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

A Lad Insane?

Day 2,450

Among the many that I cherish, there are two quotes that have always stuck in my mind. I’ve always remembered them but never fully taken them in, until now. But with the creaking grind of time, they have taken on a more saddening and darker significance in my brain. The first is by David Bowie:

“I’ve got a library that I keep the ones I really really like. I look around my library some nights and I do these terrible things to myself – I count up the books and think, how long I might have to live and think, ‘F@#%k, I can’t read two-thirds of these books.’ It overwhelms me with sadness.”

The second is by the actor who played (amongst many other roles) the original and definitive Eric Draven character from The Crow, Brandon Lee:

“Because we do not know when we die, we get to think of life as an exhaustible well. And yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, an afternoon so deeply a part of your being that you cannot conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four, or five times more? Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.”

I actually heard Brandon Lee saying these words in an interview in the 90s; it was one of the extra features on The Crow DVD. I remember thinking even then, they were extremely wise words for somebody so young. But when your dad is Bruce Lee, wisdom, deep thinking, and talent (and unfortunately, a mysterious and premature death) trickles through the DNA. But it wasn’t until I read his words in black and white that the sentiments resonated so much.

Reading both quotes again at 58 years old, (as Bowie with his books) overwhelms me with sadness. The deep thoughts of two extremely talented human beings whose careers in music, film, and art I followed for a big chunk of my life. Both thinking about their own mortality amidst their successful careers. Both are now gone. Bowie died of cancer at 69 years old. Lee was shot and killed by a dummy bullet during the filming of The Crow – he was only 28 years old. Life is very short.

Fun fact. Did you know that the title and lyrics of David Bowie’s song, The Jean Genie from his album Aladdin Sane, were inspired by one of his literary heroes, the novelist, poet and activist, Jean Genet? No? Now you do.

Before I read the Bowie quote, I was also guilty of working out how many of my books I could possibly read before my breath runs out. No doubt my tiny library of around 300 or so books is nothing compared to Mr Bowie. I plough through them at a rate of approximately 20 to 30 per year. That is nothing compared to other devourers of books, but it’s enough for me. If I do live to a good old age I will reach my goal, but . . .

The problem is, new or second-hand, I buy more books. I’m lessening my chances with every book haul. It could be much worse; I could be spending all my money on alcohol. The irony being that my book problem would no longer be a problem, because it wouldn’t exist. I wouldn’t be able to read. I wouldn’t be able to write. You wouldn’t be reading this because it wouldn’t exist and eventually, neither would I. And the cherry to top it all off, I wouldn’t give a flying camel’s fanny about any of it.

But I don’t drink alcohol, and (airborne dromedaries genitalia aside) I do care. Hence the brain wonderings (and wanderings) on mortality. My life is far from perfect but it’s ok. At the moment it’s calm and pain-free enough to do the things I want to do. I try not to worry as much as I once did but it (like my book-grabs) is a hard habit to break. My sleeping patterns are a little haywire, but I do sleep. So, for anything to get in the way of all the things I’m now able to do; medical, financial or otherwise, worries me. I mean, I’m not naïve, it will happen, but at least give me 5 or 10 years of peace. I know it’s a stretch but . . . Please? I don’t believe in a god, so who the hell am I pleading to?

Universe! You’ll do! Give me another 5 to 10 years and I’ll hug all the trees you want and be a good boy. I’ll go vegetarian. I’ll wipe the seat after I pee. But let me do stuff in peace for a few more years. Pretty please!

As I write these words, I’m still waiting for the results of a bowel cancer test. It’s not because I have signs or symptoms, but because I’m of a certain age, I have to (voluntarily) get tested every two years. The results won’t tell me if I do or don’t have cancer. They will either say that further tests are needed, or not. Two years ago, no further tests were needed. But that was two years ago. A lot can change in 730 days.

And it has.

Within those 730 days I’ve been put on blood pressure tablets because my readings were dangerously high (in the 180s). I now have a lovely little umbilical hernia. Tinnitus screams constantly in my ears these days, making simple pleasures such as listening to music, not simple or pleasurable. The pressures in my eyes have become much higher over 730 days, happily winging their way to Glaucoma, macular degeneration, and eventual blindness. The only thing that’s improved over two years is my teeth. No alcohol or cigarettes and having to pay for private dentistry has kept the ones I have left, in pretty good condition, firmly jammed in my gums. No doubt many years of drinking, smoking and loud music have contributed to things wearing out, tearing, blocking, and snapping off. Nothing has actually snapped off, by the way – but give it time, something will.

Well, that was a bit of a Debbie Downer. Maybe I need to be a little more positive and show some gratitude.

My blood pressure is now at normal levels thanks to the medication. My hernia is tiny and painless at the moment; not significant enough to warrant surgery. But if it grows and tears through my stomach, forcing my guts plop onto the floor into a steaming, bloody mess, surgery may apparently be considered. The tinnitus is annoying and maybe badly affecting my hearing but I can still hear. Eh, what? Obviously, I’ve taken no action to get my hearing looked at, diagnosed, and possibly treated. Maybe do that eh? What? Instead of complaining. My eyes are monitored every year and my eyesight is pretty decent. I read 30 books last year without any problems so I’m not doing too bad. I have teeth in my mouth and I can eat without pain. I don’t deserve them after years of abuse, but there they are like a little enamel graveyard in my mouth. And as far as I’m aware, nothing on my body has actually snapped off. I’m pretty sure of that.

There, that sounds a little better. A bit of gratitude and positivity never hurts anyone. Unless you happen to be ungrateful and negative, then being a miserable little shit is quite normal.

I’ve actually forgotten what the point of this post was. Ah, mortality!

Universe? You ain’t off the hook! Trees/good boy/pee-free seats. Don’t forget!

Serendipity (or the universe) is bizarre. As I was writing all the above, a letter from the hospital has just (right now) been handed to me by my dad. It will be the results of my test because I’m not expecting anything else. I haven’t opened it yet. It could go either way. Here goes.

‘No further tests are needed at this time.’ Phew! Two years until the next. 730 days to do stuff. Knowing my luck, on my morning bus, the driver will have to slam his, or her brakes on and I’ll go merrily flying down the stairs from the top deck; hernia exploding, teeth smashed, my glasses slicing into my eyes as sombody’s umbrella stabs into my ear, piercing my brain. But happy thoughts, eh?

“Dear Universe. Two years grace in the space of one post ain’t too shabby. Keep that up and we’ll both be ok. Many thanks my swirly, gassy, black-hole friend. By the way, just in case; if God really did create you, please can you give me a head’s-up. I don’t want to be rooting for the wrong team and hugging trees for no reason. Cheers.

P.S. I’m not entirely sure I can forgive you for taking away David Lynch from us this month. But I’ll try.”

This post didn’t go the way I planned. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. If you spent precious time getting this far when you could have been doing something else more constructive – thanks. You did good.

Take care everyone x

The Floorboards Creak and Break

Day 2,429

Although addiction and recovery were the catalysts for this blog ever existing way back in 2018, I want to try and vary things this year and attempt to write about other things. It may or may not happen.

But today is not that day. This one was inspired by something thought-provoking that I found recently in a box at home. It got me thinking, as interesting things do. Especially when you start snooping around on yourself.

As I was tidying out some drawers last month, I found something that I’d completely forgotten about. It was a black, hardback A5 notebook from the end of February 2018. I vaguely recall writing in it, but I can definitely remember being unbearably cold. I was taking shelter in the local library to get warm. I had ridiculous amounts of clothing layers on, and a huge, thick coat. But the icy air had already gripped my bones and I couldn’t get warm. Remnants from a storm called, The Beast from the East was whipping everything around outside. This particular storm and it’s after-effects seemed to be going on forever.

I had only been out of rehab for around two months, after twelve weeks of intense, recovery-filled days there. I think I was doing some course or another at the time.

My mind was still a cocktail of excited, proud, overconfident, and terrified, which when mixed together produces its own version of brain fog. This is probably why my memory of writing in this notebook is very unclear, but I can remember the weather, what I was wearing, and the place I was defrosting myself in. It’s akin (I guess) to some form of alcoholic dementia, which of course is self-inflicted.

Anyway.

This notebook was thick with lined pages inside but unfortunately for me, only one page (both sides) was filled in. It was strange seeing my old handwriting again from that period. It was still pretty neat considering the recent past chaos of my life, and the arctic pandemonium outside the library. Apart from that one page, the only other words written are on the inside cover. It reads:

Novels, short stories, non-fiction, etc. Anything goes. Don’t stress. It’s not that important. It really isn’t.

Don’t stress. It’s not that important. It really isn’t. When it comes to writing again after so many years of being away from it, that’s actually good advice. It takes the pressure off those daunting blank pages. Perhaps the reason that the rest of the notebook was blank is because I didn’t take my own advice.

Or was it?

I did some snooping on myself in the 2018 part of my journal, in which I’ve been writing doggedly since 2005. It told me exactly why all those pages were blank. Did my pen run out? Did some part of my body freeze and snap off? Did God tell me ‘not’ to do it?

Read what was written in the notebook first, and I’ll spill what my informant (me) unearthed. I’ve copied-out the writing and kept the punctuation as it is. No changes. Good luck.

* * *

28-2-18

My finger wipes a lens into the steam on the window. The world flickers by, as it always has. In the time I’ve been away, nothing and everything has changed within the blink of an eye. The death and life game, as always, remain in constant flux. People, traffic, and coffee – wired people turn red for a second. I’ve bitten my nails too close again as I gulp at the bloody taste. The world comes to a halt as the bus doors open and the sick, malty smell of beer hits me. It’s seven-thirty in the morning, but nothing surprises me anymore. Or so I thought.

Rock-bottom.

A place you read about, look-up or hear about. Even when you think you are there and other people look down on you, and tell you to pull yourself together – the floorboards creak and break, and you fall further downwards into the darkness.

There are many levels to this rock-bottom, the hell that never ends. Some people keep falling, never to be seen again, most find a floor and crawl away, into the light like Lazarus. Rock-bottom is an open house, anyone is welcome. There are two ways to vacate your room – in a body bag or on your hands and knees. I’m not sure what level I’m on, but the floorboards are creaking again and something snaps.

* * *

There you go! Not a bad start for a bit of raw, rough, stream of conscious type scribbling. It shows a little bit of promise. Book idea? Short story? Flash fiction? Who knows! The most probable thing going on here is I was scraping the cobwebs from the inside of my creative brain to kickstart it again, to get some ideas going. Learning how to write again.

Or maybe I was planning something.

It’s such a shame I didn’t fill those empty pages. It could have led to something productive and soul-filling. But the words already written in there, did lead to something. It definitely was not soul-filling or productive. My snitching journal told me so. Here’s what it told me:

* * *

19 May 2018

I drank. I did 233 days. Was I sitting on my laurels after all? Thinking I was invincible? As of the 14th May, I’m now six days sober. Back to the drawing board. Back to rehab.

The only way I can describe it is that my head went into hell-mode, then I fell through the floorboards into Hell’s basement. Everything went black and went into chaos! But are they all excuses. Probably. When it comes down to it – I drank! Simple.

It started last Wednesday and went on until Sunday. On the Monday I woke up with every intention of carrying on drinking. But something clicked in my head and I got myself to the rehab where I was welcomed with open arms. It was hell, but at least I was in a safe place with safe people. They are letting me attend every day. I can’t write much more yet. Hopefully I’ll be here (in the journal) later. My head’s an absolute mess. But one positive – six days sober now. Rehab again tomorrow.

* * *

There you go! That was my second relapse (or lapse, as it were). It has never happened again. I hope it never will. It was the first time I had ever stopped myself. Usually, it was because I’d run out of money, my job was on the line, or some friends had swooped in. But I had never stopped myself before. It was a first. God knows where I would be now if I hadn’t.

So, I was writing completely sober in the notebook on Wednesday, February 28th 2018. I fell off the wagon on Wednesday, May 9th 2018. Just over two months gap in-between. My notebook and my journal seem to agree; the floorboards were very much creaking, and through them I fell.

And yes, it was all my fault, there were no excuses. Thankfully, the lapse only went on for four days. I had enough recovery tools in my head to stop myself and have the sense get back to rehab again.

If only I had carried on writing in those notebook pages. Maybe I could have worked things through in my head by continuing with something productive. Writing was one of the weapons I could always shoot the screaming demons down with, and carry on. Instead, after reading those words again and again, it looks as if I was planning my downfall. I mention rock-bottom three times but there are no positives to offset them. And . . . There are two ways to vacate your room – in a body bag or on your hands and knees. I’m not sure what level I’m on, but the floorboards are creaking again and something snaps. There’s a lot of self-fulfilling prophecy in there, which doesn’t help matters when you’re newly sober. Thankfully the body bag option didn’t happen. I probably frightened myself, writing words that were revealing too much of what was going on inside. No doubt I didn’t want to carry on confronting myself in black and white, not wanting to admit I was planning my own downfall.

Eventually I got back on track again: volunteer, part-time recovery worker, full-time recovery worker, learning support assistant. Not long after that lapse, I began this blog; that really helped. I read, I write, I listen to music, I do some art – I live.

It was interesting going to the 2018 part of my journal and seeing what was going on, and how it tied into that notebook. What if I went back to 2005? Now that would be interesting. That would be me, documenting my full-blown alcoholism in real-time. Maybe that could be something I could share snippets of here bit by bit? Maybe. Who knows.

Again, I often wonder what would have happened if I would have carried on writing in that old notebook.

Well. There are actually fewer blank pages now. Why? Because I’ve begun writing in it again. Novels, short stories, non-fiction, etc? Well, anything goes. I won’t stress, because as we know, it’s not that important. It really isn’t. The only thing I’ll be confronting, working out and planning this time – is my writing.

I hope you all had a great and safe Christmas. I also hope 2025 is kind to you all.

Take care everyone x

Are You Really Me?

Day 2,415

It’s been a while. Two years! That’s a hell of a long time to be away from here. A lot has happened – plenty hasn’t. But I guess the main thing, the whole reason I started all this random rambling here in the first place many moons ago, is . . .

I’m now 6 years, 7 months, and 9 days sober (I don’t count the days, I prod my trusty sober app). So, that happened. Yep, still hanging in there.

The last actual post I wrote in here (aside from the more recent book rambles) was 17th November 2022. I’ve totalled fifty-one posts in six years. Hardly prolific by any stretch of the imagination. It could have been a lot more but poof! I disappeared. So why the gap when everything seemed to be going so well here?

The honest answer is the same as always, I let life get in the way. It’s still getting in the way and it always will, but I may as well be here, in good company and write about how, when, where, and why it’s getting in the way. It’s kind of the whole point of blogging, isn’t it? I need to remember that. So why come back to WordPress, babbling into the ether again?

I missed it. Thinking, writing, creating graphics, uploading, sharing, and commenting were a big part of my life here for a while.

I would have been back much sooner but for two reasons:

1: The trusty WordPress app I was using for these posts was informing me to change to the new Jetpack app. When I was considering coming back, not only had I completely forgotten how to use the original WordPress software that I once confidently navigated in my sleep, I had to move over to another software and not know how to use that either. Of course, there were conflicts, issues, glitches, missing images, missing this–that–and–the other. Slowly, I finally got my head around everything and began finding my way around again. Things began to make sense. I’m still blindly navigating my way around, but it’s getting better.

I began reading and checking through all my old posts again. Holy shit!

2: So yeah, the old posts. That was an eye-opener. Reading through them again had me tempted to delete the whole site and begin again from scratch. To say I winced, squirmed, and cringed is a huge understatement. I didn’t recognise the person writing it. Seemingly arrogant statements began revealing themselves as I scrolled. Declarations such as ‘I never give advice on this site but . . .’ Then I give advice. Onward to the rushed and ridiculous attempts at poetry – sheesh. The recovery memes (word noodles as I called them) Jesus. The anger, the frustration, the overconfidence, the self-deprecation, all wrapped around an annoying cockiness that I was finding hard to bear as I reread it all. But I stayed away from the delete button and slept on it for a night or two.

I began to think back to who I was, where I had come from, what I had lost. The few hopes and dreams I still had, and the extremely low expectations that I could ever get (let alone stay) sober. What I was actually reading were the words of a terrified little human who was trying everything in his power to make amends with a ragged life. A person trying desperately to fight his addiction with everything he had. The (not so poetic) poetry, the self-made recovery memes, the overconfidence, and self-deprecation was all he had at the time. All in the hope that it would work out and eventually come good.

Well, it worked out!

At the time, every single word of every post was a lifesaver. I had somewhere to go in my head, something to do. They helped get me through some crisis/event or other: a minute, a day, a week, a month – birthdays, bank holidays and the very dreaded Christmas period. Blogging in here helped me. Most were written on a bus either going to, or coming back from a recovery meeting, group, or rehab. Every word at the time was important – to me. So, rereading everything in here brought me back down to earth. Instead of judging my old self, wincing and squirming in my seat, I was proud of myself.

But! Before I could even contemplate starting this all again with the aim of people reading my new posts and possibly scrolling through older ones, there was another huge hurdle to overcome. The horrific, unfathomable, and indecipherable writing needed sorting out. Wow! That isn’t me judging myself, it was awful.

You don’t need to be a literary genius to write a decent blog post, and I’m no literary gymnast. But you do, at the very least, have to make sense. You know, so people can read and understand what the hell you’re talking about. I took a big breath and began repairing, deleting, adding, rearranging, editing, and re-editing every single post, right from the very beginning. Also, many images had to be resized because they were enormous data vacuums that slowed the site down. Some were replaced. Most of the posts didn’t have a featured image, so I created new ones from scratch – I don’t know if I needed to but I enjoyed the process and carried on anyway.

I started all that in the beginning of August this year. It took some time. Right at the end of all that, when I finally finished editing the last post, my mum sadly passed away. But that’s a subject for another time – maybe. Maybe not. But I’m finally back here.

I haven’t done a total hatchet job to the old posts. In fact, if anyone who has read them before and has the energy to reread them again, the only difference I’d hope they would notice is that they are now coherent and make sense. I’ve taken many things out, but also left a lot in. I didn’t want to ruin the spirit of the original posts. Things are left in there because that’s what came out at the time (as tempting as it is to hit delete now in 2024). Me and my older self, compromised. It seems to have worked out well.

But I completely understand why the posts were chaotic at times. They were written in a cycle of excitement, hope and terror. I was taking my sobriety seriously for the first time in my life. If I had an idea for a post, it came out with enthusiastic urgency. They were written in hurried spurts, maybe checked once or twice (without really checking), a flick through my phone for a graphic and Bam! Uploaded and published online. Onto the next post or idea. I simply wanted to move forward as fast as I could with what I had at the time. Everything seemed urgent, demanding to come out there and then. It felt good, achieving something in tandem with my sobriety. Also, (as if getting sober isn’t enough), obviously I wanted to save every addict in the world because I was doing well. I had words of wisdom, and obviously every addict in the world was reading my wobbly WordPress blog of insightful genius, right? It’s a lovely, deluded thought but . . .

Yeah. Anyway. Time and tide calm most things down. Sometimes to a complete halt, poof!

So those are some of the rhymes and reasons for why I disappeared and returned, that you never asked, thought, or cared about in the first place.

But there they are and here I am, again. Sorry about that.

So, what now? Will this continue be an addiction/recovery/writing blog with some book reviews and possibly some of my fiction thrown in now and again? It’s why it all began in the first place. I guess the answer is yes, for now. Will I still be asking myself annoying, rhetorical questions throughout every post and answering them? What do you think? Yes, I think I will.

But I promise not to inflict any more poetry attempts or recovery memes on you. Feel free to sigh with relief, whoever you are.

Who are you? Maybe you are actually me, and all my old and new words are actually yours truly, sorting things out and making sense of things – talking to myself again. Possibly that is the real reason why I’m back – just another place to ramble, question, and argue with myself. I’ll take that.

But if you are actually, you and not actually me – hello! Feel free to join in, or not.

To anyone who said nice things way-back-when, regarding my old posts – thank you so much. You were very kind, and made a quaking, hopeful wreck very happy. I can’t promise a massive improvement from now on, but hopefully from 2024 onward my nonsense will make sense (if that makes sense).

I’ll be here next week with either a book review or a post. But I’ll be here, saying something about something, or other. Sorry about that.

Take care everyone xx

Time Dies When You’re Having Fun

Day 1,601.

Time, time and time again . . . recurring, until . . . End. Stop!

It feels lately as if I’m constantly drowning in a constant Tsunami of time. A raging Tinnitus of tick, tick, ticking time. A dirty bomb of spinning, jagged physics that never quite goes off.

Weekends flash by. Mondays loom like dark and imposing monoliths, constant reminders that our lives-lived have already been archived into the universal library, awaiting the next entry.

Weeks and months come around so fast. I seem to buy my weekly travel ticket, daily. In the morning I sit on the bus and wonder: how many heartbeats do I have left? How can I put the final one off for a little longer? Now that I’m being good, can I have some fun first? Am I wearing pants? These morbid and strange thoughts are still very new to me. I don’t like it, but I do. But I don’t. But I do.

I don’t like this new way of thinking because there is way too much thinking to think about at any given time to think. New thinking thoughts are hard.

But I do like this new way of thinking because now, I actually do think!

There were thirteen years when rational, cognitive thought processes were as rare as rocking-horse crap. Time stood still. A swirling black hole of constant nothing.

I’ve now created my own personal mind gym inside my head. I’m happy with the décor and the people inside seem nice. I read, I write, I listen to music and I work. I’m falling in love with my old passion, Philosophy.

We all dodge the existential tornadoes, waves, and lightning bolts of life whilst running through the killing fields of time. We exist because time exists. Time has, and always will be. It happens with or without us, whether we breathe or eventually become plant food.

I had a sure-fire, failsafe way of slowing down time to a crawl. If you ever follow these posts, you will know it’s not recommended. My key to bending the universal laws of physics that all light and life depend? Alcohol.

Back in the day, time simply idled around, sloshing here and there in no particular direction. It oozed over me like boiling tar, as feathers fell like rain. Nothing much mattered. The higher the alcohol content of my blood, the more time hung like the peeling 1970’s wallpaper of a grotty hotel that nobody can be bothered to cover up or take down. Way too much effort.

The internet, phones, computers, in fact technology in general, are not the alcoholic’s friend.

A couple of lines of a Facebook post would take me most of the day to write. The work of staggering genius that I’d drunkenly composed (and post) would turn out to be the most meaningless, shambles. What I thought was taking me minutes to write was actually wasting most of my day. Hours of squinting at the screen through alcohol-fogged eyes, only to produce a few meagre and embarrassing sentences. All would eventually have to be deleted.

Time was my silent drinking partner. I was barely aware of it. I could watch the same music video on YouTube all night, because by the end of it I would have nodded off. I rapidly developed Goldfish brain. I was Dory from Finding Nemo: just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming. The swimming turned into drowning.

Online, I was pathetic and worryiong, bizarre and self-pitying. I was always the last person to know. I would be pulled aside and ‘informed’ by others the next day. It was never good news. Alcohol anaesthetises your morals, for a while. Thankfully I was never nasty or aggressive. I existed in a tear-soaked, foggy world of pain and shame. Nothing mattered. I didn’t care.

That was my life in that time.

But now things matter and I very much care.

I literally care – it’s my job. I get paid for the privilege. I now care for adults with learning disabilities. Before that, I cared for people like myself, addicts at every stage of their recovery.

It took a lot of clean blood, mind-work, perseverance, friendship and help to get to the stage where I could even begin to care about myself, let alone others.

I now care about writing, art, literature, and music. I care about family and loyal friends. I care about the state of the country and the world. Although I dislike the monarchy, I even cared about the death of our Queen. I care about poverty, abuse, and discrimination.

Now I care, and it all matters!

But now that I’m finally here, there never seems like enough time. It’s racing, roaring and flying by. The blurring isn’t caused by alcohol but the speed of life. My life, your life, everybody’s life. Life’s life.

My son is now almost twenty-years old. How the hell did that happen? We are 250 miles apart but we still connect. I’m still here and he’s still there. It could have been so much different. He now has the best version of me that he’s ever had. My son was the only exception to the I don’t care – nothing matters of my addicted days. With him, I always cared, I still do care, and I always will care – heart-burstingly so.

The only thing that will stop that?

When time stops. When the heartbeats stop. When the blood in the veins dry up. When all thoughts finally stop. When (my) time stops. Maybe not even then. Love is full of surprises.

What do I know anyway? I’m only a pinprick in the vast and endless darkness of the universe.

As the author (not the comedian) says in his novel, Cloud Atlas: ‘My life amounts to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean. Yet what is any ocean, but a multitude of drops?’

Time to go. Until next time . . . recurring, until . . . End.

Stop!

Take care, everyone xx

Our Blood in a Line-up.

Day: 1,461

Four years sober today.

Well, that happened. My friendly neighbourhood sober app has been counting the days for me since I stopped drinking. It gave me a congratulations notification. I’ll take that.

A few weeks ago, I joked at work with some friends that being sober is overrated. Joked? Dare I make fun about something so serious? But I did. Nobody died and I survived to tell the tale. But after everything I’ve achieved to remain sober for almost four years, it got me thinking.

Have a got to a dangerous stage now were I’m taking my recovery for granted?

I joked in private. It was to diffuse a difficult situation at work that we were dealing with at the time. I tried to lighten the mood and it worked. I’ve found myself doing this now and again in other areas of my life. I do it rarely and only with people I trust. Friends who know me well enough to understand that my recovery is solid. They know that now and again I can make light of it if I need to. But that’s just me, it’s my way. But maybe I shouldn’t.

I’m at a point where I rarely think about drinking alcohol every hour (or second) of the day, as I used to. I simply get on with my day-to-day stuff. But right at the very beginning, every part of my body screamed for the alcohol I’d deprived it from. My brain was on high alert 24/7. It had to be. But in time, and as life gradually improved, the urgency wore off bit by bit. I began to trust myself. It was irrelevant if others trusted me or not (although life is so much easier when they eventually do).

The only person who needed to believe in me – was me.

Everything crumbles to dust if you can’t find the courage and strength to believe in yourself.

You kick, and you kick hard to get the demons further away until eventually the inner screams fade to whispers. But they are constantly waiting. Don’t be fooled by the peace and solitude you’ve created in your head. The demons are there waiting, ready for the next round of guilt and self-degradation.

I remember writing in a very early post on here that I’d seen my own blood so many times in one horrific form or another, I could recognise it in a line-up. I never want to go back to that passive disregard towards life again. A life (if you could call it that) when my daily mantra was ‘I pray that the next drink will kill me.’

Nobody gets sober years under their belt by luck or because it’s easy. It’s a slow, laborious, and often hellish process that I don’t want to repeat again. Flukes aren’t something that exists in anybody’s recovery

In recovery, the only time luck comes into play, the only reason I’m typing this at all, isn’t because I’m superhuman or my organs can survive any torture I put it through. It’s luck. Pure luck. I shouldn’t be alive. But here I am. Our friend luck is the only reason any alcoholic or addict survives the liquid Russian Roulette.

Overconfidence and ego are lethal in the early months and years in recovery. They are as real a danger to us as walking into a pub or pressing a dealer’s number on your phone.

Overconfidence and ego give you permission to feelimmortal, that you’re immune from all that life can throw at you – ‘bring it on, I’m strong enough to handle it.’ You become dangerously deluded. It’s human nature. But all this bravado is the flimsy, Marvel comic audacity of a child, crying behind a cheap mask

Recovery doesn’t exist within smoke and mirrors. It exists because there is a need for it to exist. You have to make it work or you die.

I know this because very early on I was plagued with overconfidence. I’ve also seen countless other recovering people fall for the same mental scam again and again. We fail miserably – again and again.

You can’t just have one! As the saying goes – one is too many and a thousand isn’t enough.

But you do need confidence. It gives you the self-assurance to make informed choices. It helps you be assertive and to stop your life and soul becoming stale. It gives you the nerve to delete negativity and move on safely. Without it, the everyday becomes merely a static snapshot.

But allow that confidence to overinflate and, well . . . we know where that one goes.

Balance in anything is key.

Last year I read fifty-two books.

No big deal there. Many people read much more, others much less, some nothing at all. So what! It’s a big deal for me! I’ve read books voraciously since I was a child. I was the typical NHS spectacle-wearing, nerdy bookworm. I lived for the words and worlds wrapped within paper covers. But for the thirteen years of hardcore drinking, there was nothing. Everything I loved became distorted through the bottom of a wine bottle. I could barely even see.

My beloved art, music and literature didn’t stand a chance.

Nowadays I go about my everyday business of life like everyone else. But floating around inside my mind is a constant, critical awareness of all the mental traps I could easily fall into at any given time and place. It isn’t something that occupies my full attention 24/7. But over the years of constant brain-training and support, it’s a part of me that now silently exists inside, keeping me safe. A kind of addicts sixth sense, or antivirus.

A blind person cannot see, therefore all other senses are heightened and fine-tuned to compensate for the loss. A recovering alcoholic cannot drink alcohol, therefore . . . a recovering drug addict cannot use, therefore . . . A recovering gambler cannot bet, therefore . . .

You get the picture. I ramble.

This post is a bit of a messy mix-and-match of everything I’ve written here since I began. I’ve no doubt plagiarised and repeated myself. But some things are important enough to need repeating. These are simply some of what I’ve learned up until now. It all got me here, four years on. But everyone is different. If anything in here helps anyone, even in a small way, I’m happy. But find your own way. Throw away what doesn’t work for you and stick with what does. There are no fast and hard rules in recovery. Make your own. It’s your life.

This is mine, so far.

So, do I take my recovery for granted? I hope all the above answers that.

Take care and stay safe xx

The Vulnerable Dead

Day: 1146

Many people see addicts as frightening, or at the very least, intimidating. I get it. Before alcoholism sucker-punched my life, so did I.

Many moons ago, before the alcohol became bad, and when I was living near London, I regularly delivered stationary to a tourist information centre. It was next-door to a recovery centre. As is always the way, outside was always a raggedy group of recovering addicts, smoking cigarettes with shaky fingers. I had to park my van and walk past them, quickly wheeling my trolley full of stuff. I’d hear them, smell them, see them – fear them. They were never impolite or intimidating, simply jittery, frustrated, and anxious. Just a bunch of anxious people standing around and getting their last smoke in before a group or appointment.

But they were addicts!

The hollowed-out cheeks of heroin addicts terrified me. Were they heroin addicts? How the hell did I even know? I was clueless. Others were red-faced and bloated. Probably alcoholics. Again, I was naive and judgemental. But what if the heroin people mugged me for their fix money? What if they injected me with dirty needles just for kicks? Because that’s what heroin addicts do all day, right? What if the alcoholics got together in an alcohol-fuelled rage and beat me to a pulp? Just for the hell of it! Because that’s what, blah, blah, blah . . .

Ah, stigma. I knew you so well!

There was more chance of a vagina growing on my elbow than any of this ridiculous internal fear-mongering coming true. But I didn’t know. I was too busy being paralysed by fear, hyped-up on media, gossip and rumour.

I was simply walking past a group of fellow humans who had dealt with their past problems the wrong way. They were trying to put things right for themselves.

Most addicts are passive, shy, and private due to huge amounts of shame and guilt. Many are terrified. Aside from the rare few who feed the stigma machine, addicts wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

* * *

Skip a few years. I went from addict-phobic, to standing outside a recovery centre, anxiously smoking roll-ups with my fellow addicts, in-between groups, and appointments. We would, amongst other things, talk about how harsh it is to be stigmatised by judgey-normals.

But I can absolutely understand why people fear addicts.

During addiction we can appear like the animated dead, unreadable expressions on our faces as we stumble and mumble. We’re anxious, depressed, frustrated, and poisoned. We have been known to vomit and urinate in public (wherever we lay our hats, and all that). Sometimes we sleep in the wrong places (sometimes at the request of the police). We can smell odd, often eye-wateringly so. But we are mostly people who got life wrong for a while – and became stuck.

But what you’re actually seeing is total, raw vulnerability.

We often get preyed upon, blamed, shamed and taken advantage of. Why? Because it’s easy. We are rarely aware when fingers are pointed. Also (mid-drink or drug) we don’t care. Apart from flooding of our blood with various poisons, we rarely care about much. You tell us black is white and you’d maybe get a thumbs up and a nonchalant smile. We mostly just want people to leave us alone.

On two occasions, I really did take people at their word. I paid for it dearly, for years afterwards. Here they are:

1: I received a standard letter from the bank asking me to come in for a review of my account. Nothing bad or even anything to worry about. Just a chat. I went. I think I did! I must have done. Because when I woke up the next day, I had printed documentation in black and white with my signature confirming it. I didn’t remember a thing. But I’ll guarantee you this – I will have staggered into that bank, slurring my words and stinking to high-heaven of booze. I would have been unshaven, scruffy, and wearing the same clothes I’d been in for days. It wouldn’t have been a pretty sight, or smell. So why did I wake up the next day with a crumpled contract for a £4000 loan and a credit card? I only went in for an account review, right?

2: One morning I woke up hungover after a blackout. Next to me was a brand-new mobile phone and a wine or blood-stained contract. It tied me in for £70 per month for two years. All neatly signed by me! This was from the friendly local Vodafone shop. Done and dusted!

To this day, I remember nothing of both occasions. But I definitely remember the years of struggling to pay everything off.

So who’s fault was it?

Mine, obviously. I got slaughtered on wine or whatever, and staggered into two corporate, money-hoovers when I really should have stayed home in bed. Simple. Got me bang to rights, guvnor! Stick the cuffs on.

But I have questions! Not many, but a few.

You’re a phone sales human, or a bank human. You see, hear, and smell an obviously intoxicated person stumbling in through your doors. Obviously, you gently persuade them to go home and come back another day, right? You’re not going to get any sense out of them. Or you go to your manager and ask for advice? He/she would advise the above, obviously?

Obviously not!

You go for the money-shot. Straight into the pockets of the vulnerable and pull out as much cash as possible. Drain that bank account and milk it for what it’s worth! For years! Because you’ve got them where you need them – vulnerable! You may as well kick a homeless person in the face and steal their change whilst you’re at it. Pull a feeding baby from its mothers breast as well. Why not eh? It’s all the same thing. Taking advantage of, and taking the money from, the most susceptible people who walk through the door. Making the figures look good. Having your tongue firmly wedged up your greedy boss’s ass.

I’ve heard so many similar stories like mine from friends and ex-clients. Mine isn’t a one-off story. I’m not the only addict who’s been taken advantage of like this. Unfortunately, I won’t be the last.

But I’ll tell you what! What goes around, comes around! Many of us recover. We begin to shine and we never forget being screwed-over. We make our own money and pay our dues and debts. You’ll never take advantage of us again. When the going gets tough, the tough get creative. We write letters, books, essays, memoirs, emails, messages, posts, and blogs – sometimes about money-stealing, life-wrecking, cowardly excuses for humans.

If you are one of these modern-day robbers, I do forgive you. But I hope after reading this you’ll never screw-over another addict’s life like that again. Be fair. Be nice. Be a decent human being. Just be kind to your fellow humans. Life is too short. Simple.

Have a lovely day, stay amazing and be safe xx

Art by Mark Masters. Click photo for his site

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

Top Ten?

Day 733

Two years sober! That was a bit of a ride, and to be honest, the ride never stops. So how did that happen? Overnight? A magic pill? The fact that stopping drinking alcohol is simply a piece of cake?

None of the above.

Here’s my top ten of the steps that worked for me. In no particular order (apart from step one):

1: Always putting my recovery at the top of every list.
2: Wanting to stop drinking (not just having to).
3: Accepting help (you can’t do it alone. Believe me).
4: Hard work.
5: Finding my sense of humour again, very quickly! If you can laugh, you’re alive!
6: Realising nothing is ever bad enough to use as an excuse to drink.
7: Listening. Talking is great, but listening is just as important, if not more.
8: Learning about my addiction.
9: Being selfish in my recovery. I come first. Always!
10: Always making sure step number one never changes. Ever!

All the above, and a hell of a lot more, took me three years to realise. The list is endless and you will find your own to suit you. Three years to get two years sober. It certainly didn’t happen overnight. Two lapses and two stays in rehab, and a hell of a lot of hard work. I won’t sugarcoat it for you, it was hell on earth at the beginning. I felt as if I was going insane. I was in mourning for my murdered my best friend, alcohol. The friend I believed looked after me and kept me safe, every day of my life – garbage.

But alcohol was a deceiver and a serially slow killer. A stripper of souls. A trickster, a fraud, an abuser, a scammer, a personality hacker and a rapist of the heart and mind.

But slowly, very slowly, it improved day by day.

Baby steps. And if baby steps were too hasty, I walked slower. Staying alive isn’t a race. If you want quick, there is always death. But I wouldn’t recommend it.

Even now, I’m constantly on my guard. Addiction is a slippery little sucker. It whispers to me often. It will never go away. I may be an addict, but it doesn’t mean my addiction will kill me. I have too much to do in my life now. I made myself too busy to listen to my addiction. My recovery network is huge, and I use it every day. I built it myself, bit by bit, person by person, book by book. Hope by hope.

Hope by example, saves lives. If you think you literally have nothing to live for, you’re wrong. You have hope. Somewhere. You just need to find it. It’s there. And when you find it, you can start to live again.

Baby steps + hope x hard work = A new beginning.

Find your own top ten. It’s yours. Especially designed for you, by you.

But a word of advice. Always make sure your recovery is number one, the top of every list. Because if it isn’t . . .

Stay safe everyone xx