Why mummy gave up drinking

Day 167. I wrote my next blog whilst on a plane back from Rome. I was full of ideas and excited to wax lyrical about my first ever sober holiday. I had pretty much penned the whole thing and just needed to type it, but something happened this week that I felt compelled to write about instead.

You may have read my last blog, where I was happily organising my kitchen cupboards and arranging anything and everything possible in rainbow colour order; gliding along in my sober bliss bubble, navigating life like it was easy. I even started to iron. Let me be clear. I’ve not ironed in TEN YEARS. I’m a firm believer that if you tumble-dry everything hot enough, then it will effectively iron itself – but this last week, it a fit of extreme organisation, I decided my children’s school shirt sleeves could use some creases and out came the ironing board. I even had to buy a water spray bottle because the iron is so old and fucked, it kicks out brown limescale dust if I try and use the water squirting function.

So, I smugly ironed my son’s shirts whilst watching Netflix and spritzing water like a pro; mentally congratulating myself on my ability to multi-task like a mother fucker, and I even got everything out ready for the school run the following morning. I highly recommend this – getting bowls / plates out, laying out the uniforms ready to go, prepping coffee so you just need to press ‘play’ on the kettle and even putting out your clothes ready for the morning – all in a bid to save time, reduce stress and maintain blissful sobriety.

Not only was I smashing the organisation, I’d also been for a run every day that week, got on top of all of my admin and the laundry, booked various tickets for days out over the summer to entertain my kids – all at discount because I did some serious research – and I was back to my ‘clean’ diet, feeling nothing short of Godly. I was killing it.

Then a few days ago, something happened. Alfie. Alfie happened. The morning after my epic organisation.

Alfie is my four, soon-to-be five-year-old son. The day began with Alfie running into my bedroom, climbing into my bed, putting his face right up to mine and screaming ‘Mummyyyyyyyyy! I can’t brrrreeeeeaaaaatttttthhhhhhhheeeeee!!’ I woke up with a small heart attack, straight out of deep sleep, to a red-faced angry small person. ‘Mummy I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!!’

This is never a good start. Since Alfie was a baby, he has been dictating the mood for the day and is a significant force of nature. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he was like Elsa and declared the fifth spirit – but an evil version. If Alfie is happy, all is right with the world. He is desperately cute, full of energy and very very funny. On the flip side, if Alfie is angry, he considers it to be his God given right to destroy the fun for everyone around him – if he isn’t happy – no one else is going to be either. This was one of those days.

Alfie snores in the night, is particularly nasal and now with spring in full bloom he gets a stuffy nose on a nightly basis. I’ve tried every cream, nasal spray, humidifier and decongestant in the Western world – nothing bloody works. On this particular morning, Alfie woke complaining, for the millionth time, that he couldn’t breathe – meaning he feels a bit stuffy.

‘Ok, ok, let’s go downstairs and get some VapoRub.’

‘Noooooooooo!!!! I don’t want cream!!!!! Arghhhhhh!!!!’

Excellent. This is going to be fun.

As soon as I got downstairs Alfie jumped on the sofa where his elder brother Arthur (7) was sat peacefully and quietly watching television. He is an early bird and likes to have time to himself in the morning so he was already up and happily chilling out in his own company.

‘Arthur!!!!! That’s MY seat!!! Get away you stupid poo brain!!’

Arthur didn’t move and looked at Alfie with the same contempt that the salesgirl looked at Julia Robert’s when she walked into the upmarket store on Rodeo Drive in Pretty Woman. My boys really love each other – but if one starts on the other, all bets are off. These two would fight to the death if I gave them the opportunity. Sometimes I wait a while before I stop them. It’s a bit like having my own live version of the Hunger Games. In a sick way, I kind of want to know who would win.

Alfie took Arthur’s silence as an insult – and responded by punching him on the arm. Arthur screamed, retaliated and landed 3 or 4 body blows before Alfie started crying and wailing loudly ‘Mummy!!!!! Arthur hit me!!!!!!!’

‘Well, I just saw you hit him first and he hadn’t done anything to you at all Alfie.’

‘Well, you’re stupid too!!’ He screamed.

This went on and on for the best part of 30 minutes. Fighting, crying, name-calling. By 7am I felt exhausted. I told the boys to get themselves dressed for school and took myself off to get a shower just for 5 minutes peace. But I could hear the screaming over the sound of the running water and before I even got to conditioning my hair, Arthur ran in to my bathroom with blood under his eye, crying and saying Alfie had scratched him. I quickly got out of the shower, raced downstairs, told Alfie off, and then spent another 20 minutes begging and pleading with Alfie to try and get him dressed for school.

After what felt like an eternity, Alfie was in his clothes, and I just had to get his shoes on before we could leave for the school run.

‘Arghhhhh!!! They don’t fit mummy!! These shoes hurt!! I can’t wear these. Fix it mummy!! Fix it! Fix it!!!’

I seriously couldn’t believe the level of drama. I was supposed to be on my laptop and working by now, I had less than 5 minutes before I was due to be walking through the school gates and I was starting to feel that sense of desperate, anxious panic. I adjusted Alfie’s shoes as best as I could and stood up.

‘No mummy!! You got it wrong! Stupid mummy!’

I was really starting to lose my temper now.

‘How dare you speak to me like that! Right, I’m taking your Plants versus Zombie toys away for that.’

‘Yeah! Well, you’re just a dick head.’ And with that, Alfie threw a school shoe with all his force – straight at my head. I don’t know if I was more shocked at the shoe, or being called a dick head. Mmmm….maybe I shouldn’t have yelled at that cyclist for cutting me up on the school run last time I had one of these days.

Anyway, this was the last straw.

‘Right, you little fucktard wanker. I’m sick and tired of all your shit. All I do is work to make your life better and you’re just an ungrateful little prick. You don’t pay rent, so from now on, you can live in the garage or call childline. Here is a pound coin. Now go and call someone who gives a fuck. I’m outta here.’

And with that, I walked out of the house, took myself off to the local Weatherspoon’s and spent the whole day getting hammered.

Ok, so I didn’t actually say those words out-loud, however strongly I was thinking them, and I did actually manage to get Alfie’s shoes on and brave the school run without any more tears or assaults – and I didn’t end up drinking in the morning at Weatherspoon’s, but for the first time in a long time, I did think about wine.

 It really got me thinking. You can do the work, make the effort, do everything right to protect your sobriety; but sometimes, life just gets in the way. There was nothing I could have done to stop Alfie starting that morning in a temper. He just got out of bed on the wrong side. By the evening he was back to being my delightful, cuddly, beautiful, sweet little boy – wrapping his little arms around my neck and telling me that he loved me ‘a hundred billion million gazillion dollars’.

So, what do we do? How do we cope, when we’re following the advice, making good choices, doing the right thing, but life still comes along and boots us in the chuff? How do we deal with the triggers?

It’s been a very long time since I craved a drink, so I was really surprised when I found myself thinking about a cold glass of Pinot at 7am. But this was my coping mechanism to deal with stress for almost 25 years – so is it really so surprising that every now and then, during a stressful moment, that it pops back into my head? Of course not. So how did I get it out of my head?

Triggers are different for everyone. We each have our own issues and things that annoy us. But the theme is same for everyone – a trigger is something that causes us to feel stressed. So, the antidote, is simply stress-management. The longer you are sober, the easier it is to process stress – because you know it’s short-lived and you’ll feel ok in a relatively short space of time. When you’re drinking, the stress is exacerbated to such an extreme, that you’ll do anything to make it go away. I remember feeling like I literally wanted to rip off my own skin and crawl out of it; so distressing and painful that the only cure I would consider was an instant one – the numbing sensation of alcohol to block it all out.

Sobriety stops the stress becoming that intense. The levels of anxiety are manageable – uncomfortable, but tolerable. Now when I feel stressed, the thought of wine may pop into my head, but I know it’s not the solution, and I don’t need to relieve the intense pain and suffering – because however bad you feel, trust me, it’s never as bad as when you’re withdrawing from alcohol and craving booze simply because you’re addicted to it – and the only thing worse than drinking, is the thought of not drinking at all.

I firmly believe that the key to stress-management is having your ducks in a row. Pay your bills on time, tidy your house, exercise, write lists, go to therapy, talk to people. Make good choices. If you think about it, it’s very simple. There is only one choice you have to make in life – the next one. For every choice you make, ask yourself, is this helpful, or is it not. If it’s not helpful, or it doesn’t make you feel good – don’t do it.

I know this can be far harder than it sounds, and in very early sobriety, making the choice not to pick up that glass can feel like a very big one. So, for those of you who are still in the early stages, here are my three go-to methods for a particularly nasty trigger.

1. Leave the room. Ever go upstairs and forget what you went for? It’s scientifically proven that leaving the room changes the short-term memory section in your brain. So if you have a craving, leave the room and focus on a completely different task –  it can help to interrupt your brain’s train of thought! Cravings typically only last 20 minutes so focus on any task for at least that amount of time. You can even have a task ready in mind for a trigger. For example, the next time I feel triggered, I will go through my wardrobe and give all the old stuff to charity. Trust me. It works.
2. Read as many comments as you can from people who have more than 6 months sober. You won’t find anyone who regrets it. Think about that.
3. Read as many comments as you can from people on day zero. There isn’t a single person on day zero who isn’t disappointed to be back there. It’s really good to focus your mind on where you will end up if you pick up a glass – it’s a certain fact. No one ever congratulated themselves for going back to drinking.

So, if any of you had to deal with an ‘Alfie’ today – it was just a bad day. That’s all it is. Sometimes you can do everything right, and shit just goes wrong. That’s life. The good news is that it also swings the other way. Some days, life will surprise you with the great stuff. You never know what’s around the corner, but as sure as the sun will set on your bad day, there is only one direction you can go from rock bottom. Stay focused, organise your life, do the work, try as hard as you can, because that is something you do have control over. Control what you can, do things to make your life easier – so when life’s triggers come your way, they don’t knock you over, they barely even upset your balance. You just shake it off, chalk it up to being a bad day and get ready for the great ones – they are coming.

This blog is dedicated to Alfie. Light of my life. My beautiful, naughty, funny little creature. I wouldn’t have you any other way my love. And to Arthur. My gorgeous old soul. Sweet, obnoxious, smart, stubborn and wonderfully kind boy. I’m so grateful to be your mummy. You are both the best motivation a mum could wish for – just maybe stop throwing shoes at my head.

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Thanks for reading!

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