Tomorrow will mark the seventh anniversary of when I decided to pack in alcohol. I thought I was Oscar Wilde when I was drinking, an irrepressible wit and the life and soul of the party. This couldn’t be further from the truth. I was, on the contrary, an idiot of epic proportions, putting my own selfish needs before others, most importantly my loved ones. They deserved better, they still deserve better, and I thank my lucky stars they’ve stuck with me through thick and thin.
I’ve achieved quite a lot in the intervening period. I’ve ran marathons, been promoted, become a published author. I like to think I’ve been a decent husband and father, although that is very much still a work in progress. I can, and must, do so much better. I thought I would miss alcohol but turning my back on it was surprisingly easy. I never feel the urge to return to it and the thought of its taste and the ensuing hangover make me shudder involuntarily.
I’ve lost touch with a lot of people as a result of my decision to stop drinking. Some of these have been conscious decisions on my part, necessary life surgery in order to live my life as I feel I should. Others have simply drifted away, alcohol seemingly having been the only interest we had in common. This saddens me but was the friendship that strong if we only ever came together in an intoxicated state? We’re they even friends, rather mere acquaintances?
Some undoubtedly think I went a ‘bit funny’ during this defining period of my life. The invitations to socialise started to dry up and I was no longer part of the work ‘drinking culture.’ There were mutterings that I’d ‘found God,’ or maybe he found me. I’ve never quite been sure how that one works but he has flitted in and out of my life during these seven years. I know he’s there but I’m not sure where I am with regards my relationship with him.
God and I are more on and off than Ross and Rachel. I get annoyed with him, I am annoyed with him, but there are moments I still miss reading the Bible and learning more about the times and teachings of Jesus. Sometimes I get a strong urge to pick up the Bible or the works of C.S. Lewis. Yet, I always stop short and find something else to do. I think of defining moments when God hasn’t been around, I think of the hypocrisy of many Christians I knew and know.
Jesus turned the other cheek but he never turned his back on those he loved. When we stopped going to church we were dropped like a hot potato by many Christian ‘friends.’ And where is God during the current coronavirus crisis? Questions like these niggle at me and make me hesitate. I stand on the fringe and I remember previous hurt and rejection. Once bitten, twice shy. I don’t want to be part of that scene, a scene where I never felt fully comfortable or accepted.
I don’t miss alcohol and I don’t miss church. I don’t miss certain people, just as I’m sure they don’t miss me. I don’t miss the falseness, the veneer of friendship which evaporated once the going got tough. Life is too short for such games, for that is all they were. All I need are my wife and kids even though I’m sure I’m driving them crazy with this enforced absence from work. I like visiting the cows with Rebecca, giving Fionnuala foot rubs and burning lasagne.
I’m better than I was, and alcohol is no longer part of my life. I still have recurring ‘drunk dreams’ and wake up feeling panicked. I have ‘phantom’ hangovers where I can taste the stale beer on my breath and sense the fear and shame. I don’t think I’ll ever drink again, I don’t know if I’ll ever pick up a Bible again. Maybe that part of me is gone as well, maybe it is merely hibernating. I don’t miss church, I don’t miss Christians but sometimes I miss Jesus.