Throughout my days of consuming alcohol, I coincidentally experienced a gloomy echo of inevitable destruction during Dry January or Sober October. I was convinced of my early failure, as I didn’t foresee my longevity in these campaigns. I turned out to be a miserable failure at both drinking and sobriety. It was well suggested that for an average drinker, such proposals like Sober October could be seen as short-term lifestyle alterations for immediate betterment. However, I was far from such a state. As an alcohol addict, my early phases of alcohol withdrawal felt horrendous. It was as if I was heading into imprisonment each time I attempted to stop.
The initial phase of my two rehab stints felt like an onslaught. My nocturnal life was limited to staring blankly at the four walls for the initial fortnight, sleep deprived. Huge meals caused me dizziness and nausea. With my second venture into rehab at 24, I roamed around the vast old infrastructure located in eastern Cork, with big bags of popcorn and cups of coffee. I usually spent my evenings taking rounds of the garden in my Wellington boots while enjoying Tom Waits’s music. Tears flooded my eyes, particularly during the late-night silent hours. My isolated walking excursions led me into trouble as I screamed into the trees. My skin was dehydrated, and my hair, just like my mind, was an absolute mess. A constant, dull pain radiated from my damaged ankle. I hatefully avoided any mirror reflections and even my own shadow scared me. With or without alcohol, I wasn’t able to sustain. I constantly longed for being swept away into the sea, never to return. I hallucinated algebraic equations on the walls which vanished before I could contemplate them. I indulged in crossword puzzles with rage. After a terrifying dream induced by alcohol withdrawal, I woke up in a sweat-soaked bed only to realise I was at a rehabilitation centre, safe and exactly where I needed to be.
Let’s consider the concept of Sober October, a phenomenon in which regular drinkers choose a movie outing over a visit to the pub for a complete month, only to maintain their usual drinking habits afterwards. This didn’t make sense to me; it was not something I could handle. Social media contributes a great deal to this trend. Regular drinkers frequently document their Sober October – a practice, I must admit, that seems commendable for those who drink moderately. I wholeheartedly applaud and urge anyone who chooses to stop drinking, regardless of the duration. Nevertheless, as an alcoholic, my interpretation of reality is skewed. My misguided belief was that I could quit, start afresh, and my increasingly worrying affair with alcohol would self-mend into a well-balanced association after a one-month break. I couldn’t have been more mistaken.
The belief that a month-long abstinence will allow you to regain control and become a more mindful drinker is an absolute fallacy for alcoholics. In the times when I used to drink, abstaining and then re-engaging with alcohol meant experiencing further certain despair. It resembled a despair-laden lift that would descend a level whenever I restarted my drinking. The repercussions would amplify, and the suffering would intensify beyond what one would ever imagine. When I use the term “we”, I refer to the shared sober journeys embarked by alcoholics, alongside their families and friends – all filled with a renewed sense of hope. However, alcoholics require something more concrete than a mere Sober October or running marathons.
Contrary to my initial thought that a month’s break from alcohol would fix my troubled relationship with it, I was sorely mistaken. Notably, I battled with alcoholism far ahead of my first encounter with a drink at the tender age of 12 during a skiing vacation. My mind convinced me of my non-alcoholic status, in spite of numerous hospitalizations. One doesn’t necessarily have to cross 45 to be an alcoholic; age has no bearing on this.
By the time I hit 24 years old, my customary response to drinking led to intense withdrawal symptoms, compelling me to endure extended hospital stays or persistently quiver like a frail leaf until, with a sufficient dosage of Librium, I regained the ability to firmly grasp a cup. I was both psychologically and physically enslaved by alcohol. It didn’t take a full month for my addiction to set in, and it certainly took considerably longer to fully recover.
Prior to my constant hospital visits and routine morning drinking, I would often take temporary breaks from alcohol. These hiatuses typically followed embarrassing weekends of memory blackouts from Friday to Sunday, or they came right before a monumental drinking spree. I once refrained from imbibing for a full 13 weeks (a very long period for someone in denial of their drinking problem). However, I ended up spending four consecutive days in the same pub, surrounded by familiar faces. The subsequent week at my job, my former self was barely recognisable. Interestingly, I was capable of balancing work and drinking at that time.
Participants of Sober October who have a moderate drinking habit will likely experience improved sleep, increased energy levels, enhanced skin quality, heightened work productivity, among other benefits. But for individuals suffering from alcoholism, I suggest a change in outlook: if a month is achievable, so is another month. However, focusing on today is the key.
As an alcoholic yourself, if you find your body yearning for a drink this Sober October, I can relate to your struggle. However, the silver lining is emotions are fleeting. You are not alone, even if it may seem like it when others appear able to easily give up drinking.
If you feel inferior watching moderate drinkers effortlessly spend their Saturdays engaged in non-drinking endeavours, I understand. I, too, felt completely worthless. These movements were incredibly alienating to me as I realised that I would never be capable of consuming alcohol in moderation again, regardless of the length of my abstinent period. Sober October, in its initial phase, presented a misleading sense of hope to me and many other alcoholics I knew. It facilitated my denial until I confessed to myself that I was contending with an illness with no end in sight.
For someone with my level of alcoholism, the sole answer lies in maintaining sobriety. It’s a wonder I’m even here to write about it. You can also experience the joy that comes with sobriety, and it doesn’t stop after October.
Mary-Kate Harrington, now 25 years old, is a writer and an advocate for recovery who has successfully battled alcoholism. Originally from west Cork, she currently resides in London.