I never drank in the morning and rarely drank alone. I was holding down a prestigious, high-pressured job, earning a six-figure salary in a well-known bank and keeping fit too. I ran regularly, completing two marathons and proudly telling everyone I’d still drunk wine the night before the run.
It was the 1990s and the culture was work hard, play hard, pouring ourselves into the bar after a long day in the office four nights a week. I’d arrive wearing a smart suit and both contact lenses but a few hours and two bottles of wine later, I’d be groping around on pub floors trying to find one I’d lost. Or I’d pass out still wearing them, and urgently needing an optician to fish them out the next day. I would black out, my body’s alcohol levels so high that my brain couldn’t form new memories.
My boss would laugh that “eating is cheating” so food was never involved and the next day, we sported our hangovers like a badge of honour. I’m only 5ft 4in yet prided myself on being a “tough” Glaswegian. It never crossed my mind that I had a problem because everyone else seemed to be doing the same.
I was often sick, not just in the privacy of my own bathroom, but – to my shame – openly in bars. I’d wake up plagued with remorse and anxiety while hazily piecing together the evening’s events. What did I say? Who did I argue with? Who did I snog? How the hell did I get home? The panic was often overwhelming. I’d swear off booze or promise myself I would only drink at weekends, or not to the point of getting drunk, but I simply didn’t have an “off switch”.
Things got more out of hand than usual one evening after a party in south London. I shared a taxi home with two friends and, after the driver had dropped them off, he kept getting lost. Or perhaps I couldn’t remember my street but we seemed to go round and round until I’d become aggressive. Finally at my flat he angrily said the money I had wasn’t enough. I tried shoving all these coins at him which fell to the floor of the cab. Then he turned around and punched me in the face. There was blood all over my work clothes and my teeth felt loose. I stumbled out of the car in tears.
In recovery circles people talk about reaching their “rock bottom”: the very lowest moment during addiction that generally provides the kick up the arse to stop. For me, there are just too many horrors to pick from – from blacking out to vomiting in public and being punched in the face by that taxi driver.
Alcohol would have killed me if I’d carried on my 35-year relationship with it. My first experience of drinking was cider aged 14. For many Gen X-ers like me this was the standard entry-level drink, shared among friends at people’s houses. I enjoyed the warm fuzzy feeling and giggles.
Source link
