She looks at me with disappointment, tainted with fear and disgust "You've been drinking again!" Just those four words are enough to stir my own self-loathing. My daughter has been disappointed so often in her young life already. I've embarrassed her at school assemblies, parents' evenings and at Brownies. Never quite falling down drunk but enough for her to recognise. I was a house drinker and was never really sober. Every day I drank just to function. She couldn't understand. Why would she? I couldn't! Sometimes, for her, the only way to be noticed by me was to shout and to misbehave.
"Ah well! May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb..." says the voice in my head "...we don't need them and besides, they don't understand how hard you try." The thoughts run through my head and I keep drinking until I pass out. Next day, even more sullen, silent hostility from her. I've messed up again. Nothing new there then. And there's the secrecy too, the hiding of the bottles. The denial and the cold sweat of anxiety about whether I've left myself enough for the morning. "Can't you just stop?" my son asks. "If you fall, I'm not picking you up again. Next time I'm calling an ambulance!" I can tell he means it. No more egg shells. He spends most of his time now on his games console. It's like a form of reality he can control.
My husband? We don't even talk about the elephant in the room any more. He used to try to talk about it but we would end up arguing. Now he leaves me to it, preferring to watch TV upstairs. So, party for one. Everything's so uncertain for everyone and it's not like I don't know that feeling. I remember it from my own childhood. That 'Oh, no... not again' feeling. So why do I keep doing it? Arguing over trivia. Demanding respect from my kids that I know I don't deserve any more. Forgetting who the adult is.
I'm tired. So tired. People are worrying about me but "I'm fine", I say. "What business is it of theirs anyway?" I think. "Telling me to try this or you should do that. Go away. Leave me alone." I try all sorts and get nowhere. I'm told I don't try hard enough. I have no will power! I'm left in confusion, self-loathing and desperation.
Bed, couch, bathroom, booze. On and on and on. Eating sporadically if it stays down. The long, slow suicide others feared but I could not see. The booze, my only comfort, my only friend. I'm weak and helpless and out of step with reality. It was never the booze though. I try changing poison, cutting down but only end up lying to myself. Drinking to be happy, drinking when sad. Feeling sorry turns into self-pity, anger and yet another excuse to drink. This isn't living. You know.
Drinking was costing me my health, my family, my life even. Desperate frustration surrounds me. I'm too exhausted to go on. I know I can't do this anymore. The doctor is no help - he gives me a hard time. I don't know, I give up... I get locked away for detox and counselling. I am shattered and slowly put back together again. I have a series of frightening eye-opening revelations, a white knuckle ride form of sobriety. Thinking I know it all when I come out, I start going to meetings more out of fear than commitment. I'm all angles and attitude. Feeling at once both fraudulent and superior.
The people in AA are friendly and welcoming and so polite. It puzzles me why so many people always said 'please' and 'thank you'. Now I know why. None of us were particularly well-mannered or considerate when drinking. They are so honest, self-aware and articulate. They speak their truth quietly, without shame or rancour. It sounds like they're telling part or all of my story, one way or another. I keep my head down and my mouth shut. I learn to listen. I find hope.
I cling to the Serenity Prayer like a lifeline. Slowly, the sayings up on the wall come to mean something to me. 'Just for today'. 'Don't take the first drink'. 'It's easier to pick up the phone rather than a drink.' Simple enough to confuse a confused mind, they start to make sense. They think the way I do. I can talk about what's going on in my head. I begin to feel it's okay to laugh again. I am ill. That was the biggy for me. I'm not selfish or crazy. If I can accept that I am ill then I can get better.
I coast for a while. I make all the right noises not realising how hollow they sound. I get complacent. Then that sneaky wee voice comes back trying to talk me out of it. "One wouldn't hurt. You're better now. We don't need this." My illness is like a spoiled toddler. It screams out to be heard and looked after and the volume goes up when it doesn't get its own way. I struggle sometimes. It can catch me off guard. You see, I'm not cured. I never will be but now I can recognise that voice for what it is. My best chance is to go through the Programme. First I join a group I like. Then I choose a sponsor I trust and get to it.
In fits and starts we work our way through the Steps. It would've been easier if I had done it the way the book says rather than Christine's way. The thing is the exercise is a lot simpler than I feared it would be. That doesn't mean it doesn't need effort. Sometimes it's hard work. Eventually, I find out what caused my insane behaviour. Fear mostly. Other behaviours I recognised in myself were: people pleasing, prevarication, isolating, catastrophising and seeking affirmation from others. I have spent so much time doing things for others so that I didn't have to look at myself.
I need to take a good look at my past and accept it. I can't change it but with what I now know I can look at it and let it go. For me, making amends is part apology and part taking ownership and responsibility for my past. It's about doing as well as saying. It may take a long time to win back the trust I've lost but now I can accept the past without letting it define me.
In AA we find people who understand what the hell we're talking about. They've been there, done that, so they let you away with nothing for the same reason. There are others who are much wiser than me. Their support is loving and kind. That's where the magic in AA. It's with the people.
Almost two years down the line the greatest gifts I have been given are that I feel comfortable in my own skin, I have a quiet mind and I have a guide for living. I try to help newcomers however I can. I know how they feel and sometimes just a smile or a hug is enough. Yes, I'm an alcoholic and that's okay. With gratitude and with grace I have the rest of my life to learn.
Christine
Grangemouth Saturday morning