Life After Alcohol: What You’ve Got Versus What You’ve Lost
Actually getting off the booze is the easy part, relatively speaking. Picking up the pieces from the damage caused by years of outrageous self-abuse is the real test.
I drank to various degrees of hell for around 20 years. Countless relationships, romantic and otherwise, came and went. But with some sobriety under your belt, you have to ask yourself: “how much of it was real?”
Back in my late teens and early 20’s I lived in Canada for a few years. In my native UK I’d saved up enough money to get myself across the pond, get a job and set myself up. I was only hitting the drink at a pace likely to kill me once or twice a week. I was practically teetotal.
One thing is for sure: when you’re a young drunk and you’ve not lost your looks (if you had any in the first place) then you can get away with far more than you can in your mid forties, falling out of doorways and trashing hotel rooms seems almost charming.
Amazingly, despite my proclivity for drinking large measures until the following morning, I was able to attract the opposite sex.
I’d go on dates nicely dressed, clean shaven and with the appropriate amount of cologne applied. I’d even wait for my poor adversary to arrive before ordering my first drink, then settle down into light conversation. I’d pretend I was nervous and mention ordering drinks, which would of course settle any nerves felt by the girl I was meeting. ‘Normal’ drinking would ensue, never food of course, and the date would turn into a drinking session. 9 times out of 10 they’d be able to keep up with me — and if they couldn't we’d settle into a “I’ll order two drinks to your one to even things up” routine, which worked well. They’d say things like: “Wow, you Brits can really put the drink away!”
Eventually she’d need to eat, which would be towards the end of the night. I’d walk her home then head back to the bar, eager to hit the next phase — solo drinking until I fall asleep, wherever that may happen.
This went on for a while. I staggered from relationship to relationship, sometimes moving in with them which meant less money spent on rent and more cash for drinking — but never commiting. It was during one of these unions that I met Shannon.
Shannon was a Native American girl from New York who happened to be living in Toronto working as a paralegal secretary. I’d met her in an absolute shithole of a pub downtown somewhere, and after a few drunken games of pool we hit it off.
It was clear that we were completely incompatible, right from the start. She was frighteningly jealous, possessive and desperate for commitment. We also had something of an age gap. I was 19, she was 33.
One evening, we went to a Robbie Williams concert. As was often the case, I’d struck up a conversation with another girl at the bar while Shannon went to the toilet. After badly misjudging the time it would take her to return, she interrupted me attempting to get my new friend’s phone number.
WHACK! Went her fist across my face, as the new girl urgently backed away.
After several apologies and white wine spritzers, I managed to convince her that the girl was looking for a job and I knew a guy who would be able to help her out. She became slightly less threatening and we headed back home when the night was over.
I woke up around 3am and noticed that Shannon wasn’t in bed. The doors were all open and flashing blue lights filled the stairwell and the bedroom. I could hear her shouting something about ‘goddam British men’ and the intermittent squark of a Police radio. I pulled on my jeans and ventured downstairs.
Shannon had rather helpfully packed up all my clothes into a suitcase (my CD’s and other personal items were nowhere to be seen) and called the Police to ensure the transaction went as smoothly as possible. “I want it on record that Ladnie is leaving and I do NOT want his cheatin’ ass in my home!”
“We’re not gonna have any trouble here now Sir, are we?” asked the younger of the two lawmen.
“No no, not from me anyway.” I said. “Looks like I’m all ready to go doesn't it Darling?”I quipped, half joking, half concerned about where I’d be sleeping that night, having given up my apartment some weeks ago.
My flippance seemed to push Shannon over the edge, and she attempted to shoulder barge me out of the door. Luckily, the Constables soon realised she was a cast iron crazy person, and helped me through the door frame unscathed and into the street outside.
Unfortunately, all the bars were closed nearby, so I headed to a convenience store, bought a bottle of vodka and boarded the airport bus. Luckily, the back row was deserted so I headed there and hunkered down, driving the route several times over until the next day.
After spending a few weeks sleeping on acquaintances’ couches I eventually found a new apartment. Soon after that I met another girl in a bar, and soon after that we broke up due to more appalling behaviour from me.
Every now and again I remind myself of times like this in my life. Living on the edge of society, always one drinking session or apartment eviction away from homelessness. It went on for YEARS, way after I’d left Canada. I repeated the same behaviour in other places with other women. I’ve lost count of the number of ‘girlfriends’ I upset who saw something in me, invested time into me and got absolutely NOTHING in return. I had nothing to give, all I ever wanted to do was drink. In reality, all I was looking for was a full-time drinking partner.
What you’ve got versus what you’ve lost is such a great way to sum up where you are in your life as an ex-drinker.
Even if you get to a stage where you have quite literally nothing, if you’ve got your sobriety you’ve got a lot more than the drinking version of yourself ever had.
And that’s enough for me.
