Category: milestones

The Power of 7

Day 2,604

Well, so much for posting here on a regular basis, especially after making such a big deal about the irregularity and pitiful state of my old posts. But with 7 solid sober years under my belt this month, I thought I should at the very least show up where it all began and write, if only to remind myself on here.

*     *     *

I didn’t show up. I wrote the above paragraph on May 4th, with the honest intention of posting a lengthy piece of positivity-filled writing on my sober anniversary day (14th May). It’s now almost July. That’s as far as I got. Simply acknowledging it to myself on my hard drive. Sometimes that’s enough. God knows what you’ll get here by the time this is posted. If it ever gets posted. Good luck.

Anyway, the sober anniversary came and went, as all other types of days come and go. They start, things happen here and there, and then they end, until the next one begins. My day was pretty much the same as yours (unless you’re a serial killer or the fly on your screen that’s reading this). You get the picture. The anniversary is a metaphorical notch on my bedpost, minus the grunting, sweating, back ache and mess. I’m sure there are much better analogies than that but, hey-ho. Luckily nobody pays to read my literary incompetence, which lets me off the clarity and sanity hook.

I do feel a little disingenuous in celebrating the stopping of something (knowingly diluting my blood with alcohol) that I shouldn’t have been doing in the first place. Especially when the world is spinning out of control like a trash fire and seemingly heading towards its own oblivion. Men, women, and children are having bombs raining down on them whilst snipers pick them off as they are starving to death. AI is being trained to steal the work of authors, musicians, and artists without having to bother with those pesky little details such as permission, copyright or the law. The climate is turning into an MRI machine, bombarding the burning earth and seas with this and that, and none of it good. Seasons are slowly going out of sequence. Countless people are living (dying) in debt, without being able to afford even the bare minimum to sustain themselves. They can’t afford to live. They can’t afford die.

As all the above biblical darkness and so much more continues; metal birds filled with breathing human life are falling from the skies, seemingly on a daily basis, creating non-breathing human non-life. Flooding, burning, infecting, shooting, stabbing, quaking, erupting, slaughtering, warring, dictator-ing, starving: dying-dying-dying.

End times? Near the end times? Or have times already ended without us knowing as we stare zombie-like with anaesthetised empathy at our phones? At least we’re not over there. At least we’re not them. At least it’s not my kids. At least it’s not me! Oh, a new TikTok with a cat!

Anyway! Happy thoughts, eh?

So, yours truly celebrating being a good boy for seven years doesn’t quite feel the same these days as it once did, especially after a few minutes of scrolling through the news. Maybe stop scrolling the doom? Reading the paper? Watching the news? Just pretend it’s not there?

In the old days my carpet bulged with all the things I’d swept underneath it. All the hidden life in-between floorboard and carpet made it hard to walk across the room, but at least I didn’t see or hear what I didn’t need to. It was worth the inconvenience. Or at least, that’s what alcohol told me. But now it’s no longer there to give me bad advice. It left (was kicked out) 7 years ago. My bad advice to myself is now completely my own and self-inflicted. Hey, let’s celebrate?

Well, I am. I’m simply not shouting it from the rooftops, phoning and emailing everybody I know. Gone are the days of posting my yearly joy on multiple social platforms and waiting for the ‘likes’ and congratulations to roll in (and they kindly did, because most people are nice and want to see others doing well). When my trusty sober app notified me last month of my achievement, pinging me awake in the morning, I may have given a little internal yay! before getting up, having breakfast, brushing my teeth, and beginning the day. I didn’t make anyone aware of the significance of the day.

In other words, I didn’t tell anybody. I’ve only told you, but I don’t know who you are, and that’s ok. Yay! Actually, I may have quietly told one or two people in passing that the date was arriving at some point, and they will have told me they were happy, maybe even proud. That’s enough.

I suppose the reality of getting on with my day, and living a life is quiet celebration enough. I’m making it sound like a silent disco – minus the dancing, and the people, and the music. Yep, another crap analogy. It sounded good at the time. But it’s free of charge.

Am I embarrassed about my recovery and it coming around every year? Is that why I’m not making a big deal about it?

Absolutely not.

But I am embarrassed that I haven’t achieved more with my sobriety. I’ve achieved a lot, much more than I thought I would ever do. But I’ve always been cursed with a brain that has placed a bar way too high for everything I do. I’m embarrassed by my internal procrastination and laziness. I’m embarrassed that I’ve lost control of my future, and I’m not exactly where I envisioned to be in my present. Maybe I’ve achieved enough (my mind gives the middle finger as I wrote that).

Facing the days head-on and tackling life’s shenanigans without the aid of my old liquid invisibility cloak, doesn’t make me want to sing it from the rooftops as I once did. Life without alcohol, and getting on with it no matter what, is simply, life. It’s what everybody does every day. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s a shitshow. The self-delusion was simpler with alcohol until that option had to be deleted. I can still delude myself, but it’s harder and wears off quicker.

Don’t get me wrong. If you’re reading this and your knuckles are white from being one day/week/month/year – clean and sober, you shout it from the fucking rooftops as loud as you can. Get on social media and tell everyone your amazing achievements. Post the screen captures of sobriety anniversaries. Go and visit your IRL (yes I can netspeak) friends and let them hug you with pride. Have some well-deserved LOL’s together. If you still have any family left, repeat all the above. Anything that makes you feel good, confident, motivated, and alive – do that. You completely and absolutely deserve it. You’re making the impossible, possible. You will make it if you want to make it. It’s the want bit that’s important. Being clean and sober is the most important and life-affirming thing you will ever do! Some people liken it to being a warrior. Be a warrior! Be the warrior in the army of yourself. In time, maybe you’ll help others in the fight. But it’s not obligatory. Do what you need to do, not what other people think you should do.

So, why haven’t I made my 7-year sober anniversary sound as amazing as you beginning your sober journey?

It is amazing. Firstly, it’s amazing I’m alive. It’s amazing I have retained enough brain cells to write all this stuff online to complete strangers. It’s amazing this account exists. It exists because I exist. It’s amazing I can hear birdsong in the rain. It’s amazing I witness the sun in the day and the moon at night. It’s amazing I have people who still want to be my friend. It’s amazing I can read all the books I want to read and listen to all the music I want to listen to. It’s amazing that my mum’s passing last year didn’t bring alcohol back into my life. It’s amazing that I’m employed and still employable. It’s amazing I can smile and laugh, sometimes when I don’t want to, but to make others smile and laugh. But the most amazing thing of all . . .

A card arriving with a present. The card said this:

Dad, HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!! Hope you take it easy and read a ton!

You’re an inspiration, thanks for being amazing and I’m proud of you every single day. Keep doing what you’re doing, you’re the best!

From your favourite son, love you loads xxx

If my sober anniversary didn’t come around every year – if my sober anniversary wasn’t amazing – if my sober anniversary didn’t exist – I would never get to read these stunning words from my son. I would never get to ever see or talk to him. I would never get to tell him how proud I am of him and how much I love him. I would never get to hear how proud he is of me and how much he loves me.

I would never get to feel how proud I am of myself.

I just never need to shout about it anymore. Or maybe, in a way, I just have. Shhh . . .

Take care everyone x

❤️

Hell’s Basement

On March 8th 2020, I landed my dream job as a full-time recovery worker in the field of alcohol and drugs. On December 16th 2020, I handed in my resignation.

I loved that job with all my heart. I still do! I adored my wonderful friends and colleagues. I still do! The service does amazing work around the UK and has helped to save many of the lives of countless addicts for over Fifty years. So, why resign?

Self-preservation. If I hadn’t, the person writing this probably wouldn’t exist. But thankfully, I do exist, and I held on to my sobriety – just.

So, what happened? How did things turn out?

The world changed devastatingly quickly for everyone. Far too fast for this human. I was still very early into my recovery, and at the very beginning of a brand-new, extremely demanding job. People’s lives and welfare were my business.

Without going into too much detail, three weeks into my new job, Bang! Lockdown!

The service rapidly, as everything did and has, had to go virtual. Everything via video link, email, or phone. Apart from a handful of us still working in the building, everyone at the service worked from home. The personal contact with clients and workmates vanished. I did well, for a while. I had a lot of good successes with my clients. I was a hardworking and dedicated worker. All my volunteering, and part-time work at the service from 2018 had stood me in good stead.

But eventually, without the personal contact, hug-ability, and constant life-saving humour of my peers, everything went dark inside my head. Too dark. Black! The psychological tide turned on me: daily thoughts of suicide, self-harm, and drinking reared their head once again. Too many conflicting and negative thoughts, spinning at light-speed in my mind. All wrong and at the worst time. So, I made the hardest decision of my life. Instead of concentrating on helping addicts to get clean, sober and improve their lives – I decided to save my own.

It certainly wasn’t plain sailing, away from the job. The work on myself had only just begun. The demons had come to visit and the beast wanted to move in again.

I had no confidence. My fire had gone, and my lust for life was no more. My lust for self-oblivion had replaced it with a venom. I would only leave my bed to eat and go to the bathroom. As I lay on my bed, I covered my face with blankets because the darkness was too bright. My mobile phone gave me panic attacks. Notifications of kindly messages (there were many) came through from friends, freaked me out. I would not answer the phone, only listening to voicemails in terror.

I’d lost my closest friend to a toxic relationship. So, she was gone. At the beginning of my job, I was weeks away from moving into my own place, finally moving out of the family home. Lockdown soon coshed that into a pulp. I had to remain with parents. Not the best of arrangements.

The temptation to ease the load with the liquid antichrist screaming at me was coming ever closer. But I’d look at photos of my son (who is 250 miles away thanks to alcohol) every day and the beast in my head finally went away.

But the months of black-nothing continued. A big lifeless nothing. No reading or writing, and my love for art had long died. Antidepressants were not working. But then something happened!

I randomly picked up a book from my towering ‘to be read’ pile. It was non-fiction, White by Bret Easton Ellis. I tentatively read the first line. A few hours later I was a quarter way through the book without realising. Something was happening. The rusted cogs and worn gears in my head had slowly begun moving. I finished the book and went on to the next, and the next, and the next.

Things are now much better.

I’m now reading my thirty-sixth book of this year.

I’m writing the first draft of my novel.

I’m making art again.

I have my best friend back.

I am volunteering again. But this time on a farm, helping adults with learning disabilities. I’ve been asked to do bank work there, and I seem to have turned into the resident photographer. I still keep in touch with my recovery workmate buddies. I’m going to volunteer at my old recovery service and see how things go.

My wonderful son passed his chef exams with flying colours, and we’re hoping to meet up over the summer holidays. I’ve connected with the most wonderful writers and artists from around the world on Facebook and made wonderful creative discoveries. I could go on and on, but the list is long now.

All because I decided to save my own life. All because I read the first line in a Bret Easton Ellis book. All because I looked at pictures of my son every day.

That was my route out of Hell’s basement. Everyone has their own. These are just a few ways I did things. You will find your own if you’re in your own personal Hell.

You’ll do it. You really will. Stay safe everyone xx

My past, present, and future ❤️

Corpses Don’t Blog

397 days

If this week would have happened before April 2017, I would have Sepsis. Without a shadow of a doubt. But the only difference being, nobody would have known about it. Nobody would have been around 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 have been in a very bad way. I certainly wouldn’t be writing this.

Untreated, life-threatening, conditions are not conducive to the written word. I’ve been reliably informed by professionals that it’s very hard to write when you’re dead. Rigor mortis, and all that stuff.

Corpses don’t blog.

I’m not out of the woods yet but thanks to the expertise and quick-thinking of a fantastic doctor who arranged urgent treatment, I’m now Sepsis-free. I’m also not dead (although my mirror tells me differently).

So, what happened? And what’s this doing on an addiction blog? Bear with me.

Six days ago, I woke up with a painful lump under my ear. As the day went on, it grew. I was confused, feeling sick and peeing razor blades. Hot and cold flushes. I walked like I was drunk. The lump grew and the pain increased. Going against my old addicted nature, 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 a colleague 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 since then: lanced, drained, cut open, cleaned, swabbed, and dressed. You name it, I’ve had it. But it’s not going away. Samples have gone off for tests to see what variation of infection it is. But I’m not dying and I don’t have Sepsis anymore. I’m sore and very bored of it all. But sore and very bored mean I’m alive and dealing with problems as they arise.

So, what would have happened pre-April 2017?

Nothing. My best guess is that 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 alcohol. Feeling sick, confused, peeing razor blades, hot and cold, and walking like I was drunk – more alcohol. The lump got bigger and the pain worse – kept drinking alcohol. Go to the shop, get more alcohol. Repeat until blackout.

No urgency there eh! All blotted out until whatever happened, happened. It wouldn’t have progressed much further than the next drink. No doctors, nurses, or surgical teams. No friends to worry about me because they wouldn’t have known. Alcohol was my antibiotic and anaesthetic for everything – my oral Cannula. Extreme pain and increasing symptoms? I wouldn’t have cared one iota. Certainly not with a bottle in my hand. Pain? Death? Bring it on! Sooner the better! Nobody gives a shit anyway. And on with the badly-attended pity-party of one. Rinse and repeat.

But it’s 2019. 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 working in my dream job as an addiction recovery worker. I’ve worked 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!

Hell’s basement is always open to me to slide or fall into the pit. So, I carefully watch where I walk. Every single day. Because without my recovery I have nothing. Well apart from Sepsis, badly-attended parties, oh, and death.

I’ll keep you posted.

Keep smiling. Stay safe everyone xxx

Birthday in rehab 2017

Fish in a Kettle

Day 300.

That’s a nice round number.

Another sixty-five days, and for the first time ever I will have reached a year sober.

Am I proud? Of course!

I’ve had a return ticket to Hell way too many times to get to this point. I’ve no intention of going back to ‘day one’ again. It’s hard! So hard. There are many people who I started out with in recovery that have achieved two sober years or more (I had two minor lapses). There are also people who are still struggling and cannot stop, just yet. There are people who have now sadly, passed away.

It’s simply the nature of the beast.

Am I happy in my sobriety? Well, that’s a different kettle of fish entirely.

I have many regrets about my past. It’s hard to pull away from them, but I must for my life to move on. But I’m much happier and healthier than I was and good things are now happening: I’ve met amazing people, I have a future, my career in substance misuse recovery work is becoming a reality, my son texted me to let me know he’s coming to see me in April for four days. Things are good right now.

My son wanting to see me again is the biggest indicator I’m doing ok. In the past, I’ve given my him no good reason to contact me or remain a part of his life. And thanks to my drinking, we are now 255 miles apart. But now, I have given him some very good reasons. He also knows I’m not lying any more, as I did in the bad old days. He’s seen it with his own eyes and heard with his own ears, not only from me, but from people who see me every day! This makes me very happy indeed.

Good things aside for a second. Something is making me a little sad.

I’m about to watch a person I care about take a long, painful swan-dive down the dark and soul-crushing, chaotic rabbit hole of addiction.

Watch? Surely there is something I can do?

Nope, not a thing. This person is going to go to hell and back, many, many times. They will come close to death on more than one occasion and it’s going to be an utter train wreck! There’s literally nothing I can do but watch.

Why? Who is this person?

It’s me.

Don’t panic (not that you were). Let me explain.

On August 5th 2005, I started a writing journal. Nothing major. I’d been a budding writer since the mid-nineties. But around 1999 my writing output was ranging from dire to nothing. I started the journal to kick-start my writing brain. It worked! It worked very well. A place to go where my mind could become a literary playground again. It unlocked and accessed the wordy parts that were struggling to squeeze down the synapses. It was fantastic.

I wrote in there daily and have kept it up ever since. Here is the very first, frightened, tentative, and un-edited entry:

05 August 2005                         

‘Today, now, this minute, I’m beginning to write again and I’m scared to death of it.

Well that was a start I suppose.

Now what do I do? Carry on I suppose. Talk about this and
that and hope this comes right finally. Because when it really comes down to it . . . my head is utterly fucked! There, I’ve admitted it. So what’s the problem and what the fuck can I do about it? For years now I’ve been so utterly obsessed with my future, that my future is becoming a void. I seem to be simply waiting to die. So, I say again; what is the problem?’

Let me stress that at this time I didn’t have an obvious addiction problem – yet! The usual pulls and pushes of life that everybody must deal with. Just stuff. I merely added to that list by wanting to pursue a writing career (which is a whole other can of worms. Ask any writer!). So, I carried on merrily downloading my thoughts, swilling them around and seeing where they would take me. It was going great. The entries became longer and I began writing fiction again.

Then – BAM! October 2005.

Something big happened to me. Huge.

For the sake of the confidentiality of others, we’ll call it – a catastrophic, life-changing event that I had to deal with. We’ll leave it at that.

Was this event the cause of my alcoholism?

No. If my answer would have been yes, it would be merely another excuse. I was the cause of my alcoholism. I cannot stress that enough. Nobody poured it down my neck – I did. I own all my downfall and cannot bring other people and events in as excuses. I am my own excuse.

 After this news I suddenly had two paths to follow. Deal with it in a normal way like millions of others do. Or deal with it in the wrong way. I chose the latter, the quick fix that lasted thirteen years. Alcohol – lots of it!

So, I ran to my journal and the entries became dark and very detailed. It became my friend, confidante, and life-saver. It now details years of alcoholism: the excuses, self-pity, the ‘I’ll stop tomorrow’s,’ failures, anger, and the daily broken promises. Basically, if you’re a recovering addict about to write a book about addiction – you’ve just hit the holy grail. Big time!

It wasn’t long until the first reference to alcohol appeared and the promises of giving up, kicked in. It was still only 2005!

‘Over the last few months I’ve acquired a wonderful drinking habit that has spiralled out of control. Vodka and Redbull in hefty quantities and every single night; just to numb that shitty feeling in my head. Tonight is my first night off it (I’m trying to quit alcohol fully) and I feel . . . pretty good really. Ok the same crashing mess of feelings I was attempting to kill every night with alcohol, but really it’s virtually the same off it than plastered. I won’t have a head-full of rusting nails in the morning. So, here’s to my first night off the pop. About the only positive thing that has happened since all this.’

Sorry mate. It’s going to be the first of many failures and it’s only going to get much worse. You are right at the very beginning of this and it’s going to last until the big crash of 2017. There is absolutely nothing I can do. I can only read, observe, and take notes. Lots of notes. But you’ll be OK. Eventually.

I never stopped writing in my journal. It’s now 312 (single-spaced) pages long (167,176 words) and rising. More than the length of a book.

But do I dare write it? It’s painful and harrowing. Utterly heart-breaking. But a once-in-a-lifetime chance to observe exactly how addiction works in real time.

Yes, I dare. If it helps one person to come out the other side of addiction, it’ll be worth it. It’s too late anyway. I’m already writing it! I am now, my own research and my source is extremely reliable.

Because it’s me! I was there. Honest guvnor, I was.

Wish me luck and stay safe everyone x

Not bad!

Home alone

Day 294

I hit a milestone. A big one! An important enough milestone that the rest of my days in recovery can stand on. A plinth of granite, sculpted, chipped away, and formed by almost two years of solid hard work. And it ain’t moving.

Below is a post that I wrote on my Facebook page yesterday (grammar failures and typos included). I’ll expand a little, down below.

*          *          *

Home alone for a few days. Day 3!
My first mega-test since my lapse almost 10 months ago.

Is the old crap going to creep in? I can get away with anything. Nobody would know. This time last year it would have been an absolute shit-show of a disaster! Of that, I promise. As soon as the coast was clear the house would be full of alcohol.

Today?

Coffee, research work, writing, more coffee, texting my son and looking at his new drawings he mailed me. More coffee. Writing a new piece for my blog. Writing a magazine article for a big online magazine. I mean big! They asked me to submit a piece.

Too busy and way too much to do and lose. And this is only the beginning! A handful of people (and family obviously) knew I’d be alone. Not one, said those dreaded words, “please don’t have a drink. Promise me you won’t have a drink. Are you sure you won’t drink?” Why don’t they, anymore?

They can see it in my face, the look in my eyes, the sound of my voice and how hard I work every day. They just know – now. They just know. It’s obvious. Not only can they trust me, but the biggie . . .

I can trust me!!!

It’s taken almost two years to get almost ten months sober. Why?

I finally threw the big switch in my head from ‘Daily Shit-Storm’ to ‘SAFE!’ It’s a great big, hulking, rusted, cobwebbed, bastard of a switch to throw. But it does move. Eventually. If you ‘want’ to move it! And I’ve finally moved it. That’s the way it’s staying!

*          *          *

There you go. The tools to recovery are fine and dandy but they are useless without a few things. They can’t simply be learned verbatim as they swill, slop, and wash about in your head like dirty laundry. You’re not copying someone else’s homework or doing lines after school. It’s your own work. It must be locked, loaded and ready to go at any time. You must believe in the tools implicitly and understand why they are there. You’re screwed without them. The almighty swan-dive down that rabbit hole again is only one drink/fix away. That soul-crushing Groundhog Day that we all know too well.

Then there’s the big one! The one and only, Platinum reason for recovery to stick.

You have to want recovery. Not because you’ve screwed up. Not for other people or to keep the peace. Not even for family and friends. Not for anything or anyone but . . .

For you.

I gave a worker at my recovery service the green light that I was good to go, to finally get stuck into volunteering. ‘Throw everything and the kitchen sink at me. I’m ready to get my hands dirty.’

They threw a lot.

As you can see from the picture of my calendar below, February filled up very quickly. Every blue line indicates a full, crazy, wonderful day of learning the ropes of recovery work. March is looking crammed already.

Be careful what you wish for. Sheesh! 

Apologies if I’m coming over a bit preachy, saccharine, or sanctimonious. I don’t mean to be, I promise. I simply want to share my optimism, hope, and the things I’ve learned so far. I guess I’m just an excited (and terrified) newbie.

Until next time. Stay safe all xx

Death, or Whatever

274 days

In the space of two years, I’ve gone from:

Hoping the next drink would kill me,

to

Losing everything and wishing I was dead,

to

Professionals and friends trying to convince me life is worth living – but I’m not listening,

to

Getting sober,

to

Professionals and friends trying to convince me life is worth living – but now I’m listening,

to

Convincing myself life is worth living,

to

Two short lapses and cursing myself.

to

Professionals and friends trying to convince me life is worth living – but I may try listening again,

to

Surpassing and smashing my previous sober time of 7.5 months and life is good,

to

Getting anxious, and stressed, but using all my tools to stay sober and start volunteering. With a plan, life is scary but ok,

to

Sticking to the plan, no matter how frightening and keeping my nerve. Life is getting exciting,

to

Being trusted and respected enough that the plan is becoming a dream. But it’s reality because I made it reality,

to

My son telling me he loves me, and that he’s proud of me,

To be continued – at some point.

It all started with hoping the next drink would kill me. Alot can happen in two years. I’m loving life right now, no matter how frightening and terrifying. There’s not enough time in the day to fit all this amazing stuff in. I haven’t even started yet.



A lot can happen in two years. I’m loving life right now, no matter how frightening and terrifying. There’s not enough time in the day to fit all this amazing stuff in. I haven’t even started yet.

If you think you can’t do it – you’re dead wrong. You can and you will.

Take care, everyone xx

A Doodle I did in rehab days