I will never forget the desperate, dark place I was in when I decided to quit drinking. I was hung over. Epically hung over. And then there were the headaches. The exhaustion. The shame. The anxiety. So many days were spent just surviving the after effects of my latest binge.
I was embarrassed. I didn’t remember what I had said or done the night before. I alienated so many friends and family members while drunk. No telling what I’d done or who I’d hurt or offended next to add to that list.
I was scared. Scared of losing friends. My family. My daughter. The shred of dignity I had left. My freedom. I was doing things that were morally and legally wrong. Every binge got more extreme than the last one. I was out of control and it was getting worse. I was spiraling downward and not sure how to fix things.
My health was suffering. My skin. My liver. My spleen. My heart. I stopped caring about my body and what I was doing to it. Even after being hospitalised for an enlarged spleen and spots on my liver due to excessive drinking. I stopped eating well. Drinking, smoking and partying was far more important. I gained weight. I held my breath before every doctor’s appointment, petrified of the damage I may have caused to my own body. And when that message came loud and clear, I ignored it.
When I decided to quit, I had a deep feeling of dread that was unshakable. No one said this would be easy. But when I decided to quit, I was desperate to be in the place I am at right now. To find peace in sobriety. To be excited about life without drinking. And for the first time in my 4 months of sobriety, I am just that. Excited. I’m not stupid, there will still be hard days ahead, but I know I can make it. Sober. After all, I’ve finally realised something I’ve been told all along. I am strong. I am tough. I am a fighter. And I’m a lot stronger sober than I ever was drunk. And nicer.