This is freedom

‘Every day is a gift’. Could I say these words as a young woman, or at any other time in my life, with the same conviction I do today? I wonder.

There were so many days, especially in my early life, when I was afraid of what would happen next, as each day progressed from morning, through the afternoon, into early evening. Anyone brought up in a drinking household will have their own understanding of this lonely experience. For me, this is how it was for three or four days out of every seven, throughout my childhood and beyond.

Having parents who abused alcohol, and an older sister who joined their club at the earliest opportunity, it was easy to feel like the odd one out, the one at fault for absorbing the impact, feeling unhappy, out of control, and afraid. 

Don’t get me wrong, they were lovely people. My family were kind and affectionate, but they were also like a closed book. They never acknowledged their difficulties with alcohol, never spoke about it, never showed remorse for their insensitive, and sometimes bizarre, behaviour under its toxic influence. 

My mother was, and still is, the light of my life. I would do anything for her and craved her company and approval. But her drinking had the biggest emotional impact on me, not least because often she didn’t seem to remember what had happened while she’d been drinking.

With no-one to talk to about the deepening insecurity and sense of abandonment I experienced at home, I became fearful of life, fearful of everything. I was afraid of going to school, afraid of coming back from school. I was afraid of social situations, of people I didn’t know, of people I did know. I was ashamed of my home life and spent precious time comparing it with the simple, safe, and predictable lives of school friends.

I dreaded coming home to an empty house, or, worse, coming home to an open front door, the record player loud and harsh. Strangers in the living room, dancing woozily with my mother, snogging my sister with greedy mouths, arguing aggressively with my dad. I cannot erase the smell of booze, fags, burnt offerings, and the sweat of strangers. 

I didn’t hold the moral high ground for long.

I began drinking alcohol when I was 17, going out to pubs and clubs with my best friend who came from a hard drinking family too. Her mum made her own wine and would allow us a few glasses while we got ready to go out. We had a lot of male friends, so we tended to join them for pints of lager after work. We could match them pint for pint. None of us seemed to have a limit. It all felt normal.  

Soon I went off to university, got married, and had kids. Priorities changed. I didn’t drink much, or often, in the early years of family life. But as soon as I went back to studying for a master’s degree, the heavy drinking resurfaced like an old friend. I got out of control on nights out, woke up not knowing where I’d been or how I got home. Divorce was inevitable but it didn’t stop me drinking. It just changed the routine. I’d stay sober, looking after the kids, go to work, keep it all together, then binge when the girls went to stay at their dad’s.

Romantic relationships were not a priority for me, even though I was lonely and depressed. I preferred my drinking buddies. I was coping, but only just. Eventually something had to give. I quit my job, got a grip again, and gradually reduced my drinking. Friends were supportive. I met a lovely guy and I wanted to keep him.  

One day, in 2001, I got a phone call from my brother, out of the blue, to say that my sister had died. She had been alcohol dependent all her adult life and, at 40, her body just gave up. My parents were devastated and for a short while they stopped drinking to be doting grandparents. Those were happy times although they didn’t last long. 

Life settled for a while. My partner and I moved to Scotland and I secured a job. But the die was cast regarding my relationship with alcohol. Soon we drifted into sharing a bottle of red, sometimes two, three or four nights a week. 

Despite the trauma and devastation of COVID-19, the pandemic was a turning point for me. It brought unexpected positivity in ways I did not anticipate. Staying home has given me insight into my own relationship with alcohol and the patterns of my drinking. Early days of the pandemic saw my partner and I panic-buying good wine by the case instead of the bottle. We had it delivered to our door, as if it was urgent medication, or a food parcel. Case after case of Italian red never lasted long (though we told ourselves they would). When the wine got scarce, we just ordered more. But it didn’t feel good, and we knew it. So, we simply buried our heads deeper into the sand and carried on. We had shown our true colours. We were not moderate wine connoisseurs; we were heavy drinkers. We were boozers, it’s pure and simple. For us, wine was a daily necessity. Without it, I felt insecure, empty, frightened. It really didn’t help that my partner felt much the same.