![]() It very quickly became addictively easy and enjoyable to maintain my teetotal state. All things that at one time or another would've been chalked up as a 'funny story', slowly started becoming a lot less hilarious the older I got, and after realising I’d really never do those things sober.Īt first, I was unsure I could make it to 90 days without alcohol, but the actual experience was life-changing. Over the past decade I’ve lost phones, thrown up in plant pots and slept with people I shouldn’t have (and let’s not even discuss the drunk texts. "Things that once would've been a 'funny story' become a lot less hilarious the older I got" Or maybe I’d always been a hot mess but it had never been picked up on by them, because we all were (no shade, love you guys)? In total, I was sober for fifteen months – and this is what I learned along the way.Īt 27, after a solid 13 years of drinking pretty much every week without fail (such is the culture we’re born into in Britain, right? My teenage friends and I would regularly sneak alcohol from our parents’ cupboards to drink in fields from the age of thirteen), I was definitely a problematic binge drinker.īizarrely, my university friends labelled me as ‘the one who always kept it together on a night out’, but the older I got, the less accurate that title felt. I decided on three months off the booze (one didn’t seem enough) and ended up embarking on a journey that changed my relationship with alcohol forever. I’d text my friends and most of the time the answer was, ‘Nothing! You’re paranoid!’ But, as I sat shivering in the shower that one particularly bleak morning, picking the glass out (apparently I’d fallen out of a taxi), I made a vow to stop drinking. The pattern back then went like this: hit the booze hard and then wake up hating myself (to such an extent that I’d cry and physically pick at my skin), terrified of what I might have said or done the night before. There were gaping holes in my memory that my hungover brain began to fill with a host of worst-case scenarios, a rush of anxiety that was starting to become all-too familiar. I knew I’d spent the night downing shots and requesting Sophie Ellis-Bextor in a south London gay bar with my friends. Where did it come from? I couldn’t remember. ![]() It was a small piece of glass wedged into my shoulder that did it. ![]()
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