Days sober: 32.
I have been sober for one month.
I am relieved, I’m relieved that I made it. I almost crumbled on Monday (29 days) but I’m glad I’ve made it a month.
I’m sure you’ve all heard about how it’s been really hot in London and how everyone’s having a literal meltdown over it. The heat is uncomfortable but sobriety is even more uncomfortable.
For me, hot weather means alcoholic beverages. It’s been so hard not to run to the pub garden and order a fruit cider over ice, or a jug of Pimms, or pitcher of Sex on the Beach, or just a cold beer. It’s so fucking hard. I made tricolore salad for supper using fresh stuff from the market and I thought about how perfectly a glass of crisp Chablis would accompany my meal, and I actually had tears in my eyes. Tears because I wanted it so badly, tears at realising that I was in tears over wine, tears that I want something that destroys me.
I should be in town right now (Thursday is the new Friday), all dressed up, sipping a Harvey Wallbanger with a handsome lawyer and the flamingos at the Kensington Roof Gardens. Or swirling a spritzer out in the sun at Frank’s in Peckham, with an edgy freelance designer from Hoxton. Or necking complimentary vodka shots at the opening night of a new club or gallery or show. Or even at the local battle cruiser across the road having a jar with my dad and friends. Instead, I am in pyjamas, lying on the floor and reading De fucking Profundis.
Just to clarify, I am 22, not 82. Sighhhhhh….