I poured myself a large white wine and sank onto the sofa. I’d finished another day at work with children who had special needs, done the coursework for my online degree, vacuumed the house (twice) and cooked tea for my three kids, who were now in bed. With my husband, Lee, working away, it was ‘Mummy wine time’.
I topped up my glass again and again. When the bottle was empty, I opened another, then another.
When my alarm rang early next morning, my head was foggy, but I knew that night I’d do the same all over again. It had crept up on me, the drinking. To the outside world, I was a smiling, competent 30-year-old. I’d had a happy enough childhood, though at school I’d found it hard to fit in. Anxiety, feeling I wasn’t good enough, had taken hold. I met Lee when I was 16. We married three years later and were thrilled when son Joe was born soon after. Katie arrived on his second birthday and Barney two years on from that.
BIRTH OF A NEW HABIT
It was only when I went back to work in 2007, when Barney was two, that I started drinking at home. Lee’s job, setting up exhibitions, meant he travelled a lot and, while I was able to cope on my own, wine at the end of the day was my reward. “Where’s the harm?” I thought. I never touched a drop when I was pregnant and wouldn’t have dreamed of drink-driving – although looking back, I was probably over the limit taking the kids to school, which horrifies me now. I never drank in the day, but, sometimes after the afternoon school run, I’d pour a glass while cooking and chat on the phone to a friend. Wasn’t this happening in kitchens all over the country? For heaven’s sake, you could even buy a clock that said ‘Prosecco time!’ I loved my job, but many of the kids at work could be challenging and I found it hard to switch off. I’d run around cleaning, vacuuming again and again, but my focus was on the wine in the fridge.
When Lee was home, I’d say, “Let’s wind down for a bit,” as an excuse to open a bottle. He didn’t mind, could take it or leave it, whereas I was increasingly desperate for the numbing hit of alcohol. Knowing the issue was spiralling, I’d stop for a few days, then fall off the wagon again. I’d sign up for Sober October or Dry July, but my resolve never lasted more than a day. What was the point of life without wine? How would I celebrate without it, drown out the pressures? In 2014, Lee set up his own company with his parents and I left my job to join the family firm. I wanted to prove myself, but it was harder than I’d imagined. My anxiety levels went through the roof. I barely ate, picking at biscuits and leaving half my dinner. I went from a size 12 to an eight, despite the three bottles of wine that were, by now, a habit.
PLUMMETING HEALTH
The Australian Alcohol Guidelines advise women to drink no more than 10 units a week; I drank double that every night. I was worried what the neighbours would think of the empty bottles on recycling day, so I’d load them into the car and take them to the recycling depot instead.
I was beginning to have stomach problems and migraines. Stopping at traffic lights one day, I didn’t recognise any of the colours. The GP told me my blood pressure was dangerously high, but when it came down the following day, he prescribed migraine medication. Deep down, I knew what was to blame, but I didn’t fit the stereotype of an alcoholic and he didn’t ask me about my drinking. I was too scared to admit I had a problem, because then I’d have to do something about it. I just left the pills untouched in a drawer, preferring to self-medicate with Pinot Grigio.
I knew my eyes were a little cloudy, my skin dull, but I kept up appearances. Although I’d inevitably drink too much on the odd night out, my friends were oblivious to what was going on. Lee didn’t realise the extent of my drinking, but he was worried. “Do you think you’re drinking too much?” he’d ask. So I’d cut down for a few days, but it soon built up again. I took to secretly filling up my glass when he went to the loo. If he was working late, I’d drink until he was due home, then wash and dry my glass so that when he came in I could pour another, pretending it was my first. I didn’t stagger or sway, so the kids weren’t aware, but I began to suffer memory blackouts.
I’d wake up feeling sick as I pieced together the night before. Had I been snappy? Taken to social media and said something I shouldn’t have? The kids would chat about something we’d watched on TV and I wouldn’t remember a thing. That frightened me enough to dig out a leaflet for a help group I’d once picked up at the doctor’s office and stuffed in a drawer, but the counsellor I saw wasn’t any help. “Three bottles of wine?” he said. “I’d be on the floor.” Surely this wasn’t a competition?
GETTING HELP
Then I attended a support group, where another addict mentioned a drug called Antabuse, which makes you ill if you drink alcohol. So I summoned the courage to see my GP, who prescribed the tablets but advised me not to go cold turkey, just to reduce my intake. One night, when the kids were asleep, I was on the way to top myself up when I snapped. I hurled my glass against the wall, yelling: “I hate this stuff!” I was furious with wine, with myself, with the fact there was no magic wand.
In 2015, after a row at work one day, I went home to bed and didn’t leave for a week, telling the kids I wasn’t well. I felt detached from reality, not fully alive. Lee kept calm, but he must’ve been concerned because he’d come home to check on me during the day. After two months, I stopped taking the pills. “You’re back in control,” I thought. “One glass won’t hurt.” But the moment I’d had my first wine, my willpower crumbled. I had to face it – I was incapable of moderation. Tearfully, I told Lee, “I can’t do this anymore.”
He hugged me, saying: “I just want you to be okay.” He’d always supported me, never pushed me further than I was able to go. We’d talked about having another baby, and now our youngest was 12, the timing felt right. Discovering I was pregnant felt like a new life had begun in more ways than one. I took to secretly filling up my glass when he went to the loo ... I’d suffer memory blackouts. On September 7, 2016, I tipped all the wine at home down the sink and I haven’t touched a drop since.
FINDING NEW OUTLETS
It’d be lovely if my story ended there, but alcoholism is complicated. I felt fragile as I learnt how to reframe life without alcohol. Gripped by panic attacks, I thought: “I got sober for this? Where’s my reward?” But I stuck to the alcohol- free wine and diet cola, although, when I got through boxes of that a week, I gave that up, too. Then I started running as a stress-buster, but 5K became 10K... After six half marathons, I realised my addictive personality needed new outlets.
I began writing posts on social media, then a blog. Sharing my story and hearing other people’s stories was the best therapy. There was no shame, no judgement. I’m now an ambassador for Bee Sober, a global organisation with daily meetings.
I can never drink again because one would lead to another, but I enjoy life so much more now. I’m so grateful I’ve survived with my home, job and relationships intact, because others aren’t so lucky. The whole family is proud of what I’ve achieved and, at last, I can be proud of myself, too.
Hear Claire’s complete story in her book, My Not So Secret Recovery ($14.29; available from amazon.com.au).
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