OPINION:
How time flies. In 2022, I wrote an article reflecting on giving up alcohol and reaching a year of sobriety. Terrifying amounts of imbibing (you probably wouldn’t believe it if I told you) nearly killed me. I had doctors at my hospital bedside giving me all sorts of grave warnings, so I decided enough was enough. OK, I’d decided enough was enough lots of times before, but this time, miraculously, it stuck.
The first year sober was wobbly and hard. I felt as though I crawled over broken bottles to reach that 365-day milestone, upon which my wife, Sumin, and I celebrated with a little cake from M&S. Now, I blink, and two years have passed since I made the decision to go back to single vision. This second year has rocketed by. I suppose I must have been having fun.
If you haven’t skipped to a different article yet, I’ll quickly say don’t worry, I’m going to try not to be preachy. If you’re a normal person who enjoys a glass of merlot every now and then (lucky you), I’m not going to demand your abstinence; I just want to share – because it’s good for me and it might help someone who’s struggling – what year two of sobriety has been like. And to show it’s possible to save even a wretch like me.
Sir Anthony Hopkins, who’s been sober for over 45 years, recently discussed the moment he decided enough was enough, remarking, “I got a little thought that said, ‘Do you want to live or die?’ and I said, ‘I want to live.’ And suddenly, the relief came, and my life has been amazing.”
I did worry, after I wrote the piece last year declaring my sober milestone, that it might come back to haunt me. It felt a bit rash. I mean, it would be dreadfully embarrassing to drink myself to death shortly after it was published (talk about egg on my face!). I feel the same way now, so being vigilant about remembering how bad it got is vital. At the same time, obsessing about anything, including sobriety, isn’t healthy. It’s a fine balance that’s easier to, well, balance these days. I can vividly recall the early days, when I’d forlornly browse cocktail menus in restaurants, drooling, and order a Coke Zero (I suddenly got all serious about not having too much sugar or caffeine, even though I’d been living off petrol).
It was challenging, watching others merrily indulge – the sods! – and I’d spend the meal banging on to Sumin about past drinking experiences, like I was romanticising about some ex-lover, which I suppose I was. I’m pleased to say the nostalgic yearning stopped in year two, and I’d like to thank Sumin in print for putting up with me. It must have been frightfully boring for her.
Relief. That’s what I felt when I finally admitted to myself that I had zero chance of ever controlling my drinking and being able to just have a glass or two now and then. Funnily enough, everyone around me knew this way before I twigged. It was the classic case of being sick and tired of being sick and tired. So, I didn’t just give up drinking, I gave up the very idea that I was capable of it. Has my life been amazing since? Well, I didn’t win an Oscar (though I haven’t been sober 45 years yet), but I can say with confidence that it’s been solidly fine.
The trouble for a problem drinker is the surrounding world is one big advert for alcohol. Imagine being addicted to cocaine and trying to quit if everywhere you go you’re surrounded by reminders of the drug: rolled-up bank notes and mirrors on tables at restaurants, billboards promoting it, adverts on the telly, even shelves of white powder at the petrol station. An alcoholic’s drug of choice is in our face all day.
So if we don’t conquer the obsession and come to a point where we genuinely don’t want it any more, we go crazy. Or stay crazy, rather. And that means drinking and dying before our time. That obsession fading only really started to happen for me at the end of year one, after lots of work and help. Now I don’t think about drinking alcohol even if I’m looking right at it.
Excitement and curiosity
When I walk into a restaurant, the once captivating allure of the bar no longer holds any power over me. It’s as if a spell has been broken. During a recent visit to South Korea, a country fond of a tipple, I found myself at ease sitting with my new brother-in-law as he enjoyed a beer. He kindly offered me one, not knowing my past, but I confidently declined, stating that it’s simply not for me.
Gone is the self-consciousness that plagued me during the first year. Freshly sober, I found something as simple as the prospect of a day in London would induce panic, but now I’m happily jetting across the world with feelings of excitement rather than stress, of curiosity rather than fear.
My emotions have become steadier. I no longer fear change. Being dependent on alcohol really keeps you stuck in a rut. Now, I can be a supportive partner to Sumin and help her achieve her goals. She knows she can rely on me to prioritise her needs. When she’s stressed, I can be there for her and use lessons I’ve learnt in recovery to lift her spirits. In the past, I would get so wrapped up in my own worries and anxieties that I couldn’t give her the support she needed. If I were to have a beer today, I would throw all that away. It’s not a fair trade-off, to be honest.
You might say, “Well done on being there for your wife, but that’s what normal people do; you don’t get a medal.” And you’d be bang on. Alcoholism strips away the ability to behave like a normal person. It’s a disease that compels one to prioritise one’s own destructive desires. That’s why I’m grateful for the opportunity to embrace normality. They say an alcoholic gets stuck at the age they started problem drinking: if that’s true, I’ve been 15 for the past 25 years and have had a lot of catching up to do. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no saint and I have my moments, as Sumin could tell you, but as the Beatles sang, it’s getting better all the time.
Not the star of the show
In year two I could confidently buy alcoholic drinks for other people without feeling I was risking a relapse. The first time I actually paid money for booze since I quit was quite recently – a couple of cans of G&T from the Co-op for a visiting friend, Eri. My first thought was “Wow, the choice of alcoholic drinks has really come on in the last couple of years. So many flavours!” Then, when I was carrying the cans to the till, I thought, “I hope nobody sees me buying these,” which is ridiculous as nobody in town knows me.
Classic alcoholic thinking, that: I am the star of the show. Learning that I’m not the star of the show, and that the world is not under my control, is central to most recovery programmes, and it’s helped me gain a healthy perspective on life. Sumin recently drank a cocktail in front of me for the first ever time, during our Korea trip, and it was comfortable for both of us. Well, apart from the fact that one drink turns her bright red.
I can’t get complacent, though. I tend to wake up like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day and start from day one again. I remind myself, “Right, you can’t drink today, oh and also you should be dead, mate, so today’s a bonus.” This doesn’t half put the day’s tasks into a bit of perspective. Then I’ll glance at my phone and see the daily message from my friend in AA, reminding me to enjoy the day.
Such simple kindness makes a world of difference to my mood. It’s so important for me to make it a daily commitment to not drink. Some people manage to stay sober for 10, 20, 30 years, only to decide to give booze another bash – to dip a toe back in and try “drinking like a gentleman” again, as AA phrases it; unfortunately, those people can and do lose their lives. That’s the harsh reality.
So, I’ve mentioned AA a couple of times, and since you’re still here reading, I’ll keep going. I found this amazing free organisation (or did it find me?) in the nick of time: “You looked like you had about three breaths left in you when you turned up,” my friend tells me. I’m still not a God person (but at least now I know God isn’t me), but I found some life-changing tools in those side-rooms of churches (not as many basements as movies would have you believe; perhaps that’s more of an American thing), passed to me by people who understood and, crucially, shared my struggles.
People who would always make time for a coffee and keep their phones on through the small hours. I learnt that I wasn’t clever enough to figure everything out on my own. So, if you’re currently under the cosh with booze, I highly recommend giving AA a shot (or you could look into SMART meetings, or just something that involves not doing it on your own), especially in your early days. You don’t have to say a word in AA, nor spill any details, or do anything except listen. And if you don’t like it, the pubs will still be open when you leave. I hope I’m not sounding too preachy after promising I wouldn’t.
Wonderfully normal
That’s the trouble with being sober: you want to preach. I see lots of articles offering various tricks and tips to help reduce alcohol intake. All manner of tactics are suggested, designed to hoodwink yourself into drinking less. Drink a glass of water between alcoholic beverages, use smaller glasses, keep a notepad to track alcohol units, opt for lower-alcohol drinks, restrict drinking to days with the letter U in them, tie a knot in your straw, etc.
It all sounds exhausting. If you find yourself creating a lot of rules to go with your drinking and you still end up pickled most weeks, then perhaps trying no alcohol at all might be one to think about. But anyway, like a lot of things, that’s none of my business.
So, instead of saying, “Here’s to year three,” I’ll say here’s to today. I haven’t had a drink today. I’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes. And because I haven’t taken that first drink (because I simply can’t, just like someone with a nut allergy wouldn’t indulge in a handful of nuts, even if they really fancied some nuts and wondered why they couldn’t just enjoy the odd nut like everyone else), the day has been wonderfully normal.
I haven’t caused any worry for my wife, I’ve been productive, and my emotions have remained in check. All the things I lost through alcohol – work, relationships, good health, a home – have returned. Yes, life has been fine. And considering where I once was, fine feels pretty amazing to me.
Things I can tell myself if I’m ever tempted to drink
‘Look what happened the last time’
And the time before that, and, indeed, the time before that. It never ended up as what I’d call a big win.
‘Perhaps mention it to someone else’
Alcoholics have a tendency towards secrecy and isolation. Now I know it’s best to share my worries.
‘Drinking has never solved your problem’
In fact, it’s only ever made a problem bigger. Getting drunk is simply not an answer to anything.
‘You can’t have just one’
Sometimes one sounds like a nice idea, but 10 drinks sounds horrible. For me, one will always lead to 10.
‘Think what you’ll lose’
It’s too much to even contemplate. It’s simply not worth it for the sake of a temporary dizzy feeling.
‘It’ll pass’
If I fancy a drink, the desire has usually gone within 10 minutes. So, I just let it pass.
* Rob Temple is a feature writer and columnist for The Daily Telegraph
