I’m sitting in a little cafe, drinking coffee, having just come out of the addiction centre. A friend advised me not to ring in advance, but to go, so that’s what I did. The whole way there in the car, I thought that I should be organising my Christmas present list, hoovering, making wholesome food for my children. But I kept driving, parked, got out, walked across the road, pushed open the door and went in. I have been to some meetings in the same place so it wasn’t totally alien; but the man at the reception desk looked a bit surprised when I said I needed help, and that I was self-referring. A criminal record? No. Domestic abuse? No. Addiction to alcohol? You don’t look like ‘that sort of person’ he said cheerfully.
The notion of not being ‘that sort of person’ is, I think, what has kept me from seeking help for so long. Whenever I tiptoe around the idea that my drinking might actually be damaging me, and everyone around me, I push it aside because the picture of me doesn’t fit with the picture of people I see in my mind, weaving down the street. But on Monday I have got a more detailed assessment at the centre. Provided I am totally honest there, I hope I can find help and a way out of this pit.
Day 2 today.