily), sure. Inhibitions, oh yes. But it doesn’t dull selectively. It’s not that clever. It dulls EVERYTHING. The brightness of a rose in June. The simple joy you feel from hearing a child laugh. The taste of your favourite food. Your wits, your laughter, your sex drive, your ambitions, your energy. Every part of you – mind, body and soul.
Things are happening in my personal life at the moment that are fucking scary as hell. Sometimes I think it would be nice to dull the fear, the sadness, the guilt, the existential what-will-become-of-me angst. But then I have a morning like this one, when a simple walk to the train station, noticing flowers, reminds me how lucky I am not to be dulled. And that numbing out of life is an all or nothing sort of deal.
I was walking to the station because I’m on my way to Edinburgh, to join a gathering of Soberistas. To meet so many wonderful women who mean so much to me. Who have held my hand on this epic journey I’ve been on the last two years. Who have taught me the meaning of bravery, determination and kindness. Who have, honestly, restored a lot of my faith in the fundamental goodness of the world. It feels like such a privilege to be part of the sober community, with every one of you. You have showed me what life can be like when you choose not to numb.
Louis Armstrong’s ‘What a Wonderful World’ was played at my grandma’s funeral. Because I am unbelievably lucky, at the age of 42 she is still the only person I have dearly loved who has died. She’s been on my mind lately. I wish I could talk to her about how things were for her when my grandad died. When she was suddenly on her own in her 40s, with two daughters. What I do know is that she lived to her 90s and, although somewhat cantankerous at times, she was full of a love for life pretty much to the end, bar the last couple of horrible years when vascular dementia set in. In fact I think that’s why she lived so long, despite being disabled all her life and physically pretty frail with arthritis and high blood pressure for as far back as I can remember her. She clung on to life with the tenacity of a snapping turtle and she weathered its storms and its sunshine alike. And so will I.
And in doing so I will be so hugely supported by my sobriety, which gives me clarity, strength, inner peace, self reliance and a vastly increased capacity for presence and love. I thought about that this morning. And I thought about that song and I thought about my Gran who I think would be pretty proud of me right now. Because, although I’m going through some pretty heavy shit at the moment, I am still keeping going. And, because I have the incredible gift of sobriety in my life, I have not lost the ability to see and appreciate the simple, precious wonders of the world around me.
