Day 93 - Where to start.

So I started this whole sober journey at home in my own kinda rehab which involved a sofa bed and a lot of chocolate.

I moved into my sober bed, bought with my first months sober savings soon after. And, I've been in one or other basically ever since then. Often all day. Sometimes everyday. Often working, often not just reading sober stuff. I've declined a lot of parties and taken sober self care when required, often going back to bed.

Its OK for a while and as I work 7 hours a week from home, a skype convo in my bed with my job share (non video) is OK at a push.  I can write reports no bother and I'm 'present' in my job now rather than dragging myself through it.

Here's the thing, its unsustainable for me longer term. In fact its unsustainable for anyone longer term, I think.

So whilst I can give excuses like sorry no bra on today, can't come. I really need a boot up the backside or a strategy to get me on the move before gone lunchtime.

I also need to find an additional job. I might need a bra for that. And probably clothes. 

I guess in some ways its time to go back into the world, sober. And fathom out what it is I actually want to do and not overwhelm myself in the real world.

Then again I might stay in my pj's until I hear my husbands on his way back from work then frantically get dressed.

Apply motivation here please in the comment box below.

Or if you're a more direct kind of person use this!

Day 72 - sober carbon footprint

'Experts estimate that a 750ml bottle of wine at 190g CO2 per glass equates roughly to the carbon emissions released by a three-mile car journey.' So says the Guardian please remember other calculations are available, some equate it to a five mile car journey.

Here's when I get my fingers and toes out to work out 72 days sober average 1 bottle wine a night (conservative), equivalent to saving carbon 1984 miles or 82,080 g  or 82 kg CO2 

So I could have driven nearly 2000 miles instead of drink wine and be in the same place carbon wise but think of the adventures........

I've saved the equivalent green house gas emissions of 0.29 tonnes of landfill. Crikey

Or if I'd planted 21 wee trees I'd have saved the same amount of carbon in ten years.

So by NOT drinking I'm officially greener than when I started. I'm always keen to see interesting ways in which behaviour change effects things like carbon, cos, well, I'm weird like that. [I'm a secret scientist, which is a bit like secret santa, but not nearly so cool.]

So NOT drinking is helping me and our planet. Goes off to shine green tree huggers badge.

Hug yourself and a tree, being sober really does save the planet.

That's made me smile today. Then again I've always been a tree hugger.

PS Thank you for all your kind comments yesterday. For me this is a huge journey and sharing my feelings even the darker ones is essential for me to learn to move past the wine. Lucy recommended I looked to the serenity prayer and I did and I found comfort in it. So thank you all, without expression, I'd be drowning myself in an endless vat of despair called merlot.

My sober seven days

So the great excitement for this week has been reaching another milestone, 70 days, 10 whole weeks sober. I never thought that might happen. Never in my wildest dreams. Here's a peek at what I've found to be grateful for in my week leading to today.

The garden starts to slumber and as it does its brought to life after frosts and flurries of snow with robins, blue-tits, thrushes, blackbirds, starlings, sparrows and its so busy. I laden the bird table every morning and take time to watch them chatter and hop around. Garden ornaments long forgotten from summer begin to take on a new life, a dart of colour in the grey. They are beautiful and like this heart remind me of my son swinging under it in the hammock as I hung it. This makes me smile.

The days are shorter to precious time is spent walking the dogs on local beaches. Devoid of tourists at this time of year we have them, frequently all to ourselves. Icy winds steady our pace. Whilst returning home the chores await! 

Fires need stoked with logs and sticks, my job. Everyday this is a job I love, I don't know why but the gathering, chopping, drying and stacking of wood has always been my favourite. I fill the fires grateful we'll be warm and cosy later. All done before it gets dark.

Meanwhile the chickens watch on, hungry in the morning for their breakfasts, always so impatient. Rewards of eggs are few at this time of year but they add to the food to the table. I love their wee faces and chatter. These were rescue hens and now in full plumage I'm very grateful I took them in rather than the easier options around, they've been great companions and wonderful for me watching them slowly come back to health in our garden. 

Out feeding the hens gives me time to stroll around a bitterly cold garden, if I'd been indoors I'd have missed the last few roses on the bush, I picked them for my bedside. A reminder of summer and nicer days. I like the routine of the chickens needing fed it gets me out and appreciating the space around me. As does walking the dogs. It gives me fresh air and time to think, and this week, time to watch our local wee friend through the branches of the hedge now bare.

This wee fella lives but a minute from my door. I'm so lucky to live in the middle of the countryside where I can walk from my front door up to the woods, or down to the shore. A vocal wee chap he kept us company for part of our walk! Getting out everyday even for a swift walk has been good for my sobriety, fresh air and gentle exercise seem to help me hugely.

A bonnie sight! The village phone box, this always makes me smile, so old fashioned and yet, a life line in our village if needed, standing proud. And snuck in behind it a wee white cottage, all of our own. This week my son landed safely in New Zealand, without skype and the internet his distance would seem so far away, we talk or text most days, he feels close, I like that. Luckily for me, these methods of communication make us close and keep me smiling. So I'm grateful, SO grateful for this technology (and old fashioned phoneboxes) which can keep us in touch with those we love and for sober friends and forums, without which I'd feel so alone.

Everyday I have the companionship of my trusty hounds, chickens, partner and virtual sober friends. Friendship, for me, has always been hugely important. Being sober and being able to share this journey in less virtual isolation has been a real help to me. So I thank you for being out there sober rock stars all of you. I also have my SMART group on Wednesdays, helping me connect with others for a while, which is so helpful. I'm glad I found the courage to go. Really glad.

I leave gentle reminders of my sobriety and saying 'NO' to wine around my house. They make me smile and know they're a reminder for times when I feel weak.  A walk around the village today with my recycling today (we have communal recycling in our village), I spot the last flowers of summer hanging on in there. Like me, trying so hard to keep going, despite circumstances which sometimes challenge me!

Their beauty a reminder of taking time to stop and look at the smaller things in life and smile at their wonder. And, as for the trip to the recycling this week - ta da!

Its not often you'd catch me in broad daylight taking out the recycling in one hand, this weeks glass. One bottle of alcohol free wine, one soy sauce. This has been a busy week! No more sneaking out at night for late night 'drop off', in the dark so no one can see!! No more shame. No more secret drinks, no more bottles to hide. A quick drop off a the recycling whilst actually taking time to enjoy a wee stroll round the village. 

 Party last night. I offered to drive, for once he had a few beers, he's not a drinker really, seldom do I see him with a glass in his hand. But for once no moaning about who's driving, no middering and forcing him to drive. No drinking before the party, having a bottle for home after the party. No gulping down the drinks quickly as i can when I get there. No resentful silences in the car when we leave late but way before I want to. No pushing him off to bed when we're home so I can keep drinking when I'm back. No late nights on the sofa drinking alone, trying to sate myself even after a party.  Not last night. Last night I drove, he had a few beers, we left at just around 10pm, I happily drove us home, we chatted, so different to the old drinking ways.

And, finally today. Chores done, messages bought, a quick stomp on the beach with Mr Me before the light goes. 

'You seem happier' he tells me. 

I feel happier, I think to myself, yes I do.

'Thank you, do you know its around 10 weeks today since I had wine.' I smile.

'You're not missing the wine then?' He asks as he holds my hand.

'Nope, I feel so much better for staying off it for a while, my head's a bit less noisy!' I say with honesty.

'Suits you.' He beams.

[We kiss, enough said for now.]

And, for tonight, a mini-celebration with a mocktail. Well, why not. Its not every day you're 70 days sober. Mocktails all round I say.

So that's been my week, lots to be grateful for, lots to quietly celebrate. Thank you for being with me on this journey. Sobriety, feels right now, so special. I don't want to break it. I'm more scared of drinking right now than I am of not drinking. 

More hard work ahead I'm sure!

Day 61 - Shouting at the radio

So yesterday in the car, and perhaps you saw on the news here in the UK one of our leading research organisations in Scotland proudly announced the arrival of 'Smart fabric'. They've impregnated the smell of whisky into a fabric. Yes really. A collaboration between  a very posh tweed manufacturer and a whisky company. If I'd not have been driving I'd have had to lay down and scream. So I shouted at the silly radio. 'You've done what?' 

Smart technology has been used to impregnate fabric  'the cloth smells of "rich malt, golden vanilla, red fruit and dark chocolate tones". Link here.here

Yes you read that right. Now I'm sure this smart technology has some other actual helpful applications and maybe this is just the headline snatcher. As a researcher I bloody hope so. But, I know that a bit of good PR can be essential to promote collaboration between manufacturers and research institutes. I guess how companies spend their R&D budgets is up to them and quite often institutes quite frankly, need cash. But what a bloody waste of decent academic brain power. What about food poverty, reducing energy consumption, how about tackling those. The next breath the radio man ran an advert for the change in drink driving laws here in Scotland from tomorrow.

Some giggles about your jacket getting breathalised if you're wearing this new fabric smart technology, or if you live near the border as the limits are different depending on which country you live in and therefore which way you drive home. Interesting article here on what folks think in the UK about the changes in Scotland here some thinking we should have the same laws throughout the UK. What do you think?

Anyway, I had a wee rant at Mr Me, over supper about 'smart fabric', bloody joke I said, waste of research money I said. He rather looked quite smugly at me and asked how many research projects I'd been involved in that were for alcohol companies.

Stoney silence. As one of 'those silly researchers', I have been involved in working with a fair few research contracts, in the food and drinks industries, including several Gin and Whisky products.

I was helping highland crofters diversify their income I told him. 

Pots and Kettles he told me.

His most annoying feature is that he's often right. Silly man. I'm proud of the research work I've done,  especially with Gin, but maybe in future, I'll be more choosey if I can. But, beggars as they say........maybe I shouldn't be so quick to judge smart fabric inventors after all and be mindful of their feelings, they are after all, only trying to forward science. Bah. Mindfullness-smindfullness.

I'm off to see of my son at the airport today, he's heading away for the holidays to his dads. Usually I drown myself in drink, the loneliness of single-parenthood can be crippling around holiday times. He leaves today, my daughter in a couple weeks. Usually I medicate this loss with booze, like I do everything else. Not this year. Nor will I be asking for 'smart fabric' or booze for xmas. Small steps.

Shouting at the radio helps, I implore you to try it.

Day 60 - domestic goddess, not.

Help yourself, we're celebrating new friends, life and love. Happiness.

So here I am in the messiest kitchen in the universe and I'm making brownies. I'm a dab hand at these, plenty experience from the time the kids were little and someone gave us the easiest recipe in the world and we've been whipping them up ever since. Sometimes for parties, sometimes for weekends, sometimes for weddings, sometimes just for those dark wet days when nothing quite hits the spot like the gooey dark rich chocolately monsters that are my friends perfect brownies. 

Now I'm thoughtful as I make these having just wrenched a fresh egg from under the chooks arse in the garden. Yes, we are on days like this a very messy domestic goddess, or at least from the outside world that's how we look. The lamb shanks are on the range bubbling away, rosemary, garlic and shallots all doing their thing in the very beautiful cast iron pot, the colour of aubergine (the pot not the shanks, well not yet anyway.).  Dogs are walked, hens are fed, laundry is folded. Kitchen still looks like a work in progress but hey, I'm an artist in here I tell myself.

So the brownies, I'm baking them today not for church, not for school, not for the kids, not for the rellies, I'm baking them for my recovery group. A way to celebrate quietly with other humans who know what its like to be clutched to the heart by behaviours that become so compelling that you just can't help yourself. So today I celebrate, and I am celebrating quietly in real life that I've not drunk any wine for 60 whole days.

Sixty Days no wine, and I am still able to breathe, who knew?

Why so quiet I hear you ask? Well, no one really knows what kind of a problem I had. No one knew, really, the extent of my drinking. No one knows I've stopped aside you lovely lot and one real life friend. One, and she's not taking it too well. But, lets hope she adjusts to this sober me. I hope so.

A while ago, possibly years, I knew that alcohol and I were not really friends. I drank more than I wanted. I embarrassed myself often, when one wee drink let to several, the paranoia the next morning was crippling, and yet I carried on. I've met friends for a quick drink and gone home rat-arsed on the train. For me the compulsion to drink until I feel quiet in my head, is overwhelming. I drink when I'm happy, I drink when I'm sad. I drink with friends, sure, but mostly I drink alone. Here at this kitchen table, I'd have a glass of wine at gone five, possibly six. No harm in that I hear you say. Well maybe if I left it at one drink, maybe no harm. Maybe if I didn't drink everyday, maybe no harm. But, for me one drink always leads to many more.  Hardly anyone knows except me, how much I drank. And, I don't exaggerate when I say a bottle of wine a night and some became more and more normal for me. Everyone does it I told myself. Everyone.

But, I'm finding out slowly but surely whilst my behaviour isn't abnormal, women of my age (46 3/4) can be prone to drinking after a busy day, stressful work, noisy but adorable kids, partner with spikey cactus pants on, lonely, overwhelmed, dealing with issues their poor brain just can't cope with.  Lots of people drink, some have issues like mine. I'm not alone. That was a surprise. Some people can drink a couple drinks and stop, I'm learning I can't. To the outside world, I appear normal, or slightly normal anyway. Domestic goddess (I think not), good mother, capable lady, happily married, just don't look right into my eyes, don't see the cracks in it all.

Living a 24/7  kind of life trying to be and do the best for everyone else, sometimes it seems, we get a bit lost. And, for a short while wine stops the chatter, dulls the problems, silences the issues we've hidden for so long. For a short while it works. But after a while, we need more and more. After a while, this 'mute button a the bottom of a bottle of Chardonnay' pushes back. It takes our sleep, it makes us anxious, raises our paranoia and leaves us feeling betrayed alone and yet the compulsion to drink more of it, is overwhelming.

And, so we try and stop. The wine bites back, we manage a day maybe two and then we find we've forgotten how hollow that 'mute' can be. We try again to drink, this time moderately. Quite frankly for me moderating is about as much use as a chocolate teapot. I just can't do it. Actually I'm now more frightened of moderating than I am of staying sober. Well at least for today. So for now, quietly from here, I hold out my chocolate brownie to you to say thank you for those who've supported me along this road so far.

So in my best Scottish accent (which isn't very good at all) I say to you all 'Mon, ben the hoose, come bide a while, sit doon, hay a sonsie wee seat, mon lets raise a wee cuppy to sixty days aff the fawing doon juice'.

[Come, through the house, stay a while, sit down, have a comfy seat. Come raise a cup of tea to sixty days off the wine'.

Thank you for the sober tools I've learnt from friends throughout the world, for a really unsavoury and yet calming introduction to Wolfie, that voice in my head that tells me I'm broken and useless and rubbish and if I have a glass of wine, I'll forget it all. Well isn't he a bag of shit. Who knew that wasn't really my best self looking after me? Thank you all for showing me, whilst its hard, there's more to life than escaping into a wine glass. Small steps but for today, we celebrate. With tea, obviously, not wine. Even if Wolfie tells us that celebrating being sober with a glass of wine is the right thing to do. Erm, no, he's wrong. Brownies all round I say. Thank you. I'm off to my meeting, brownies in hand, smiling at sixty days. I'm actually proud. 

Lamb shanks, garlic, rosemary, winter punch (not red wine) and veg. YUM it was too.

A wee quiet celebration tea later on, lamb shanks, my favourites. He'll ask what the occasion is, very decadent lamb shanks on a Wednesday. I'll just mumble, thought we could do with a treat, why not. He's noticed the reduction in my wine scoffing, but not the extent of the problem, still my secret.

Could I be you? Probably not, your kitchen is probably tidier, But I know right now, I'm no longer alone with that nagging voice in my head telling me that a glass of wine will solve everything. I'm learning it won't.

ETA Brownie recipe here. Thanks for asking.

Day 59 - Small steps

Beach, hunting for treasure.

Yesterday I spent a fair chunk of the day on the beach. You may be wondering if I actually do anything but go to the beach. Truthfully, not much. And, for now I'm good with that. Its free and its peaceful and ever changing.

I type this from a food infested table, shopping home, I forgot to put it away. Nothing will spoil as it languishes on the kitchen table. Its also covered in the umptuous debris of my sober treat which was a fair sized, (well use to be fair sized) sour dough and a large quantity of prawn and cream cheese pate. I sat down and I got distracted by this fine sight of 'what your husband should be wearing this Christmas'. Thank you Prim. My eyeballs will probably never be the same again. How I giggled. And then I thought why not write a bit, you know, between mouthfuls.

So today was therapy day.  Today was gentler, I'd shared that I'd spent most of the week hunkered under a duvet, the rest running around as usual like a blue arsed fly. We took the pedal off a bit and sometimes, the poor lady who hosts the sessions, she sometimes got to talk too. Therapy can be two way I see, who knew, not me. So as promised to myself I'd organised the bits for my sober treats for later after the session. Made up some prawn cream cheese pate and bought some rose petal bubbles for the bath. I'd needed sour dough too, fresh today to complete this little ensemble. As always the queues for the cars was busy and part of me thought, does it matter, I don't need bread I have crackers.

Yes it matters. 

If I can't make myself wait for 20 seconds to go and buy some fresh bread, then what am I up to. Saving the planet from global warming single handedly. I think not, not today. So whats the rush. If we know the small things like sober treats, in this case sour dough, help then for fuck sake, get the bloody bread.

Needless to say I got the bread. 

Laden in car, headed to the beach for a walk. Yes the beach. There is really a reason we moved here, it started and ended with beaches, 25 here if you feel like counting. And, you know that you're in the mire (shit) when all you want to do is drink and there are 25 beaches (your favourite thing in the universe) a stones throw away and you still would rather get shitfaced than go to the beach. You can imagine the therapy session can't you

........ So me dear, what was the turning point for you, when did you realise alcohol had really started to affect your life directly....

Well I stopped going to the beach. 

[Therapy pause - the kind I think that they think, 'what the fuck are you going to say next', when really they're just waiting for you to explain.]

You know, when I stopped going to the beach, I realised that I'd given up everything I loved so that I could drink, including going to the beach, I'd rather get rat arsed than go for a walk. I could only think about wine and how desperately I wanted it and nothing else mattered. Not the kids, or talking to them, not my husband, not anything, including getting off the sofa or out of bed for long enough to do anything. Well only to go to the shops (for wine) but not go anywhere else, and actually enjoy where I live. Yes, sometimes I drove when I'd had a couple of glasses when I ran out. Oh yes, I drank and drove, not often, but enough for it to be well dodgy. Yes, I think I have a problem.

No I didn't realise online shopping for wine, would have probably have dealt with the driving issue. Thank god in some ways I didn't discover that. I might never have left the house, sodden in wine sure of a long and painful demise.

So today, we went as normal to the beach because we are sober, we can drive legally and we enjoy walking. Just like yesterday. Walked a mile and a half each way and came home, rosy cheeked and happy we made the effort. NO WINE. None needed. Not today.

Now back to the story, on the beach, well I'm a serial wood collector. I've been indocterinated since an early age. My grandfather kept us rapturous for hours collecting wood. He had a wee wood stove in his potting shed where he hid from my Grannie. So we collected a lot of wood to use there. This took hours. Hours and hours of collecting stacks of drift wood, each with its own form and tale. Moving the wood stacks up the beach to the car. Loading the car. Unloading the car. Stacking the wood by the shed, in the right order to know which was oldest. Hosing it down. Drying it out. Rotating it. Drying some more, we'd talk about what it looked like. Finally it got chopped and stacked. One day, normally a long long time from collecting we sat and drank tea infront of it as it burned on the stove.

I think perhaps my Grandfather was a rogue and a child labour exploiter, I like his style and have used it frequently myself. :)

Why on earth am I wittering on about wood you ask. Well, yesterday I gathered around 28 lengths of beach wood around 1.5m long. And I gathered up 3 large bags (Ikea I love you and your lovely blue bags). I walked along the beach hunting for each piece. I carefully carried a few bits at a time up the shore to a spot near the distant car park. Once stacked I carried the wood from there to a place nearer the car. Each trip with only as much as I could comfortably carry. Beaches are no friend of your back if you over laden yourself. Slowly but surely all the wood ended up in the smallest car in the universe with sandy dogs looking quite disgruntled at their transportation (yet again).

Unloaded at home bit by bit. Stacked by the shed, bit by bit. I think every time I do this I must wear out my poor shoes. But, like I learnt from the master (my Grandad), the reward is cosy toes and no expense but muscles. A sense of achievement, free wood, good exercise, a lingering time at the beach, involved in the hunt, mind distracted looking for treasure. Living in the moment, I guess.

What on earth has this got to do with anything to do with being sober, you may ask. Well, for me it was a lesson. 

Whilst I'm thinking 'am I fixed yet, am I fixed yet, I've stopped drinking, when am I fixed. Am I fixed yet?' 

WHY NOT!!

I tell myself off. Realistically I know learning to be sober takes time and experience and time and I need to be patient. Patience is a virtue I'm just not good at. I tried buying it in bulk once, delivery was delayed I cancelled the order. 

I reflected on by weekly beach antics. There's no possible way I could search, sort, bag, lift and carry 28 lengths of wood, three ikea bags and various bits of debris up to my very sandy car in one go. I'd kill myself trying. So why if I'm patient with wet soggy wood, randomly strewn across the two dozen or more  (yes I told you I counted) beaches in my area, then why oh why do I try and rush myself.

Why can't I be kinder to myself. Small steps, over and over is all it will take, and time and love and probably a fair bit of pacing and head scratching to keep on this sober path.

So why can't I be kinder to myself. I've had a billion day ones and now I'm the furthest I've ever got on a sober journey. I need to treat myself a bit more like the wood hidden all over the beach like treasure, finding myself out slowly, even the hidden bits. Putting the pieces back in place one by one. Moving along the journey slowly and with purpose, whilst allowing myself to linger in the moments and enjoy them. 

So with a ludicrous mouthful of pate shovelled in my mouth, with the right bread, from the right shop because I took the time to get it for myself. I was kinder to myself and I was patient when I didn't want to be. Yes it would have been easier to just come home, but sometimes you have to honour those 'treats' your promise yourself.  Especially when they are lush.

So, still eating it in like a beast,  I'm still sitting at the table laden with today's shopping, still unsorted. Rather than create a zen like space in which to write, thoughtfully, I write in chaos on the corner where the laptop will fit, and that's OK. With sour dough bread crumbs and umptous pate, stuck to my face. I'm writing this diary. I'm enjoying the bread and pate, I'm enjoying this, just sitting and allowing myself time to breathe and to reflect.

Small steps eh? Its a journey after all.

Sunset 2/12/14 3.40 pm - winter sun always so low and quickly gone.

Love and joy sober folks. And, no you cannot have any of my pate. As for the bread, whoops its gone. Instead I leave you with the remnants of the sunset tonight highlighting the tractor tracks of the long, slow, steady walk back to the car. 

Day 58 - Same old, same old

Just another normal day at the homestead. Up early, himself leaves for work and then on with the day ahead. For the past few months I've really been hunkered down and almost waiting out my existence in a heady mix of bed and erm, bed. Not bonnie. And, to be fair whilst I'd given myself most of October in my poor state to try and mend, November kind of rolled around too. And, now its December. So today I told myself, on this first Monday of the new shiny month, I'd get up earlier and actually 'do' something with my day other than lounge about reading and feeling a bit sorry for myself.

Its booze I've given up, not lost a limb, it just feels like I have. So one of those days where the weather starts lovely and slowly lurks into yuk-ness (definite weather jargon here). Breakfast first, although I notice I'm skipping this stage, I've had to stop and tell myself looking after me, is important. So breakfast before anything. Hens/dogs sorted. Cleaned out the stove and wrote my number in the ashes, well why not. I'm a normal gal with normal chores and normal house-wifey things to do. I also thought about drinking, not drinking, sober, not sober for about a gazillion times today. Just another usual day in my bizarre head.

I am minded of something on The Bubble Hour last week or the week before about 'shortcuts' someone said, (Elie?) that as a boozer she's all about how quick, how easy, what shortcut there can be to get from X to Y to Z. And, I know I've been so guilty of that. So I'm trying to get my day through by seeing things from start to finish and not leaving things half done, as I always do. Its ironic because this always stresses me, so I'm challenging myself to be kind to myself but also to see things through. Well, that's my plan.

I'm trying to structure my day a bit. Whilst the luxury of unemployment and being at home sounds fabulous, its really worn off here. I love being here, don't get me wrong but money pressures are adding up and I really need to find more work soon. Really so. But, until then, I tackle the household chores then I tackle the life admin ones. I've decided today rather than feel overwhelmed at everything I'm breaking things down into managable tasks. Like doing some voluntary work on a database, which might or might not lead to work. The task seemed simple enough, but its far more complicated than I first been told, or heard. No biggie but things like this, where I seem to be slower to start or struggle to start at all, I really find hard. And, not finishing things, well that's a big fat alarm bell in my head too.

So taking advice from my support group, I'm giving myself short, tasks to complete. Getting out in daylight for a walk, then returning to tasks when I'm home. I struggle with self-esteem, largely related to who knows what, but I know it makes me drink, or hide in drink. So today, this very first day of the month on my 58th day sober, I get up like a regular person, I start up my PC and I settle down to work after a few chores. OK so I'm not going to solve the worlds problems, but as sad as it sounds, getting up and through a day rather than hiding in bed, where its safe, is something I need to work into my routine. I'm going to be gentle on myself but I need to start moving forward slowly. 

So here I am at the end of the day, teas on the hob and I'm still sat at my PC having got a fair bit of data entry done, a bit of cooking, walking and wood chopping in between. Today feels like a start on the new road of my very ordinary life, just like most women my age with the kids left home. Except no wine for me.  I've taken it easy. I'm not stressed. I've worked a fair bit today.

So I've thought about sober, drinking, not drinking, reasons why I drink, how my family is affected by my drinking a gazillion times. But, I've not been drinking. Not today. Small steps.

Tomorrow I'm planning on getting up again early. Having breakfast before anything else. Sorting the dogs/hens. A bit of work then my therapy session. Sober treats need sorted before I leave, thinking a really lovely pate made from cream cheese (must find the recipe today) to chill in the fridge and some crusty bread on the way home and a magazine. Maybe that will do it........

So its same old, same old here. Nothing much to report aside another day sober, no Wolfie today so far. I'm tucking into ruby rich coloured Beet It juice. 

Its in my favourite glass, as I finish the day, who knew I'd turn to beetroot juice instead of wine.

Be aware: Drinking beetroot juice may turn your urine pink; this is perfectly normal!

Normal, pink pee, well aye I guess so. And if I want to start running up mountains........

Beetroot juice can significantly benefit athletic performance at altitude"
Journal Medicine and Science in Sports and Exercise

.....this sober malarkey doesn't half take you funny places.

The Hunger

It's still there like a sallow wolf, circling my existence. And, with it, the hunger. I'd hoped its clawing tones might leave my ears soon, but its still here. The hunger. I rest, nestled in the safety of the car, speeding through the dark autumnal night air. The trees becoming bare, stark whispers of winter's coming, whilst all around, in this darkness, the hunger surrounds me. 

Where can we buy it? 

When can we drink it? 

When will we be free to envelope ourselves in its liquid release?
Have some at the party? No? Have some ready for after........in private, as a prize for staying sober all night.

The hunger is still here, prickling in my mind, drizzling, cold, full of dread. I'm trying not to listen. But, its here.

And, no more so than this weekend, we're heading to a party, I'm unconfident, I'm out of my comfort zone. My thoughts are preoccupied with the selfish calls of my wine wolf. I'm not sure why. I'm within the safety of my husbands reach, aside the nip of the night air, I'm warm and yet it doesn't stop. This hunger, so seeping, it feels like its dragging my feet downwards into the mist. A few days have passed without the cruel call of this beast. Not tonight. Tonight, I feel its breath on my naked neck. I pull my scarf tighter.

We arrive at the party laden with food and drinks, kisses for the hosts, invited into their home. A little late, but no shame in that. Our plate put on the already laden table. I bring homemade sushi, keeping my fingers and my mind busy earlier. The atmosphere is warm and inviting. The tinkle of glasses, the long elegant stems of sparkling bubbles whisper my name. The wolf is near here, I settle myself at the furthest corner of his den. I find my own corner.

I eat well, I refill my plate and my glass myself. I'm mindful of the chatter around me and engage in conversations as the wolf circles round the room, then back to his layer. Our eyes meet. He's clever this one, but I'm ready. I keep my guard, recharge my glass myself. I eat some more. The hunger abates for a while.

He's clever this one, a malt whisky is let out of its cage. The honey coloured liquid dancing in the crystal glasses, the vapour sneaks around the room like a cheeky imp, smokey and heathery. An old friend, glinting in the half light. The wolf comes to me, calling my name he seeps from the glass, 'You're hungry' he whispers. I know. I'm busy. I need to escape.

I walk through to the kitchen, brandishing a cloth I polish the plates. Wiping each dripping plate until its clean and dry. Over and over, I ignore the wolf.  The laughter gets louder, the music thumping. Its a quarter to ten. Fifteen more minutes. until its safe. Finally time to go.

We leave early, hearty goodbyes, we leave the party in full throws. Wolfie in full voice. Tired we slip through misty streets, all the shops closed. The Wolf's work is done for the day out here. He's locked in houses throughout the lands, keeping his lair warm for those who don't know of his cruel ways.

I relax in the car. The wolf behind me, shops closed, nowhere left to buy wine on the way home. I patiently bide my time.  The hunger is still with me, sadly. This hunger for wine, for drinking, for booze is still here. Some days it shouts more than it should a fierce wolf. Some day's its quieter, more like a mouse. I don't miss hearing it, I hate its clawing calls, I just wish it would abate, for now.

So the hunger is still so fierce. I'm glad its not here howling, the whole time, but he's near and he's watching for me to be weak.

I pull my scarf tighter, I hold my husbands hand. I'm still sober. The hunger didn't get me tonight. I'm using skills learned from you all to feed myself, distract myself, distance myself, keep busy. Arrive late, and leave early. My first proper social gathering of friends, a house party. I still (stupidly) have this hunger for alcohol. I'm thankful of the skills I've newly learnt to sidestep the wolf and the hunger.

I awake today, reflective. I'm not paranoid, wondering how much I drank or what I said. I'm just reflective that after this short time, I'm able to hide from my wolf. My old familiar.

This is new. Its hard, but its new. 57 days, newly sober. I'm alive. And I'm watchful of the wolf I know circling around, watching from afar, waiting for me to stumble.

For your help, your strategies, your advice. 

I thank you. 

I'm grateful I'm not alone with him. 

Or with the hunger.

Day 56 - My Sober Week

Loch Leven at dusk.

Eight weeks today I gave up the booze (again after so so so so so many day 1's) and this time, touch wood, I've got to 56 whole days today. Whoop whooop. I'm trying to learn to see my life a bit differently by taking a photo or two each day to look back on and remind myself of the small things I can/should be grateful for. So this is my sober week. 

So it started lunch out and dusky walks by loch sides, nattering with chums started my week. That was nice. I'm new to this area so more exploring required. Its been a funny week of bursts of activities with far away friends when they're free and lots of down time, due to bad weather, an unenthusiastic heart and tired bones. I started therapy this week, its knocked me for six. All those kind words of perhaps too much too soon, I think you might be right. 

Beautiful sparkly trees.

A trip to the city in the late afternoon, the sun goes down and the city lights up. Whilst I have to admit I really wasn't looking forward to spending time, a/in the city and b/with a chum I find tricky, it was a nice day. What's the phrase you folks have been using? I leant into it. 

The capital gearing up for Xmas, for every one fun stand, a booze stand keeps it company.

Sometimes a change of scene helps put other things into perspective. Normally by this time I'd have been drinking, cosy in my little drinking nest. I'm noticing I'm getting out more, (grumpily) but I am, and often in the early evening when I'd refuse to normally.

A harbour where I use to play as a kid on boats.

My husband returns and we stroll hand in hand along the beach. This is a special place for me. My haven, my port in so many storms. I always come here when I need to think, to grieve, to express joy. So many summers spent here, on boats, on beaches with my grandparents. Its the one consistent place from my childhood in a life with lots of moving. My grandparents, sadly now gone, my rocks, always here. I use my grandma's name for this journey. I know she'd never mind me hiding behind her skirts, peeking out, safe from the world.

My companion walking along the wall towards me, joining me on my journey.

I remind myself its a long road, but there are friends guiding me. OK so this friend is furry, likes bones and doesn't really mind if I'm grumpy, sleepy, sad, dozy, He's always glad to just see me and keep me company on my journey. So many friends I feel I've made so far on this journey out in sober lands (thank you all). So many people who understand. So, whilst I'm alone here, I know I'm not alone on my sober journey. That's so helpful, so encouraging, knowing you're we're all out there. Thank you.

Calm seas, birds calling, a few walkers on the beach, a good place to think.

The week of beaches continue, although the storms start late in the week. One day calm, the next rolling, grey, dark, moody. Less than 24 hours between these photos. Churned up rolling seas after calm. 

Rolling waves, crashing seas, quite a different view from the day before.

Not unlike this journey. Full of ups and downs, surprises and challenges. I found my number yesterday on the beach. I've lived here for 5 months now and never seen this graffiti although its probably been there for weeks, maybe years. Yesterday I saw my number, 55 days sober. So I stopped to admire it, what a bonnie number.

My number on the beach, this made me giggle.

I'd say its a sign, but you know, I'm not sure I believe in that stuff. A good week, hard in places, therapy left me feeling ripped open.  I've slunk into self-preservaton mode a bit the end of this week. I'm back in bed after my husband leaves. Although I eat a hearty breakfast that's for sure. I'm reading, I'm reading more. Finding more sober blogs, looking after myself. Trying new things to see what works. Being easy on myself as I don't know what else to do. 

New to breakfast, I'm concocting various things to go on breakfast bagels!

 My biggest challenge this week is avoiding the rain, not letting the grey dreich weather and landscape ooze into my bones and leave me feeling emotionally emptier than I do already.  But, I tell myself, empty is better than defeated. Surely you can't start to build a proper new life, without clearing out all the crap that sank you before? Some days a walk with the dogs, an appointment out for an hour is all I can do.

So I fill up the fuel tanks of my physical body, I rest it and I care for it. (Did I mention I'm very shiny and clean from all those baths?) Its all I can do, I know I'm not alone. I feel drained and empty but there's not a hangover in there too. That's a good thing.

Not a bad week, therapy knocked me for six, perhaps ramping that down a bit might be the kindest thing to do. I'm OK if the journey is slow, really I am. Its just backwards I'm trying to avoid.

I hope your week was good! I find looking back over pictures on my wee phone and thinking about my week helps me to focus on the small things, which I really should be grateful for along this journey. Like beaches and bagels and happy hounds who keep me company, not minding if we walk or sleep.

Have a great weekend and week ahead, I hope you find lots to make you smile this week and to be grateful for, in the small stuff. Why not take some photos to remind yourself of your journey? xx

Day 55 - Vulnerability and the wholehearted

Hope you're well today? Well, I was at a local 'writing group' last night, free class, lots of aspiring writers and little old me. Lots of angst when I go to these as I don't really feel like I belong. I write, sure, but normally its non-fiction. So I'm always a little out of my comfort zone.  Its all 'premises and adjectives'. Fuck knows what they mean. Personally I just write 'stuff'. Its all stuff. I don't really care how it tumbles out, as long as it gets out of my brain. My reward for going use to be a big fat bottle of wine right after the class finished. Not last night.

I like going as these are people I'd normally have nothing in common with. Its a bit out of my comfort zone, so that's good for me I think. Its free, free is good. But, I feel quite vulnerable when I'm there. I'm dyslexic, diagnosed late, I struggle to read out loud and sentence structure is to me, something that tumbles out like a drunken spider. But, I do OK. Thus far, I've managed. So the idea of me at a writing group makes me somehow smile, its a bit ironic. I struggle so with words. It makes me feel very vulnerable. We agree though, we all like words. They  like their words to be well thought and meaningful. I'm just fucking grateful mine end up on a page. Its why I blog, no angst here about how the words/thoughts are, they just need out of my head. And, I'm so grateful that you'll let me write them. 

I've been on a bit of a vulnerable journey this week, therapy, addicts group session, sharing time with some folks I don't' know so well, sharing time with folks which I know well but are changing, talking more with my husband. Its been quite a vulnerable week, all in all.

Folks at my addict group session were talking beforehand, as I snuck in, car keys in hand, sober treats in the car in a recycled bag, just blown in from Sainsbury's.  I feel as if I get a few 'what are YOU doing here looks'. I'm sure I don't but I don't yet feel very connected in my group and for a rule I always feel like an outsider, so that's me not them. I guess that the 'connections' here, will come in time, I'm new to this and need to give it a chance. But I'm asked to read the opening statement. Now, I really don't read well out loud, like really, I always have. Don't get me wrong, I read ferociously, but that's half the issue my eyes are furlongs away from my mouth when I'm reading. I stumble, I retrace, I fall, I try again. Words dance about the pages and I stumble and falter but eventually sounding like a slow five year old standing in front of the teacher I get there. Eventually. Someone meets my eyes and smiles in a kind of well done kind of way. Well they know that secret now, they know that shame, how much worse can the rest of it be? I relax. Its a good meeting.

Today a friend sent me a link about a TED talk she'd heard recently by Brene Brown (link below). I think its worth a share here. It certainly made me think. She also recommended her book, (photo at top.)

She (Ms Brown) talks about worth v. worthiness, she talks about shame, of being loved and of fear and unconnection.

She studied the difference between those who feel connection and love and tried to understand what lead to their sense of worthiness. The key to this seems to be the sense that its OK to be vulnerable, in fact without vulnerability we may struggle to find true happiness/love/worthiness.

Self love, self worth, whole-heartedness. I'm not sure I have any of that. I'm not sure I want vulnerable, but it seems that without it real connections can't really be made. Compassion to ourselves before others, help, I'm scared.

Vulnerability = beautiful according to Brene. Scares the shit out of me being vulnerable. No siree no vulnerability for me.

But, she suggests we don't generally embrace vulnerability as a society, generally we numb it.

we numb vulnerability

The minute the word NUMB was mentioned alarm bells started in my head. Oh NUMB, I like NUMB, it makes me feel safer, I hide. No feelings please. Much safer, nothing to see here.

But the numbing agents (credit, addictions, food, medication) bite back. 

No feelings means no feelings, no joy, no happiness, no scardeycatpants, no pain, short term fixes leading largely to nothing except shame. And, shame keeps us isolated.

We all know how Wolfie likes shame and isolation.

So that's where I'm at today. Thinking that the very act of saying, I think I have an alcohol problem. Of reaching out, of speaking of connecting, I'm putting my vulnerability on a platter with a side of hope.

With small changes like that, there's always hope.

And with connections there's always friendship and experience.

A sense of belonging.

And gratitude.

And love.

The first steps I guess are showing vulnerability, asking for help, hearing a fellow voice, knowing we're not alone.

For that, I thank you all. And, if you're reading this, feeling alone. Please know that you're not. Reach out.

Words make me feel vulnerable, but without them, scattered over a page, reaching out, spidery sentences, shit grammar and no care for the structure, without them, no one would read. Better that they're out and published, than in and fraughtly stuck in eternal 'edit'. So forgive my tumbled words, like me they're clumsy, but they mean well.

I'll leave you with that TED talk. If you can watch, please try. Maybe its the researcher in her that I like. My inner pragmatist wants everything fixed, a bit like Ms Brown.

Brené Brown: The power of vulnerability (20 mins, make a cuppa and watch)

Brené Brown studies human connection — our ability to empathize, belong, love. In a poignant, funny talk, she shares a deep insight from her research, one that sent her on a personal quest to know herself as well as to understand humanity. A talk to share.

Sober views tomorrow, a week in pics, I'm quite excited about that. Have a great day.

Day 54 - Bloody sober treats

Big fluffy sober treats.

So I'm taking the good wonderful sober advice out there and upping the tools of my sober self to include sober treats, often and liberally applying them. Recondition the brain from seeing wine as a reward, to treating myself nicely, getting a small reward/boost for my sober days. Sounds like a sensible enough plan.

Or I'm trying to.

I'm new to this treats malarkey, whilst its fun and novel and I think it helps, I seem, as always to have taken the thing way seriously.

I'm 'sober-treating' with gusto. Nothing too fancy, but I think about what I'd like to have as a treat for not drinking and I go and make it happen. This is new for me, whilst I'm very likely to find you 'just the thing I know you'd love', I'm not so good at this myself.

I'd rather decided today I was taking it all a bit too seriously when I'd been in the SIXTH shop trying to find an avocado. I was getting overwhelmed about a bloody giant green fruit (not a vegetable) and its technically a berry not a pear, but beleive me on that one. I can argue for hours on what's a fruit and whats not. It sends kids screaming for cover in all directions. I wanted a juicy, large green fruity-not-a-vegetable berry which is great with a dash of Worscester sauce and a dollop of tabasco, apply teaspoon. YUM.

I wanted an avocado, just one, that's all I wanted. We're both clear on this now, right? I thought to myself, no one else likes them. I'll get one, maybe two for me. They're yummy. But, its my treat.

When you start 'internet trawling' to find out which store might have them you know you've kind of hit ridiculus. Bloody sober treats, do they need to be THIS hard.

My angst was getting the better of me. It was like an avocado induced frenzy in the end. I still haven't managed to find one. NOT EVEN ONE.  Maybe avocados are now extinct? I guess I missed that on the local news? Maybe its just in Scotland. Oh crap.

So I returned home today with a big fluffy towel. Not a fruit, not a vegetable, not anything else edible. A towel. My brain confuses even me. How did I get from avocado to towel.

My thoughts were..... 

Well if I can't have a goddam avocado, I'll have a big pink (who knows why) fluffy towel, my sober towel. I'm in the bath a lot early evening and have my podcast, my bubbles and my bath like a super-sober-regime. So a big fluffy new towel sounded like a cool plan. Why pink, I've no idea I'm not a girly girl by any stretch of the imagination. But I wanted pink. So I step into the rainbow towel aisle of my local big superstore.

So which was the ONLY colour on the shelf they didn't have, pink. So I face a choice, think up ANOTHER sober treat or buy a towel of a different colour. 

I'm not the most patient shopper, so a steely granite grey towel of epic fluffy magnitude was thrust forthright at the unmanned till. No where near PINK, very elegant grey. Just like the one at the top, its beautiful.

A perfect sober treat.

Muttering to myself (It's not an avocado, but it will do, its lovely, purr purr, its so soft) I learnt two things about myself today. I'm quite strict with my interpretation of tasks when set by other folks. Or even by myself. I need to lighten up more and go with the flow. Avocado, towel, book, candle, fruit, fluffy whatever. Sober treats are treats. You can allow yourself to be flexible with the idea of them. Unlike last week when I threw a strop with myself because I couldn't find exactly the colour/species of lily I wanted to have. Seriously does it matter? A bit but not enough to not do it. Less control required. Will anyone die if the treats are not 'just so'. NO. Is it better to treat yourself than go without cos you can't find exactly what you want. YES. 

[As I type this my inner control freak is certainly not pleased with that outcome. Neither I suspect is Wolfie who loves it when we just don't/can't take care of ourselves. AKA 'if that's the not the treat you want then that sucks big time, stupid idea treats, get something else get something you'd like. We know you like wine, get some wine.'] Is Wolfie trying to steal my treats and my sober?

Secondly, I'm not seeing wine as a treat. SHHHH. I'm just whispering it. I'll say it quietly. I'm not seeing wine as a treat. Not today.

Like not really at all. Not wine, wine is not a treat. For now, its to be treated (pardon the pun) like plutonium or kryptonite. I don't trust the stuff. Whatever you do, don't tell Wolfie. Infact I've started calling it - 'head-fuck-juice'. Add a skull and crossbones logo, and we're done with that for now. Toxic stuff. Handle with care, infact, just don't handle. Not today. 

Much safer with a wrong colour (yet epically fluffy) towel, that should have been an overly ripe perfect for eating, avocado. Treats is treats, I remind myself. Apply often, apply frequently, go with the flow, as long as you get one.

Much safer, neither of them can be poured on my head, neither of them make me feel like shit.

Now, if I'd found an avocado towel, like this one. Well that would have been super cool.  Still no need for a spoon though huh?

I guess I should write a sober treats list and just pick them off one by one, as and when they appear, rather than hunting them into extinction. Until then, you might find me under a mountain of big fluffy towels. Just don't tell Wolfie. Shh.

Lighten up on what the treats are though sober lady!