three.

A story.

Some years ago she walked with the swagger of youth towards her local pub. She sat and drank pints of lager, then rum and ginger. She did this when the mood hit her. She sat with people who talked about things that didn’t really matter. That was okay. Some years ago, on a night like this she met him. He leant on the bar, foot tucked behind ankle. He sat with her and everyone else disappeared. Because something like joy or peace or understanding sat between them. They talked and listened. Little smoke stories that could have only been caught by each other. Sucked in. Breathed in. Turning into one of those memories that you know you must remember. Around them the chaos of the world turned into black ink. Time moved on. Like time does. She sped through country lanes to wrap herself around him. He passed her his story and she held it close. He played her music that turned her skin into velvet. They breathed in the sun. They danced in the rain. She drove him and her sister to Devon. They sang as they poured through shallow sun roads. She handed him a slice of her. And on. They picked up the keys to their flat. He told her ‘forever and a day’. She told it back. They ate Chinese food on the floor. He kissed her on the forehead. They rushed home after their days. They held each other. They kept their demons in a little black box. They drove to the Lake District and danced on water. They came home to their flat. And on. Their demons escaped and the chaos that had turned black melted into mud. Their feet got stuck. Together they tried to drag themselves out of fear. He couldn’t get out. They had swallowed him whole. Out of her lungs poured screams of ‘no.’ Her heart broke. She sat alone on a bench in that park by that flat. Alone she asked him to hold her hand. Alone she told him to take her home. In the cold she missed him. She asked him where he was. She wanted to burn the world.

Three years on. She wants to throw chairs through windows. She lets red hot breaths beat under her skin. It hurts her. Because everyday she misses him. Today she misses him. She wishes for a different ending to her story. 

Time does not take away the pain. It just teaches you how to live with it. The same angry. The same missing. The same questions. The same doubt. It's just locked away. In that girl, that was me. 

And I miss you.

And I love you. 

being

I am on medication for depression.

I have been on and off. 

Tried so many types.

Different variations. 

Cocktails. 

A pick-a-mix of anti depressants, sleeping pills, anti anxiety, and so on. 

Meds that dull the senses. That stop tears in their tracks. That hold me. That let me sleep. My medication lets me 'be'. It takes the racing heart and sweaty palms out of ordering coffee. It lets my head creep up from staring at the floor. It takes some of my pain away. On the darkest of days it gives me a slice of light. It gives me the ability to be. This medication helps me and many others turn days of despair into days where getting out of bed is a possibility. 

However there is a foggy stigma when it comes my little tablets. It rears it's ugly head whenever this subject is mentioned. And I am angry. I am angry that mental illness can sometimes hold hands with shame. I have felt that shame. I have clasped my mouth closed with quivering hands when I should have shouted the loudest. I have whispered when I should have screamed. I have said those words 'no, I doing fine' hoping someone would hear the hidden meaning, that had sunk so deep I didn't even know how to breathe. This stigma scares me. This stigma must leave. 

No one smuggles in a secret Lemsip when they have a cold. No one asks a patient in a coma if they've tried 'getting up.' No one tells someone with a broken leg 'to go running.' So why do we do this with mental illness? Why do people tell me to 'cheer up' when there is something damaged in my brain? Just because it's not visible does not mean it's not there. And the stark reality is that people die. These illnesses are vicious. They kill. If a little pill can stop that, if medication can save a life, or even just make a life livable. Then it must be okay. It has to be. 

It might not be the only answer. Medication is not the one and only. There are therapies. There are other answers. It just so happens that it helps me. And that is okay. 

we will not forget who we are. 

five.

As the days turn into weeks and tumble into months. The person I once was moves further and further away. The person that had only one thing on their mind. I have waved good bye. And the person I’m becoming is turning scars into thicker skin. I want to say that it gets easier. That it stops being so hard. Maybe in some ways it does. In some ways I learn a little more each day about how to live in recovery. 

It would be a lie to say 'I don't miss it'. Because I do. I write excuses in my brain. Wait for a bad day to push the 'fuck it' button. It's a little like there's a conflict in my mind. Between the old me and the new. But for the last five months the new me has been winning and I hope it will continue to. I don't ever what to let her lose. 

But the waves of aches and pains that once drove me to put chemicals in my brain still arrive in tidal storm. The crave is sketched so deep into my bones that I don’t think it will ever leave. It pulls me out when I’m in peace. When the cravings click their ugly battle cries I shut my eyes. I remember that I almost died. I silence the lies that whisper in my mind 'you need this.' Because the life I have now I am living, and I am loving.

Five months and I am okay. And I’d like to thank you all for every inch of your love and support.

and it's over.

One more sober mile stone. It can be done. 

The festive season was something I was dreading with all of my being. I was terrified I wouldn't make it through clean and sober. In reality I feel like it's made me stronger. Made me heal that little bit more. Helped me put together a few more of the pieces of myself that I lost. With the help of my small army of loved ones, I made it through. 

Over Christmas I locked the doors of my family home and only snuck out to see some fierce and loyal friends when things weren’t too dark. My family once again stood guard around me when I dipped further into that bone aching fog of depression. They dragged me out of it by never leaving my side. Christmas day; calm arrived just in time. We ate too much food and watched shit TV, in perfect tradition. And when that beast addiction tapping at the back of my skull became too fucking loud I reached out to the people around me and of course they were, as always, ready to fight. I am forever thankful. 

For once, on New Years Eve I wasn't a teeth grinding, staggering, mess. I didn't wake up on the very first day of the year with black ink in my brain rather than memories, a nose full of chalky cocaine, or a sadness clutching my shoulders, digging it's claws into my neck. Instead, I waved good bye to 2015 with the biggest smile. With tummy turning happiness, surrounded by friends who never left my side. I held up my middle finger to last year. And oh so gladly waved it the fuck good bye. I had a well and truly wonderful night and woke up with memories to remember. So I enter this year feeling hopeful. Feeling ready to move on. Ready for an adventure. And I can’t bloody wait. 

oh dear I think that Christmas cheer and sh*t went and got me.

 It is the time of year when eating and drinking your body weight in junk food and alcohol is totally acceptable. Which is wonderful for a lot of you out there. But for us addicts in recovery we are faced with another challenge; getting through the festive days with no booze. Smiling through those uncomfortable 'what are you doing with your life?' conversations. Chewing down Brussels sprouts without indulging in our favorite Christmas tipple. No bucks fizz at breakfast. No cold lager cheers. And oh how I miss it.

But. And it's a big fat BUT, this year I started healing (as some of you know, sorry I must sound like a broken record!) I started learning how to live a life without my bastard black dog being in control. This Christmas I have something to be well and truly happy about. So I can focus not on intoxication this year but on no longer living with that tricky prick regret. Despite recovery being bloody difficult I am finally getting better and learning how to be happy and live a life knowing that happiness is a possibility for me. And maybe that's what this time of year should really be about. Despite it being sickeningly sentimental, maybe Christmas is a time to be reflective and remember that we are loved. A time to surround ourselves with the people we love. Humans, are of course, undoubtedly barmy; bringing trees in houses, and being happy that some lady had a baby some 2015 years ago, are a few of our milder insults to logic. But we do give ourselves these couple of days. Just to be with each other. In our own little ways. So this year that's what I am going to make Christmas about. Or at least I'm going to try.

So Merry Christmas. One and all. And a shout out to those who (like me) are about to embark on their very first sober Christmas. We can do it.  

if every fool wore a crown I would be a king and not a clown

Once again I am foolish.
Once again Bristol stands ugly and aggressive before me.
It's thick shoulders bouncing as it laughs at me.
A bastard.

All my memories leave me totally naked in the light of this city.
And oh so suddenly it doesn't feel like home, just when I need to be.
Because once again I've been a classic fool.
I must have forgotten that all that fragility and vulnerability was running through my veins. Or perhaps I thought for a moment too long, that something good might finally happen. Either way I've been silly in my brain again.
I am wrong again.
Obviously. Classic me.

I am aware this doesn't make much sense.

A couple of things have happened recently that have very almost caused a relapse.
I haven't relapsed. But I'm really struggling.
And it's not because I want to have a pint, and be silly, I'm really struggling because I'm hurting. Because I've come home to feel a million miles away. Because I'm missing so much and so many.

Again I am reminded. Again I am reminded that my recovery comes first. Again I reminded of who I am. I am an addict.

one hundred and five days.

Fifteen weeks clean and sober. One hundred and five days. Zero units of alcohol. Zero narcotics. 

If someone said that this would be a possibility for me a year ago or even six months ago. If (in the world of cliques), someone had abruptly knocked on my door and said, 'you will be sober for one hundred and five days.' Firstly I'd be slightly dazed by the audacity of this unknown being, then mildly frightened by the mysterious stranger but finally (of course) I would have laughed, at this (seemingly) absolutely ridiculous statement. 

Some of the 105 days have been a lot longer than others. Some of the days I've had to fight harder and I will continue the fight. My recovery continues and it will always continue. Everyday I remember the buzzing head and sickness of my old life and that pushes me forwards. Being an addict means being constantly vigilant, constantly assessing every inch of my mood. My recovery will always come first because if it doesn't I risk the possibility that everything will sharply fall apart. 

But right now, I feel like I really like the sound of 'one hundred and five days clean and sober.' It's got a ring to it, but I think I'll like two hundred and five just as much.