I am starting again. This is Day 1 but I feel so low and sad that I’m describing it as Day 0. I’ve been here before, but this time it feels different. This time, I need to do it differently.
Last night we went to a supper party. I was undecided about drinking but by mid-afternoon I was sure I would drink. But what really struck me last night were the little things about the drinking: the way I looked for the bottle, the way I started to worry when I’d finished my glass. All the sophistication in the 1976 pudding wine was lost: I wasn’t sophisticated, I could barely even taste it. I’d drunk so much by then that the quality of the wine was irrelevant. My dear, sweet husband sat opposite me and watched.
Right. I need to tackle this in a different way. No more flailing about. I can’t keep stopping at day 2, day 42, day whatever. I need to keep going. So I’m going to have to do this in a way which gets me through these hurdles. For a start, I’m going to write here every day, as I have found the blog to be good. And I’m going to need to look more carefully at my triggers. This morning, I’ve already been worrying about some boozy friends coming to stay in January, about Christmas – about this Friday, for crying out loud. I can’t think like this. I have to work on what is happening today, and go forward like that.
The kids are still asleep as it’s half-term here. I have crept downstairs, desperate to write here, desperate for help.