Stumble on in!

Thanks for stumbling into my blog. It documents my journey in recovery from thirteen years of alcoholism, towards? Well, wherever it takes me. I hope you enjoy the ride. 

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Stumbling passed the past . . .

452 days.

A bit more ‘bored on the bus’ noodling. An un-edited splurge. A brain-burp. Not really a poem. Not really anything. But might be something to someone.

* * *

The Past has Passed.

Five years was in the past.

Five months was in the past.

Five days was in the past.

Five seconds was in the past.


When you read the first line of this,

It’s now in the past.

This line is in the present.

Now it’s in the past.

All the above has now, passed into the past.


Whatever the number.

Whatever we have done.

No matter how bad, or painful.

It’s now gone, and done.

Passed into the past.


We drank and we used.

We hurt and got hurt.

But now we don’t, and we move on.

Whatever went on before.

Is now passed into the past.


We can’t change it.

Nothing can be undone.

It’s away from now, it’s now . . . ‘then.’

Now gone and done.

Passed into the past.


The hurt, they can re-join us on our journey.

Or not. They can choose.

As we have chosen.

Wisely and timely.

To put the past back in the past.


Live for now.

Enjoy tomorrow.

Rejoice in your amazing future.

Whatever will be bad.

Will be passed into the past.



Be happy.

Take chances.

Love your friends ferociously.

Leave the past.

It’s passed.


* * *

PJ. 🙂❤

Stumbling almost into, but right out of – Sepsis? . . .

397 days

If this week would have happened before April 2017, I would definitely have Sepsis. Without a shadow of a doubt. Also, nobody would know about it, apart from the emergency hospital team. Or a Coroner, because nobody would be aware to call the emergency services. I certainly wouldn’t have called them. No chance. My door would have been locked and all phones un-plugged and turned off. I would be in a very bad way. I certainly wouldn’t be writing this. I guess life-threatening, untreated conditions can be a little distracting and not conducive to rational blogging. I’ve also been reliably informed by professionals that it’s also very hard to write when you’re dead. Hard to type with Rigor mortis, eh! I’m not out of the woods yet. But . . . it’s 2019 and I haven’t got Sepsis, and even though my mirror tells me differently, I’m not dead. So what happened? And what’s this doing on an addiction blog? Bare with me.

On Monday I woke up with a painful lump under my ear. As the day went on, it grew and grew. I was feeling sick, confused, peeing razor blades, hot and cold, and walking like I was drunk. The lump got bigger and the pain worse. So, against my old addicted nature (and with very worried friends kicking my ass), I called the doctor’s surgery and got an emergency appointment. The GP took one look at it and her face dropped. She called in another GP and they both agreed instantly. Straight to hospital! Right now! Blood tests, blood pressure, cannula in the arm and pumped with antibiotics. I’ve been in hospital every morning to be lanced, drained, cut open, cleaned, swabbed and dressed. You name it, I’ve had it. But it’s not going away. So samples have gone off for tests to see what the exact infection is. But I’m not dying and I don’t have Sepsis. I’m just sore and very, very bored of it all. But sore and very bored is a good thing. It means I’m alive and getting on with my life and dealing with problems as they arise. There and then. So what would have happened pre-April 2017?

Nothing. Well actually something, but it would have gone like this.

Woke up with a painful lump under my ear – drank alcohol. As the day went on, it grew and grew – drank some more. I was feeling sick, confused, peeing razor blades, hot and cold, and walking like I was drunk. The lump got bigger and the pain worse – kept drinking more and more. Went to the shop, got more alcohol, kept drinking and drinking and drinking and . . .

That’s as far as I would have gotten. Blotted it all out with alcohol and carried on drinking until whatever happened, happened. It wouldn’t have gotten any further than drink. No doctors, nurses or surgical teams. No friends to worry about me because they wouldn’t know. I’d have pushed them all away. Alcohol was my antibiotic for everything. The bottle would be my oral Cannula. And whatever the extreme pain or the growing symptoms or the deadly outcome, I can guarantee this – I wouldn’t have cared one iota. Not with a bottle in my hand. Pain? Pah! Death? Bring it on! Sooner the better! Nobody gives a shit anyway. And on with the badly-attended pity-party of one. Just another day in my alcoholic office. Rinse and repeat.

But it’s 2019 and I don’t have Sepsis. I’m 397 days sober and glad to be alive! I love my life and adore my many wonderful, stunning, amazing friends and peers and (soon to be) colleagues. I love my son so very much. Next month I’ll be employed for the very first time in two years, doing my dream job as an addiction recovery worker. I’ve worked really, really, really hard for it. So hard! I won’t let anything get in the way of all this love and joy and new confidence. Nothing!

Recovery will always forever be the hardest thing that I’ve ever done, and keep doing. But I have to keep doing it because the alternative isn’t worth going back to. Ever! But Hell’s basement is always open to me, and others to climb or fall down. So I carefully watch where I walk. Every single day. Because without my recovery – I have nothing. Well apart from Sepsis. Badly-attended partys. Oh, and death.

But when my new Cannula is love and friendship, and my antibiotic is life . . . I’ll be absolutely fine. I’ll keep you posted.

Keep smiling. Stay safe everyone xxx

Birthday in rehab 2017

Stumbling with keys, and blood, and life, and hope . . .

Day 378

A bit of bored-on-the-bus (literally) creativity. An un-edited splurge of – whatever it is

* * * *

I used to think life continually slammed my misery-doors shut, threw over the bolts and snapped off light-giving keys in the locks when I was at my lowest ebb. Never me, of course. Never me.

I’d sit in my pity-party of one, constantly pushing at ungiving doors as if they were granite guards keeping me out of everyone else’s heaven. They were unyielding and constant, silently holding me in shadows, tears and anxious blood.

I’d kick and scream until my next drink flooded my blood, my bad blood – and all would be fine – and I would go calm and numb and cry – just for a while. Until my body screamed out for more of my poison and my mouth would scream at the darkness and my knuckles painted blood-strokes on the door. The constant self-savagery, my dying cycle, my poisoned rabbit hole where I was constantly lost and refusing to be found. My death’s daily basis.

Only alive by luck, and luck and more luck. The only lottery I had won was my struggling heart flushing life back into me as I willingly pushed it out. My heart, my nemesis. It fought a life less convenient and in the way. But at least it fought. I didn’t.

If I’d only known during those years, if I’d only checked my pockets. I would have found the key, shiny and unused. My key! I would have even discovered I myself was the key-maker, capable of unlocking any door that barred my way.

If only I’d have listened to others, and my deeper self. My ancient screams had kept me locked from the arms of the world. I had screamed so loud and for so long for so many years – I couldn’t recognise my own voice or my own barely-pulsing heart. The only thing left was hope.

The hope to live finally won over the hope to die. My key is in my now flourishing heart and all my doors are always open to let the light flood in. I now give out maps to keys, for the many others that scream so loud in the dark nothing gets in. I can’t unlock it for them – but they can. But once I tell them ‘they’ are the key – their life, like mine, can begin once again.

No more screaming, no more blood, no more hate, no more crying – just life! Simply life.


Follow the light . . . It’s up there!

Stumbling out of shadows and bursting into colour . . .

Day 377

Seeing this sketch today really knocked me for six! I couldn’t take my eyes off it, and when I did my face was wet. It’s how I always imagined the way my son saw me not so many years ago. Slowly but surely, fading away in front of his eyes, and him, helpless to do anything no matter how hard he tried. And he really tried. But I like to think of myself now, fully sketched and whole. Even a bit of colour appearing as time goes on. When people like me fade, we don’t care, we allow ourselves to disappear and unfortunately, some of us never come back. Thankfully I came back and my friends came back. We all want everyone like us to come back. Luckily now, my son can see a dad, but for so long he only saw a shadow. Shadows fade, but my son’s dad will be the brightest painting I can possibly paint for us both.

Out of the shadows