12/02/19

But I’ve got a spare 1,000 calories to use!

So having made it through Day 2 of sobriety, I find myself thinking and feeling that it was relatively easier than I have previously experienced. Or as Gary Player said “the more I practice the luckier I get.” I do wonder if there is some sort of correlation between the amount of practice and worry though…like some crazy four box grid where as you practice more worry increases, or the Wortice Continuum. Surely this anti-intuitive Jung esq insight has to be worth millions in the wrong hands.

You ask my other half, the fact is I could probably pretty much worry about anything given half the chance. So I guess it isn’t surprising that now I am levelling out from the best that the beer “Made from More” (which I am sure has some form of Irish Heroin in it!) could throw at me as well as grapes older than some of Little Mix that indeed I am worrying about worrying. Silly really but the realisation that I’ve long come to is that my compass of certainty is orientated to the ‘frenetic’ North. (Imagine Jon Snow Game of Thrones styley, but really mental, like he really knows fuck all.)

I’m left contemplating a lot over the past few days really but most of the feelings centre around 3 particular worry beads; guilt, shame and why am I about as normal as a Jonathan Ross and Russel Brand voicemail sometimes? I am starting to wonder though about how futile it is to worry about any of these topics though…

But let’s start with the why on the behaviour front, I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about the 2 major female figures in my life; my wonderful better half and my Cinderella type evil Mother. Without getting in to too much gut wrenching, soul searching turning my abdomen and spleen inside out for the purpose of self examination I recently read an article in the Daily Mail online (which I often read and to be clear not for the right-winged, geriatric, xenophobic remainer bile, but for the clear editorial prowess of the celebrity section) that really made me think. Has my rather warped and distorted childhood turned me in to an adult so consumed and wracked with guilt about everything that I am almost an emotional paraplegic? It seems too far, I almost feel the opposite is true, I am an open well of emotion and as an introvert it is often doubly tiring being open and giving of myself, but its the way I want to live. I can’t change that and I’ve reflected long and hard on this over the last 3 days and here is the Uri Geller (fuck I am showing my age…insert Dynamo if under the age of 25) like mind bending truth, I lack confidence in being me…and alcohol gives me that slight edge, makes me that bit funnier (I mean I am starting from a high base), relaxed, less inhibited and puts me in control because alcohol forces every one to be more spontaneous, more free-flowing (2 words you should never say to an alcoholic in a bar / hotel / restaurant by the way!)

So coming round full circle, is my alcohol dependency based on a traumatic early years relationship, which has caused me to feel like I tick a of the few boxes on the hyper sensitive person article (more on that later) or is it that I like the taste of booze, or the little buzz it gives me, or that when I have a snifter of water, hops, barley and yeast combined (I probably could tell you the proportions to make the perfect craft brew!) that I get that little bit funnier. I guess it’s all of those reasons, but either which way when you stand up in front of a room and tell them you are an alcoholic, you don’t give them your back story, ten reasons why and that you don’t drink from brown bags on park benches. Reality dictates no-one gives a shit. Its helps to me, but consistency and repetition are what matter to me right now.

So re-reading the highly sensitive people article again, wondering if anyone is looking over my shoulder judging me, are they, they are laughing at me aren’t they…why me oh why me, “Mummy” (and back to real world) does it make me start really thinking about the 2-sides of the same coin of the lifetime of personal guilt and shame (the gin and vodka of the emotional world [DELETE HIGH BROW BREWING JOKE BEFORE PUBLISHING.]) They aren’t easy emotions to overcome and there is a part of me right now OK with still feeling shame and guilt at my own personal behaviour over this weekend just gone. I hurt my amazing better half. There is no getting away from that and here is my reality check, the moment that I am OK with that, I don’t deserve her. The moment I easily forgive myself I loose the empathy for her that is hurting my heart right now . No-one ever wants a constant reminder of making a bad decision and their being an utter arsehole (which must be tough for the paper based readers of the Daily Mail as Nigel Farage still seems to be representing the UK in the European Parliament – where literally there couldn’t be enough Sudocream to soothe that intolerable ring of arseholes – (collective noun)) but in this instance I refuse to let go of my guilt until I’ve proved that indeed the drinking made me an arsehole. My worry is (and I would worry wouldn’t I!) that I am just an arsehole…I really hope not but it scares me. I don’t think I am, but I worry I am. Emotionally draining contradiction in terms right there.

So game plan (and its come from that wanky Daily Mail article that I now swear some old people are staring over at me as a result of reading (get back to taking our country back to the dark ages Octogenarians!) but it’s time to befriend my inner critic and to let go of my grudges….it will all help. (Just saying the “Handbook for HSP” is £8.38 on Amazon rather than the advertised £9.99 in the Daily Mail. Jesus Christ these middle class people have too much disposable cash to spend on life’s little luxuries.) Ah, I see how I may have got in to this predicament now….

Anyway, I am focusing on the things to be grateful for….the love of an amazing woman, who I feel continually blessed to have in my life who loves me and the fact that not stewing my vital organs regularly means I have about 1,000 more calories per day to consume now. All done in a vein attempt to make sure I die of an excruciating fat riddled swollen abdomen, rather than a sclerotic liver. That is surely the way that Kings die (Henry VIII and Elvis being the only 2 examples I can think of but hey…)

I am off to over indulge in a protein bar.

Day 3 I am coming for you.

Gx