Once again, we find ourselves in this annual phase. I’ve purchased three aquilegias, but I’ve yet to embed them in my garden. Some may recall that the previous year, I had an aquilegia that gradually succumbed to dehydration until its demise. This incident led me to return to the garden centre and acquire another, which I managed to plant successfully. Procrastination, indeed, is a grand time-waster. I’ve made a plan to populate my garden with the new aquilegias this afternoon. Recording this intent might very well propel me into action. (Indeed, it did.) Featured above is a snapshot of the prior year’s aquilegia. Despite being neglected throughout the winter, it is in a remarkably healthy condition.
The beginning of the day, particularly during this season, I savour a short moment in my garden while I await my morning brew. The pure delight those fleeting minutes provide is immeasurable. On certain mornings, the harmony is so absolute that even the whirring of the boiler competing with the chirping of the birds does little to disrupt the peace. I take great pleasure in observing the willowy white clouds as they sway and morph into gentle structures. I indulge in fantasies of ascending these ethereal formations and journeying to a mesmerising wonderland.
The serenity is palpable.
When the rain descends, the petrichor it leaves behind rejuvenates the environment, providing the warm, fertile soil with moisture that emanates a captivatingly aromatic fragrance. How delightful it would be if I could encapsulate it.
Perhaps the climb in temperature is to blame, but the sight of the evening sun filtering through the treetops and frolicking with the foliage before setting is enough to prompt me to uncork a bottle of wine and partake in several servings — alas, one must suffice.
I recognise the necessity for utmost caution when the hour for wine enjoyment rolls around. Armouring myself adequately is of equal importance to applying sun protection of factor 30.
This enjoyable routine seems eternally destined to recur, doesn’t it?
At times, the urge to sip on a glass of wine can be overpowering, and it’s not always about social drinking. For me, it’s more of an emotional response, whether it’s a reaction to celebratory news that makes me want to pop open a champagne bottle, or to cast off the gloom of having a tiff with a partner, child, or parent. It’s as if a glass of wine is the only bridge to lifting my spirits.
I detest this sensation.
Indeed, there are certain precipitants that can subvert one’s fortitude. The best way to counter this, for me personally, is to foresee these triggers. A peculiar phenomenon that I’ve noticed is the instinctive reach for a glass while I’m cooking, as if I’m mechanically programmed to pair the activity with a glass of wine. This baffles and perturbs me. The absurdity of it led me to question, perhaps it’s a sign that a glass of wine won’t hurt?
I had to extinguish this train of thought instantly.
When I was in the thrall of alcohol, I confined myself within societal expectations, akin to a self-imposed box. However, when I chose sobriety, I found myself outgrowing this restrictive milieu and stepped out, much to others’ disapproval. The reaction was far from the warm acceptance I optimistically envisaged. People have an inclination towards aversion when one breaks free from their confines, similar to the unsettling surprise of a jack-in-the-box. I recently encountered this sort of backlash, being metaphorically instructed to, “Shrink back to your box.”
“Behave yourself.”
Needless to say, these weren’t the exact words, but the sentiment was similar. By emerging from the box, I put myself on an equal footing, and this clearly disconcerted the other party. It prompts the introspective question, “Are these the kind of people I need in my life?”
It seems pigeonholing oneself is not a particularly constructive approach.
In consultation with my editor, we have determined that I will continue these writings, but will now be presenting them on a bimonthly basis. This suits my dual writing interests, as I have previously mentioned I also pen fiction. Thus, the new schedule allows me ample time to devote to my fictional endeavors.
Many years ago, I penned my initial work of fiction during a time when I was regularly indulging in alcohol. Although I was unable to secure a traditional publisher, I decided to publish the novel myself following a thorough editing process. Every time I received positive remarks concerning my book, it brought me joy, but the real reward was in maintaining my mental stability through the act of writing.
I found out not too long ago that I had been left out of a particular congregation. I hadn’t even realised such a group existed until I unintentionally discovered it one day. Being left out is far from pleasant and can be perceived as a form of intimidation.
After awakening in the morning, a stark realisation of having consumed an entire bottle of wine, despite my intent to limit to only two or three glasses, struck me. However, immersing myself in writing provided me with a more comforting mental state. I am now in the process of completing my second book, and even if it, too, gets a thumbs-down, I’m determined to persist in writing. The positive effects it has on me are undeniable – it serves as a therapeutic catharsis, especially while drafting these pieces from the heart and expressing sentiments that are challenging to articulate.
Our anxieties often lead to a skewed perception of reality and a fear of what hasn’t even occurred yet. Documenting these emotions brings relief to our burdened hearts. For me, it’s a source of support, as I’ve never attended the meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous, a platform which many seek refuge in globally.
I attended a book unveiling event – unfortunately, not for my work – but with me was my emotional armour in order to withstand any temptation. Even though wine was offered, I declined. However, someone’s voice whispered, “Try this exquisite wine”. I glanced around—Dolores was absent. It was my friend who suggested it.
The thought of falling back into old habits doesn’t cross my mind too often. Yet, a lingering subconscious fear of possibly succumbing to my old ways persists. If others have experienced a relapse after achieving extended years of abstinence, I too must remain vigilant. Now, I understand that a single glass of wine is off-limits for me. But will this understanding endure? Could there be a day when I might give in to the persuasive voice?
For the previous weeks, I’ve been fighting off an illness of some kind, presumably a stubborn virus. In an attempt to make me feel better, a pal suggested a hot whiskey, catching me by surprise. It seems there’s no shortage of amusing advice.
I’ve previously noted the amount of alcohol consumption in films—it feels like every scene involves uncorking a bottle of wine. Interestingly, this isn’t mirrored in literature. It’s been quite a while since I stumbled upon a literary piece where a character savours a glass of wine, though it coincidentally features in the book I’ve independently published. My protagonist works incognito as a barman, and the novel I’m currently penning also includes alcohol.
That said, it’s curious that alcohol isn’t as ubiquitous in book culture as it is in film.
Not so long ago, I discovered I’d been involuntarily excluded from a certain group. It was an uneasy revelation, particularly considering I wasn’t aware of the group’s existence until I stumbled upon it coincidentally. Exclusion feels harsh. It’s akin to bullying in a way. Would I genuinely want to be part of a group that specifically leaves out individuals? I prefer to consider this an oversight; the alternative, a purposeful neglect, paints a pretty dim picture of human decency—it’s playground antics and it’s high time such behaviour was outgrown.
I attended a mini reunion recently. Despite a few absences, it was a delightful day. I had the pleasure of sitting next to a man who had once shown me a significant act of kindness. An action I’ve never forgotten, and I was genuinely happy to reconnect. Between conversations, I informed him about my writing, and he expressed his interest in reading my works online. He then did something that had a profound impact on me—he ordered a glass of wine without asking my opinion, making me feel perfectly normal.
It’s not that I mind when people ask if I’m okay with them drinking. However, his lack of inquiry made me feel it was perfectly alright for me to choose sobriety and not feel out of pace.
Yet, there was a tinge of envy watching others enjoying a single glass of wine along with their dinner and stopping right there. I felt relieved not to be drinking, as if I were, I would have had to put on a façade and jokingly claim, “No, I’m merely a casual drinker, but this wine seems too delectable to stop at one.”
It could be argued that a continual reinforcement to a youngster about their qualities, be it fantastic/wonderful/gifted/lazy/problematic and so on, moulds them into such a character. It is as if these often-heard narratives develop a self-fulfilling prophecy that they ultimately become.
An expression I recall is the humorous remark, “Well, it’s five o’clock somewhere,” although, on this occasion, it wasn’t me who said it.
Quitting alcohol appears to transform a person, or at least, it altered me to a great extent. As I’ve noted before, I found myself confined and began rejecting things that I previously found tolerable. I don’t mean to stir up controversy, but it seems unavoidable. When I mark something as unacceptable, I am perceived as confrontational. The change confounds people because I had been accepting for such a long time. This shift often sparks conflict. Conversely, if I choose to remain silent now, it is viewed as being difficult – a term often associated with my childhood. “She’s very difficult,” I recall my mother saying as I was banished to my room yet again. One time I was told point-blank, “You’re very problematic, aren’t you?” Initially, I misunderstood the comment and thanked them, thinking it was a compliment.
Indeed, when children constantly hear that they’re wonderful/talented/lazy/problematic etc., they mature into these roles. If often told they’re problematic, they develop into a difficult child, and consequently, a difficult adult.
Perhaps, in my case, I lived up to the expectations and more.
Now, there are moments when I find myself in unfamiliar places, wondering how I got there. The reality is far from where I envisioned or wanted to be. Navigating this unknown territory without a map is fearful and I falter quite a bit. My attempts to find shortcuts usually backfire and extend my unwanted sojourn. The return journey is lengthened with numerous detours and traffic signals.
Such instances may fade, but they have a way of reappearing, unannounced and unwelcome.
I believe these experiences might simply be termed as mistakes. It appears I’ve made more than my fair share of those.
– Segment 3: Someone consumed sanitising gel
– Segment 4: Ceased consuming nine containers
– Segment 5: A gentleman accused me of deception
– Segment 6: Might you rue this libation?
– Segment 7: My gaze is fixated on the liquor
– Segment 8: Might the earth engulf me?
– Segment 9: Should I revisit Alcoholics Anonymous?
– Segment 10: Battling life’s minor terrors
– Segment 11: Proceed, you’ve earned it
– Segment 12: The reason behind my pseudonym
– Segment 13: My shimmer has faded
– Segment 14: Sobriety has borne strength
– Segment 15: I simply loathe myself
– Segment 16: Concealing my reliance
– Segment 17: Solitude in the city of love
– Segment 18: Second stint in rehabilitation
– Segment 19: Dread, unease … juxtaposed with comedy