Sobriety and the fascinating life it affords
Letting go of longheld ideals as to the role and values alcohol brings to the table, including what it lends to my own identity, has made for an interesting year so far...
I have inadvertently been sober since we tipped into 2023. Turning my back on alcohol on New Years Eve wasn’t deliberate, or planned, and staying out of it’s way ever since certainly not something I anticipated. For some reading this who socialise with me, you might argue I’m barely a drinker these days anyway, so not much of a hardship to abstain. But the truth is I long ago adopted a little and often approach to alcohol, where quality over quantity steered my choices and I would draw a line on the working day with a glass of Primitivo whilst pottering in the kitchen, or celebrate the simple joy of friendship with champagne and besties over dinner. Long walks with the dogs across hill and dale would be broken with a watering hole at the midway point, where nothing tastes as good as a dainty half of ice cold lager with a side of salt and vinegar crisps. Mulled wine embodies the season of goodwill like no other, save for Baileys laced coffees or slurped over ice whilst adorning the tree with soft white lights. Ice cold pudding wine steps in gamely in the absence of a dessert, sweet treacle that grips the tastebuds and is astonishingly brilliant when upended over a glass of rich ice-cream. I could go on…
Alcohol has been the undercurrent of my life for as far back as memory serves. From the murky waters of naive adolescence, where peach schnapps and thunderbird proved to be nobody’s friend, it nonetheless embodied a sense of freedom, the ability to legally take leave from any senses. Dutch courage mustered with a hastily knocked back glass of Pinot, icy days out thawed by the warmth of brandy from a hip flask. Bacardi Breezers purporting to be summer squash and WKD gulped in a nightclub as we writhed on a dancefloor, just a couple of contenders blamed for what we did next. Babysham had a footprint in my youth, so too the omnipresent 20/20 across the nineties, sugary liquor to keep your feet moving when heads were heavy and sozzled.
Dry January wasn’t even up for consideration, yet as we draw close on July I remain strong willed and steadfast. I have not ruled it out completely, for there are occasions where raising a glass seems only fitting - as per my previous French Adventure posts part one & two, which find me nursing a singular solitary glass of Champagne by way of a wedding toast - and will inevitably find me dipping my toes briefly back into boozy waters. I am not one for preaching, nor will I press onto others this self imposed path is for all to tread, but being able to disconnect entirely from a habit that does not always serve well has been a liberation I did not foresee.
These months of sobriety have been a journey into the unknown. Even during my pregnancies (these being the years of the ‘Cool Britannia’ nineties) remaining tee-total was not advice administered at that time. Certainly avoidance of spirits were cautionary words from my midwife, but suggestions to drink half a Guinness daily to counteract my depleted iron stores was well meant advice from my doctor. So too the comfort of being assured that a glass of wine does no harm once the first trimester is behind you. I appreciate these messages are entirely different in the age we live in now, but some quarter of a century ago moderation rather than abstinence seemed to be common medical beliefs.
In much the same way I viewed black coffee across my adolescence as something that symbolised adulthood and sophistication, I perceived an open bottle of wine that sat adjacent to the stove fair game to be dipped into of an evening, a measure too of being a grown up. I was fortunate to buy my first home at eighteen - a consequence of a dismal and gloomy economy where property prices were relative to wages rather than any grand salary or enviable savings. Whilst this first foray into property ownership remains a debauched and lively story for another day, the booze that flowed was representative of the era. I sloshed vermouth with a wanton hand in the kitchen and slurped cheap white plonk late into the nights. Nightclubs spilled with pills and powder, yet my thrills were to be found bar side. Early doors drinks were an ubiquitous part of post work camaraderie, pubs, bars and taverns a daily habit. Boozy lunches were two a penny across a working week, with afternoon productivity seemingly undiminished by our addled selves. None of this is to say it was cool, or clever, though at times it did feel the embodiment of what being a grown up was supposed to look like.
More of the same played out across my twenties. Motherhood shifted my purpose, a role I felt destined for since I first cradled a soft bodied dolly. But the legitimacy of alcohol and it’s widely perceived acceptance across society, gives licence for the edges to be rounded on a hard day with a glass of wine. Or two. I revel in throwing parties, with celebrations for my children’s birthdays being high on my list of favourites. I would welcome a classful of five year olds, bouncy castle and face painters at the ready, whilst parents dropping off would gesture thanks by way of a bottle of wine wrapped with ‘you’ll need this later’. I would stretch by the outdoor pool of the gym across months of summer, the poolside bar stacked high with white wine; ice cold voluminous glasses in contrast to the searing skies would be sipped whilst I nattered with other mothers, all aboard the Chardonnay train.
I developed something of an intolerance for alcohol sometime across my early thirties. Not one to throw in the towel, I invested months into ascertaining which particular drinks had become disagreeable, without any concrete answers. I sought an explanation from my GP, who suggested this backlash to alcohol could have been triggered by a life changing event, whereby an imbalance may never right itself. I soldiered on, limiting my intake but nonetheless in the pursuit of giddy hours I could loosen the reins of control within. These last fifteen or so years have been dogged with gruelling hangovers after minimal participation and avoidance of so many bottles I recognise have the ability to halt play. What being so conscious across these months of alcohol avoidance has taught me is the very present role it has amongst society, where folk celebrate, commiserate, relax & rejoice in it’s company, a frequent visitor to the dinner table and a reliable friend to all in need.
Only from a sober vantage point am I able to welcome each morning without a veil of melancholy, or the rolling mist that lifts on a day once the first hour or two have passed. I fall into bed without the dread of wondering how I will feel when I wake. I drift into sleep rather than the thud of hitting the land of nod with a bellyful of booze. The sometimes disconnect between my mouth and mind is no more, nor the gripping pangs of paranoia as to any careless words said whilst under the influence. My mind is not skewed nor emotions exacerbated by a glass or two of fine wine.
There are of course some benefits which I currently frame as a curse. I am never ‘off’. A glass of wine or any liquor able to drape a cloak of comfort around shoulders taut from a day was a much leaned on crutch. This sidestep from being capable and in control granted licence to be frivolous, overlooking everything in favour of simply being in the moment without care for what tomorrow brings. For downing tools and drawing a line between day and night. A punctuation mark denoting a switch from on to off, in terms of doing and serious thinking. By contrast, sobriety finds the grey matter in overdrive, a whirlygig of ideas and an enthusiastic ability to step up to any task needed, day or night. Dead of night writing: no problem. Getting behind the wheel: anytime. Being on call: bring it on. Surrendering to the beguiling caress of alcohol, at times a bearhug of dizzying misplaced affection, remains from time to time missed. There is a wonderful sense of mischief to be found at the bottom of a bottle if the time is right.
But, much as I mourn the absence of a carefree, loose-lipped, jocular, irresponsible version of myself that I no longer hang out with, these last few months have taught me well. I remain an entirely gregarious, lively chatterbox, able to move feet to a beat and see in the midnight hour whilst sober as a judge. I no longer throw out words I might later regret and I’ve discovered mischievous chatter comes from within, not from a bottle. Gathering a crowd to the table still holds the same affection and I’m able to revel in the drunken company of others mostly without nostalgic envy.
If any of you too have enjoyed periods of sobriety, or are thinking this might be a world to poke your head into, please drop your comments in the box below. It’s not all boredom and sensibility I promise!
I’ll be 6 years sober at New Year. Mine also started as a few years of being unable to handle the hangovers, then slipped into a few weeks of sobriety, which led to a few months…. at which point, I think you've fallen in love with the clear headed morning feeling, the real sleep, the dealing with life head on… that it kind of just becomes the norm. I can’t believe it’ll be 6 years this year! I’ve never looked back 😊
It’s funny… yours was the second story on my instagram to address sobriety 😊
If our chats on the doorstep are anything to go by , I can certainly attest to alcohol Not being a requirement for you to be joyous, witty and charming company 💕💕💕💕