It seems that, yet again, this blog is taking a new turn. Appropriate, I suppose, since it’s the new year and everything, but still not quite what I had planned when I began writing here three years ago. I was going to review my year (which was mostly good when you piece it all together coherently, as opposed to taking it as a jumbled mish-mash of random events) but, instead, I come here with a confession:
I never did get back on my wagon. Not quite. Well, I did, finally, but really only five days ago. Polishing off two bottles of Shiraz Mataro followed by hysterically crying over half a bottle of Baileys whilst watching Ashes To Ashes until 4am three nights in a row is something that should tell even the blindest fool that they have a problem – even if the swollen belly, the painful pins and needles in the feet and the pain of your already-damaged liver screaming at you don’t deliver the message.
If nothing else gets through your thick skull, then surely the death of the God of rock ought to?
This hit me extremely hard. The Big Man, the Immortal hero of rock fans everywhere, of every age, can actually die – and die he did. Nothing like the unexpected loss of one of your heroes to make you put on the brakes, sit up and take a good, hard look at yourself.
But what made me think the hardest were my husband’s tears as he watched me “double fist” a glass of wine and a glass of Baileys as I took part in an online piss-up in Lemmy’s memory, with eight thousand other fans – sharing memories, pictures and videos. People, when your man is lying next to you, crying and begging you to stay, to please not leave him, that is when you hit the emergency ejection button. It shouldn’t even come to that in the first place.
The brakes were applied with a screech the very next day. I even “came out” on my Facebook page so that I can no longer lie to myself – and the love, support and even empathy from those who have been there has been phenomenal. Others even reached out to me, thanking me for my honesty and telling me they felt they could admit their own addictions to themselves now. You can bet I’ll be there to support them as we battle this together, even as sober friends will be there for me.
I’m just going to come right out and say it, here and now. The truth as I know it:
I am The Hairy Housewife. If I am not an alcoholic, then I am the closest I can get to being one. I have a drinking problem and I need help. I do not want to die.
I have been remiss, and stupid. I fell into the “Just one won’t hurt” trap and I allowed alcohol back to become a regular feature of my life. Worse, I allowed it back into my home: something I swore I would never, ever do again. It stops here.
Fortunately, I am not short of friends and family. I also still love Doctor Who, my tarantulas and Chinese Tea. Especially now I know how to brew it and how to become tea drunk.