Becoming Sober: My Journey Through Treatment and Recovery
TW: Alcoholism; Drinking
I had my last drink four and a half months ago. It was nothing eventful or remarkable. There was no drama, not even an unbearable hangover. I had planned to go with a bang, to make it count. Instead, I went camping on the beach with my family, drank my normal bottle of red wine and drained my plastic cup under the stars.
“Imagine if that was my last drink” I said to my husband, “no champagne, not even a decent bottle of wine. That can’t be it.”
We both laughed. Neither of us believed it would be my last drink. I had tried many times to stop drinking before - cutting down, abstaining, weekends only. I even managed three months off, only to creep back up to my normal baseline of a bottle of wine a night. But this time was different. I was going to a treatment centre, a decision I had been hesitating over for years. For over a decade I had been unable to go a night without alcohol or sleeping pills. I was a high functioning drinker, the life and soul of the party who has a great time, then goes home to drink more when everyone else calls it a night. I was an expert at fooling people. Nobody would have believed I had a problem. I could not believe it myself.
Alcohol was a big part of my life. I grew up in a family of heavy drinkers with an alcoholic father who never sought help. In my house you were offered wine instead of a cup of tea. During the days, my home was like an empty stage full of angry, out-of-work actors only to blossom into a show in the evening as the cork popped, the curtain rose, and we put on our performance. We were a typical middle-class family where everything had to look good on the outside, but, behind closed doors, there was resentment, suffering and deceit.
From my late teens I escaped to the very thing that tore my own family apart. I would get drunk with friends, then go home and steal whatever alcohol I could find. I loved to go to bed with my head spinning, blocking out the pain and loneliness. Alcohol was my friend, the one who was always there to give me confidence. I did not like being around moderate drinkers. I gravitated to the people like myself, the excessive ones who could drink all night and keep going. I told myself I had a high tolerance, that I could handle it, whereas others were lightweights. After having children, I drank more and more at home, becoming increasingly isolated and dependent, thinking about that first drink as soon as I picked the kids up from school.
Everyone who enters treatment has their own tipping point. For me it was my mental health. I have gone through serious bouts of clinical depression including a hospital stay. Psychiatrists who prescribed my antidepressants and sleeping pills told me not to drink but I ignored them. During the lockdown in March 2020, I became increasingly depressed, anxious, and started to have suicidal urges. My doctor told me to quit alcohol immediately and I panicked. I could not do it. It was the only thing I looked forward to anymore, even though it had long gone from being a pleasurable activity to a noose around my neck. I had lost any motivation or energy for life that I once had.
I took more medication, sedated myself at night and dragged myself through the days. Every morning I beat myself up for drinking the night before. Worst of all my family was suffering. I verbally abused my husband when drunk and was emotionally absent from my children. I was recreating the same miserable dynamics I had grown up with. If my life were to grow and change, I had to get free of alcohol, to find out who I was without it. I could not do it alone.
Rehab: A word that conjures up stern orderlies in soft shoes, forced group hugs and dead-eyed addicts going through withdrawal. I had seen the movies. But the reality was nothing like I had imagined. The schedule was rigorous and the rules were strict: No phones, no sweets or chocolate, no books and no make-up. Once there you could not leave the premises. Even running was not allowed with exercise limited to two gym sessions and walks around the garden (to discourage excessive exercise, another addictive pattern). We were given daily duties to carry out alongside intense sessions of group work, counselling, and family therapy. There was no time to think about anything other than recovery.
My first few days passed in a haze of sleeplessness, anxiety, and fear. Time crawled and I wanted to go home, open a bottle of wine, and start again in a month or so. I did not want to be constantly with other people, share my room with a stranger or talk when I did not feel up to it. I felt shame at being there as well as guilt for not being as ‘bad’ as others. There were people there who drank more than I could imagine, had ruined their lives through drink, drugs and gambling, had awful things happen to them – their lives were out of control. But I did not even see myself as an alcoholic, just someone with an addictive personality who happened to have hit a crisis point. I felt like an imposter among people of all ages, from widely different backgrounds and lifestyles, people I would never meet in day-to-day life.
Yet, within a few days I had adapted to the daily rhythm and found myself settling into rehab life. I looked forward to my days, to the lectures and group sessions. I was appointed a counsellor who helped me to examine my life around drinking and the terrible consequences it had wrought. Our sessions left me reeling with exhaustion. For the first time in years, I fell asleep, simply because I was tired. I ate well, three nutritious meals on time every day. I learned to be fully present in a room with others and listen properly to people. I grew to admire these people for everything they had been through and were trying to address. We were all united by the same relentless force of addiction. We became a strange sort of dysfunctional family, rooting for each other to make it through.
The programme followed the AA model. I was asked to write out what members call the Step One – a detailed examination of how unmanageable your life has become due to addiction. I spent hours digging through my memories, looking honestly at the most horrific and shameful things I had done. From blackouts in dangerous situations to driving while drunk and taking accidental overdoses, most of my destruction was towards myself. However, it was a fallacy to think that my family had not been affected: Both my husband and teenage son sent emails detailing the hurt I had caused and the anger and stress in the home caused by my drinking. I had alienated friends, spent most of my money and been hopelessly irresponsible because of addiction. The deeper I dug the more I came to realise that I was an alcoholic. I bared it all in front of the group, held nothing back. The relief afterwards was tremendous. It is a rare thing to be so honest in front of others, to reveal your darkest side. It breaks you down and rebuilds you.
By the end of the first two weeks, I had visibly relaxed. My eyes were clearer, my face less stressed and my body felt lighter. I laughed more than I had in ages. I thrived on routine and predictability. Now I had to think about going home, back into everyday family life without the support of counsellors or the camaraderie of my group. That would be the real test.
Coming home from rehab is unsettling and exhausting. It is like a combination of jetlag, homesickness, and imposter syndrome. I expected fanfare for having got through it, a chorus of “well done” and “you’re so brave!”, but life just goes on with you newly sober. It took months of patience and acceptance. But here I am, still sober through Christmas and a second lockdown. I go to AA meetings online now and it helps me to stay on track. I do not crave alcohol, but I still think about it, sometimes intensely as if mourning an old lover. I have many milestones to pass - birthdays, parties and holidays - but for now I’m relieved not to be drinking. I am looking at the future with fresh eyes. For too long I believed that a life without alcohol was not worth living. But the opposite is true – my life can begin now that I have stopped drinking.
Written by Allyson Dowling
Allyson is a freelance writer and translator who lives by the sea with her family in Ireland. She is also a skincare and yoga fanatic, obsessive reader, sea swimmer and self-improvement junkie who may sometimes keep a box of chocolates hidden under her bed.