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It turns out that I’m not an alcoholic like the old man said; or only an amateur one, anyway.

 

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I reached day 5 of sobriety today. I had intended to go right through the next two weeks without a wine, but you know how it is…

 

Stuff…work…life…and WHY THE FUCK WOULD I WHEN I OBVIOUSLY DON’T HAVE A PROBLEM?

 

I lasted five more days than I expected to. Which I see as a success.

 

But it was definitely time.

 

My body was reeling from shock at the amount of alcohol I had forced my liver to process over the holiday period. On top of Christmas and New Year, we drank our way through several other minor celebrations and self-medication is so good for helping with Kurt-stress.

 

We middle-aged women might not have biological clocks ticking away to taunt us these days but we aren’t immune to the risk of illness or premature morbidity and every article about the increased risks of breast cancer and heart disease has felt like it is aimed directly at me recently.

 

Women have this innate talent for feeling guilty about anything and everything.

 

Obviously, feeling guilty about my parenting fails wasn’t enough to sustain me, (and in spite of giving up ciggies a good decade ago, which should have given me free entry into Royal smugdom), my body now makes me feel guilty whenever I so much as sniff a bottle of wine.

 

Apparently, women are the worst offenders when it comes to alcohol-abuse, and I can well believe it because most of my friends indulge in a crisp Chardy or two of a weekday evening. How else are we supposed to cope with children and men?

 

It’s so unfair that light, regular drinking is worse for your liver than binge-drinking.

 

And what makes it even harder for me to drink properly is living with Mr Holier-Than-Thou, who in spite of a fractured rib, is still exercising and can merrily survive on water during the week.

 

He tuts whenever I pour myself a glass of wine and I get a pain in my stomach from the guilt.

 

I thought tea might be a good replacement for my nightly wine, but one small mug defied all scientific logic and somehow managed to produce gallons of urine so I began to suffer from sleep deprivation as well as the irritability of withdrawal.

 

I’m relieved (and surprised) there’s been no sign of the shakes, but disappointed that I don’t look and feel like one of the Tampax advert girls or a yogi, either. And it goes without saying that I’ve defied science again by becoming the only person in the world to give up alcohol and not lose any fucking weight.

 

It’s the habit that’s hardest to kick. I don’t know what to do with myself during The Project or when I’m writing that last-minute blog post and need inspiration.

 

I just don’t feel that creative on water.

 

 

 

 

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