When I've drank alcohol in the past, I considered myself provocative but playful. Verbal jousting with friends was par for the course and all in good humour.
Another recent sober night out with drinking friends taught me just how close to the bone some of their comments could be. Dispatched with humour, these comments could be construed in an entirely different light by someone else.
I've found that by being around friends who drink, you really do need to take what they say with a pinch of salt. Sometimes they say certain things to get a rise out of you, or provoke a reaction. A sober man's thoughts, are a drunken man's words, is the popular phrase. I don't buy into that. A lot of what comes out of my friends mouth's when drunk is illogical and downright nasty. But viewed in its proper context, with alcohol being a conduit for exaggerated and prejudiced speech, you really can't take anything said as fact.
As Clint Eastwood once said, Opinions are like assholes. Everyone's got one.
Even more so after a few drinks, and the more outlandish, the better.
Two particular memories underpin this idea.
I remember a conversation I had with my sister-in-law one evening, and she quizzed me on why I wasn't drinking this particular night. My reply that I just wanted to build confidence speaking to strangers was met with considerable disdain.
She said that if someone had approached her sober when she was single, then she would have considered that person 'weird', carrying some hidden agenda.
That stuck with me for some time afterwards. Being a member of the opposite sex whose opinion I valued, I archived her observation in the heavily padded journal 'More reasons to drink'.
The second memory involved me imparting my worldly knowledge and advice to a friend of mine, who hadn't been drinking. We were in a club and I was lamenting our failure in wooing two women at the bar. My enthusiasm and encouragement to approach another group fell on deaf ears. When my sober friend conceded he wasn't really interested in approaching women tonight, it was then that I asked matter of factly, 'What's wrong with you?' This off the cuff comment clearly pushed a button, and that was the last time I saw him for almost 2 years.
These two examples highlight the power drunken words have on people around you. Especially on sober people. On the receiving end of these comments, it is important not to put too much stock on what is said. Just as motoring skills are impaired with even one alcoholic beverage, so too are your skills of logic and deduction. Shielding yourself from barbed comments is essential if nights out involve drunken friends. The key is to see it for what it really is. Playful banter. Rather than react with hostility, I believe a better approach is to roll with the punches. Plenty of criticism has rolled my way over the past few weekends as I forego alcohol. Instead of engaging in debate, reacting negatively to their playful jibes, I smile in the knowledge that I am in full control of my mind and mouth.
You should be able to distinguish between Dr Jekyll's sober and Mr Hyde's drunken personality, so whose opinion should you trust? The drunken one is an image, and although an entertaining mouthpiece, it is an illusion, and it's wise words are nothing of the sort. Shield yourself with this knowledge, and don't take it so seriously.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Straight and Sober in a Gay Bar
An old schoolfriend of mine, who I hadn't seen for a few months was in the City on business on Friday.
He is gay and been 'out' for a couple of years though never having had direct experience with the gay scene in Dublin. I decided that I should be a good tour guide and show him some of the sites. My knowledge of the gay haunts centred on Georges St., namely pubs 'The George' and 'The Dragon'.
I have stepped foot in three gay bars in my life.
First, was accidentally in Montpellier, France where my friend and I quickly fled finding ourselves suddenly surrounded by skimpy males on the dancefloor.
Second, was in Edinburgh, Scotland, drunkenly approaching every lesbian couple in sight.
Third, was in Dublin, the Dragon, where I brought a date, and in my insecurity (fuelled by copious amounts of booze) wanted to bring her to a safe haven where I thought she wouldn't get hit on by guys!
First. we sampled a few straight bars nearby to chat and pass the time. Good conversation and we were able to talk openly about our own experiences, and current challenges finding someone compatible.
He was drinking, and I was getting my sugar rush again from Cokes and Lucozades.
Around 10pm, we decided to try The George, probably the most famous gay bar in Dublin. I was nervous and apprehensive as we walked to the club. My friend was in good spirits though and his excitement was infectious. Mine more adrenaline induced.
Visions in my head of a seedy, sweaty den, and guys having open sex in cages, and half naked dancers, with electro-pop music blaring from the speakers. I imagined people pinching my ass, eyes like daggers slicing the layers off my body, and my squirming in a corner, praying for it all to end!
Whatever lay behind the doors, we never got to find out. The bouncer refused us entry! I was stunned.
My friend was none too happy either. His night almost ended before it started. No reason was offered. Considering I was sober and he was nowhere near drunk, I guess he just didn't like the look of us.
Anyway, we made the short journey to The Dragon instead. 8 euro entrance, and 6 euro drinks! Pretty steep, but I wasn't aware of anywhere else we could go.
A drag queen met us at ticket booth, and I felt like such an imposter! What would I say if someone approached me?
My friend had accompanied me to dozens of straight bars over the years. The least I could do was to be his wingman tonight.
We entered the main room, and found a lounge area away from the dancefloor. Nice layout, and not too noisy, so we could have a chat and he could scour for talent.
We stayed there for a few hours and here are some of my key learnings:
- I need to work on my eye contact. I had no idea where to look in the gay bar. I didn't make eye contact with anyone. I'm not sure if this was the right tactic, because I didn't want to attract any attention.
- I was painfully conscious of my surroundings when my friend went to the bar, or toilet. Left alone for more than 5 minutes, I buried my head in my phone, pretending to distract myself from the discomfort of the moment.
- My preconceptions of gay bars changed considerably after this experience. The music was great, the people from what I could see were very friendly. There were very few drunken lecherous people (compared to a straight bar). No aggro, and there was a nice vibe from the place where people just wanted to have fun.
- Gay guys certainly make much more of an effort when it comes to making themselves look good on a night out.
- One person approached me whilst I was alone. He was friendly, but I didn't know how to react, instead probably appearing hostile and dismissive. I need to loosen up a little and not take things too seriously when outside my comfort zone.
- On this particular night the attendees were 80% male. I was half expecting/hoping to see a lot of women there, and (secretly) hoping that a lesbian couple might take this frightened young bird under their wing!
- Bloated with fluids, I observed a line of people queuing specifically for the toilet cubicles. Now, I wouldn't want to speculate on what was happening in there, but I didn't hang around to find out!
- The gay bar I went to was not particularly sleazy. Certainly no more or less than any typical straight bar. People still have a bit of decorum, and the fear of approaching was clearly still there. It wasn't a cattle market, but clearly there were various different agenda's and ability levels present. I saw groups of young guys seated together chatting, affluent older businessmen in suits sitting idly by hoping to be approached, pea cocking transsexuals in 6 inch heels flirting with staff, and yours truly, a wallflower engrossed and preoccupied by my mobile phone.
Did I enjoy myself? I didn't NOT enjoy it. It was refreshingly different and I'm grateful for the experience and sober perspective. Again, having to face discomfort in a setting I wouldn't normally expose myself to, is the ultimate goal. Building courage and to consciously grow by trying new things, challenging myself.
Would I go again? Probably not, but at least now I have no qualms about going to gay bars. It's helped dispel some of the myths I've believed through heresay and media culture. There really is nothing to be afraid of, and that's something I wouldn't have gotten had I been drunk!
He is gay and been 'out' for a couple of years though never having had direct experience with the gay scene in Dublin. I decided that I should be a good tour guide and show him some of the sites. My knowledge of the gay haunts centred on Georges St., namely pubs 'The George' and 'The Dragon'.
I have stepped foot in three gay bars in my life.
First, was accidentally in Montpellier, France where my friend and I quickly fled finding ourselves suddenly surrounded by skimpy males on the dancefloor.
Second, was in Edinburgh, Scotland, drunkenly approaching every lesbian couple in sight.
Third, was in Dublin, the Dragon, where I brought a date, and in my insecurity (fuelled by copious amounts of booze) wanted to bring her to a safe haven where I thought she wouldn't get hit on by guys!
First. we sampled a few straight bars nearby to chat and pass the time. Good conversation and we were able to talk openly about our own experiences, and current challenges finding someone compatible.
He was drinking, and I was getting my sugar rush again from Cokes and Lucozades.
Around 10pm, we decided to try The George, probably the most famous gay bar in Dublin. I was nervous and apprehensive as we walked to the club. My friend was in good spirits though and his excitement was infectious. Mine more adrenaline induced.
Visions in my head of a seedy, sweaty den, and guys having open sex in cages, and half naked dancers, with electro-pop music blaring from the speakers. I imagined people pinching my ass, eyes like daggers slicing the layers off my body, and my squirming in a corner, praying for it all to end!
Whatever lay behind the doors, we never got to find out. The bouncer refused us entry! I was stunned.
My friend was none too happy either. His night almost ended before it started. No reason was offered. Considering I was sober and he was nowhere near drunk, I guess he just didn't like the look of us.
Anyway, we made the short journey to The Dragon instead. 8 euro entrance, and 6 euro drinks! Pretty steep, but I wasn't aware of anywhere else we could go.
A drag queen met us at ticket booth, and I felt like such an imposter! What would I say if someone approached me?
My friend had accompanied me to dozens of straight bars over the years. The least I could do was to be his wingman tonight.
We entered the main room, and found a lounge area away from the dancefloor. Nice layout, and not too noisy, so we could have a chat and he could scour for talent.
We stayed there for a few hours and here are some of my key learnings:
- I need to work on my eye contact. I had no idea where to look in the gay bar. I didn't make eye contact with anyone. I'm not sure if this was the right tactic, because I didn't want to attract any attention.
- I was painfully conscious of my surroundings when my friend went to the bar, or toilet. Left alone for more than 5 minutes, I buried my head in my phone, pretending to distract myself from the discomfort of the moment.
- My preconceptions of gay bars changed considerably after this experience. The music was great, the people from what I could see were very friendly. There were very few drunken lecherous people (compared to a straight bar). No aggro, and there was a nice vibe from the place where people just wanted to have fun.
- Gay guys certainly make much more of an effort when it comes to making themselves look good on a night out.
- One person approached me whilst I was alone. He was friendly, but I didn't know how to react, instead probably appearing hostile and dismissive. I need to loosen up a little and not take things too seriously when outside my comfort zone.
- On this particular night the attendees were 80% male. I was half expecting/hoping to see a lot of women there, and (secretly) hoping that a lesbian couple might take this frightened young bird under their wing!
- Bloated with fluids, I observed a line of people queuing specifically for the toilet cubicles. Now, I wouldn't want to speculate on what was happening in there, but I didn't hang around to find out!
- The gay bar I went to was not particularly sleazy. Certainly no more or less than any typical straight bar. People still have a bit of decorum, and the fear of approaching was clearly still there. It wasn't a cattle market, but clearly there were various different agenda's and ability levels present. I saw groups of young guys seated together chatting, affluent older businessmen in suits sitting idly by hoping to be approached, pea cocking transsexuals in 6 inch heels flirting with staff, and yours truly, a wallflower engrossed and preoccupied by my mobile phone.
Did I enjoy myself? I didn't NOT enjoy it. It was refreshingly different and I'm grateful for the experience and sober perspective. Again, having to face discomfort in a setting I wouldn't normally expose myself to, is the ultimate goal. Building courage and to consciously grow by trying new things, challenging myself.
Would I go again? Probably not, but at least now I have no qualms about going to gay bars. It's helped dispel some of the myths I've believed through heresay and media culture. There really is nothing to be afraid of, and that's something I wouldn't have gotten had I been drunk!
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Role Models
I think it is extremely beneficial to have a role model in your life.
This can be a friend, family member or even someone in the public eye who has achieved the results you want.
Why do we need a Role Model?
It helps to identify someone who has already travelled the road you are setting out on. Someone who has encountered the problems you will inevitably face. Someone who has, in the face of adversity, managed to stay strong, lasted the course and ultimately attained their goal.
You can have role models to help you become a better parent, more successful salesperson, manager or musician. In any discipline we can pick the brain of others to discover exactly 'how they do it.'
It inspires me to hear accounts of others who have turned their lives around. Here is a short list of teetotallers according to Wikipedia, and it is pleasantly surprising to see some giant personalities here. Some of these people gave up alcohol after an extended period of alcohol abuse. Some haven't touched a drop their whole lives.
Muhammad Ali
Tyra Banks
David Beckham
David Bowie
Frankie Boyle
Russell Brand
Warren Buffett
Naomi Campbell
Jim Carrey
Kim Cattrall
Eric Clapton
Billy Connolly
Tom Cruise
Samuel L. Jackson
Steve Jobs
Elton John
Peter Kay
Stephen King
Bruce Lee
Leona Lewis
Jennifer Lopez
Donald Trump
Shania Twain
The full list can be viewed here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Teetotalers
It's amazing how we never hear the story behind their stance against alcohol. I guess the multi-billion dollar drinks industry and tied commercial interests would prefer it to be that way.
*As an aside, I managed to catch the end segment of a live interview with Colin Farrell recently. He mentioned that he had just gone 5 years without alcohol. "Best decision I've ever made."
This can be a friend, family member or even someone in the public eye who has achieved the results you want.
Why do we need a Role Model?
It helps to identify someone who has already travelled the road you are setting out on. Someone who has encountered the problems you will inevitably face. Someone who has, in the face of adversity, managed to stay strong, lasted the course and ultimately attained their goal.
You can have role models to help you become a better parent, more successful salesperson, manager or musician. In any discipline we can pick the brain of others to discover exactly 'how they do it.'
It inspires me to hear accounts of others who have turned their lives around. Here is a short list of teetotallers according to Wikipedia, and it is pleasantly surprising to see some giant personalities here. Some of these people gave up alcohol after an extended period of alcohol abuse. Some haven't touched a drop their whole lives.
Muhammad Ali
Tyra Banks
David Beckham
David Bowie
Frankie Boyle
Russell Brand
Warren Buffett
Naomi Campbell
Jim Carrey
Kim Cattrall
Eric Clapton
Billy Connolly
Tom Cruise
Samuel L. Jackson
Steve Jobs
Elton John
Peter Kay
Stephen King
Bruce Lee
Leona Lewis
Jennifer Lopez
Donald Trump
Shania Twain
The full list can be viewed here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Teetotalers
It's amazing how we never hear the story behind their stance against alcohol. I guess the multi-billion dollar drinks industry and tied commercial interests would prefer it to be that way.
*As an aside, I managed to catch the end segment of a live interview with Colin Farrell recently. He mentioned that he had just gone 5 years without alcohol. "Best decision I've ever made."
Monday, January 17, 2011
Sober = Boring?
Last weekend I felt no desire to go out.
It must have been my first weekend in months I didn't hit a bar. Knowing I wouldn't be drinking, and being surrounded by drinkers suddenly didn't feel that compelling.
This echoes my last serious period of sobriety in 2005.
After a particularly drunken Summer vacation in Europe, I returned home determined to turn over a new leaf. So began 6 months without a single drink of alcohol. I'll readily admit that, at the time it was one of the most uneventful periods of my life. Instead of embracing life, building courage and facing the horrible truth of my dependence on alcohol, I shrank back into myself and become a virtual hermit. Life passed me by and it was with great effort and reluctance I began to creep out of my self-imposed exile. Alas, when the going gets tough, the drinks get flowing. Soon enough, I re-entered the social scene discovering my trusty sidekick again charting another 3 years of hazy memories.
Thinking back to that period in my life, I'm surprised I was teetotal for so long. Closed to new opportunities, cocooning myself from the public, I was desperately afraid that my resolve would be tested. Retreating far away from temptation seemed the best way to beat it. My social life suffered as a result, and I became inherently lonely. The ploy to run away backfired. I had never felt more alone, and this made life miserable. I connected 'good times' with alcohol, and 'boring' to sobriety.
With hindsight I've made the distinction that spending quality time with worthwhile friends has, and will continue to give me the most enjoyable experiences of my life. Alcohol has played little or no part in enhancing this experience.
At the moment, I don't feel particularly enamoured by the idea of going out to noisy clubs, chatting with a bunch of drunken people, and ignorant people barging for elbow room at the bar. Although a higher part of me knows that my conscious critical self will try to make me feel uncomfortable, presenting challenges before I've even stepped foot in a bar. Instead I need to trust my instincts, socialise as much/if not more so than I have been in the past, and in the cold light of consciousness, grow and push myself to new heights.
One of my biggest tests will be on Friday night.
A field report should be well worth the wait!
It must have been my first weekend in months I didn't hit a bar. Knowing I wouldn't be drinking, and being surrounded by drinkers suddenly didn't feel that compelling.
This echoes my last serious period of sobriety in 2005.
After a particularly drunken Summer vacation in Europe, I returned home determined to turn over a new leaf. So began 6 months without a single drink of alcohol. I'll readily admit that, at the time it was one of the most uneventful periods of my life. Instead of embracing life, building courage and facing the horrible truth of my dependence on alcohol, I shrank back into myself and become a virtual hermit. Life passed me by and it was with great effort and reluctance I began to creep out of my self-imposed exile. Alas, when the going gets tough, the drinks get flowing. Soon enough, I re-entered the social scene discovering my trusty sidekick again charting another 3 years of hazy memories.
Thinking back to that period in my life, I'm surprised I was teetotal for so long. Closed to new opportunities, cocooning myself from the public, I was desperately afraid that my resolve would be tested. Retreating far away from temptation seemed the best way to beat it. My social life suffered as a result, and I became inherently lonely. The ploy to run away backfired. I had never felt more alone, and this made life miserable. I connected 'good times' with alcohol, and 'boring' to sobriety.
With hindsight I've made the distinction that spending quality time with worthwhile friends has, and will continue to give me the most enjoyable experiences of my life. Alcohol has played little or no part in enhancing this experience.
At the moment, I don't feel particularly enamoured by the idea of going out to noisy clubs, chatting with a bunch of drunken people, and ignorant people barging for elbow room at the bar. Although a higher part of me knows that my conscious critical self will try to make me feel uncomfortable, presenting challenges before I've even stepped foot in a bar. Instead I need to trust my instincts, socialise as much/if not more so than I have been in the past, and in the cold light of consciousness, grow and push myself to new heights.
One of my biggest tests will be on Friday night.
A field report should be well worth the wait!
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Memoirs: The Gift of Pain
Dublin. September 2006.
"C'mon mate. We'll do a pub crawl. Get a Strippers in before heading out!"
CJ was foaming at the mouth in anticipation of a night of carnage, eager to head out having gotten permission from his missus. I was lying on the sofa watching TV completely uninterested in his sales pitch. I inched closer to the table, picking up a nearly empty can of beer.
"Did you drink mine?!" I looked at him.
"Yeah man! I bought us some Captain Morgan we can smash."
I groaned out loud curling deeper into the nook of the sofa. I was already out the night before and didn't really feel up to a second night. CJ had other ideas.
"Lets DO this shit! It's your birthday. Let's rip it up, do Temple Bar, get chatting to a few chicks and get fucked!" He had a maniacal grin now, eyes widening to emphasise a laboured point. He had been standing up for several minutes now, like some crazed Sergeant giving his wounded soldier an impassioned team talk. Fuck the fact you have no legs, and no gun. Beat them to death with your legs soldier!
He was convincing though, I had to give him that.
"It's your BIRTHDAY man! Here, I'll get you a drink." Before I could argue, he was out the door and in the kitchen.
He came back a few minutes later with a pint in either hand. Fat limes desperately clinging to ice cubes on the surface.
"Down in one, birthday boy!"
After a few of those, we headed into town to meet the Slug and Dom. Friends of mine from my old workplace.
First port of call was a stripclub along the quays. They served 3 euro pints of Guinness so just desserts after a few pints of Captain Morgan's.
2 hours later, I remember scraping myself off the floor outside the strip club around 11pm, and walking straight home. The guys were still inside blissfully unaware of my quick exit.
Next morning, my hand ached which I put down to a bad nights sleep. Turns out the bouncers in the Strippers had thrown me out, and I tripped and fell on my thumb, fracturing it. I didn't realise this at the time, and carried the soreness for a few weeks. I didn't get it checked out because I was embarrassed to say I fell over when I was drunk and that's what caused the damage. The pain subsided eventually and it healed in its new position (a slight deformity of the right thumb knuckle a timely birthday reminder).
A unique gift for my 24th birthday. A broken bone!
"C'mon mate. We'll do a pub crawl. Get a Strippers in before heading out!"
CJ was foaming at the mouth in anticipation of a night of carnage, eager to head out having gotten permission from his missus. I was lying on the sofa watching TV completely uninterested in his sales pitch. I inched closer to the table, picking up a nearly empty can of beer.
"Did you drink mine?!" I looked at him.
"Yeah man! I bought us some Captain Morgan we can smash."
I groaned out loud curling deeper into the nook of the sofa. I was already out the night before and didn't really feel up to a second night. CJ had other ideas.
"Lets DO this shit! It's your birthday. Let's rip it up, do Temple Bar, get chatting to a few chicks and get fucked!" He had a maniacal grin now, eyes widening to emphasise a laboured point. He had been standing up for several minutes now, like some crazed Sergeant giving his wounded soldier an impassioned team talk. Fuck the fact you have no legs, and no gun. Beat them to death with your legs soldier!
He was convincing though, I had to give him that.
"It's your BIRTHDAY man! Here, I'll get you a drink." Before I could argue, he was out the door and in the kitchen.
He came back a few minutes later with a pint in either hand. Fat limes desperately clinging to ice cubes on the surface.
"Down in one, birthday boy!"
After a few of those, we headed into town to meet the Slug and Dom. Friends of mine from my old workplace.
First port of call was a stripclub along the quays. They served 3 euro pints of Guinness so just desserts after a few pints of Captain Morgan's.
2 hours later, I remember scraping myself off the floor outside the strip club around 11pm, and walking straight home. The guys were still inside blissfully unaware of my quick exit.
Next morning, my hand ached which I put down to a bad nights sleep. Turns out the bouncers in the Strippers had thrown me out, and I tripped and fell on my thumb, fracturing it. I didn't realise this at the time, and carried the soreness for a few weeks. I didn't get it checked out because I was embarrassed to say I fell over when I was drunk and that's what caused the damage. The pain subsided eventually and it healed in its new position (a slight deformity of the right thumb knuckle a timely birthday reminder).
A unique gift for my 24th birthday. A broken bone!
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Problem with Moderation
So, you've finally realised your tendency to go a teeny bit over the top and binge drink at the weekends.
Nothing new there. You just need to learn to reign it back in. Don't drink as much.
Right?
Wrong.
My reasons for drinking in the past can by crystallised into one statement.
I drink when I feel uncomfortable.
The setting may change. I may be at home alone, watching the TV and open a beer. I may be out with old friends I haven't seen in a long time. I may be at a wedding where I know virtually no-one.
Each setting carries with it varying levels of discomfort. Take the above cases.
If it was a midweek evening, and I was stressed from work, I'd have a beer which would help to temporarily anaesthetise me. Help take me away from my problems at the office for a little while. Nothing wrong with that you might say, except for the fact, the work issues are still there unresolved, patiently biding their time until you return to being fully conscious. Nothing but escapism.
Being with friends in a social setting, brings peer pressure to drink. No one wants to be perceived as a party pooper, ostracised from the group. You want to feel connected, as part of the team. The act of sitting down with friends and just connecting, seems difficult to fathom for some, if there is no end goal in sight. A football team can still have craic before and during a match. Change the environment, plugging the same group into a pub, and alcohol is a pre-requisite. Hmmm.
In social situations outside your comfort zone, there is a huge incentive to drink. Drinking helps to drown out your conscious critical voice, desensitizing your discomfort thereby freeing you to act the maggot. You can always blame it on the booze the day after.
--
My friends have told me that I'm going a little bit too hard-core in giving up alcohol. Instead. they want me to drink in 'moderation', whatever that means. If I could drink in moderation, I wouldn't have had such an eventful backlog of excruciatingly embarrassing stories to tell.
The problem with moderation is that even with a couple of drinks I'm 'not me'. How can I actively improve my social and conversation skills if I'm starting from a false base? Where's the learning lesson in that?
Instead, I'm going into the next few weeks, eyes wide open. My mission, to improve my social skills, embrace discomfort but rather than let it paralyse me, I hope to gather the strength to break free from the bonds that have prevented action. To use real confidence, and not the bottled variety.
I heard a term recently...social skydiving. It's a phrase designed to illustrate the act of 'just going for it' and speaking to strangers in bars sober. I can't imagine a lot of people being comfortable doing that, but I think it would be an incredible skill to learn, and something I intend to practice over the coming few weeks. The thought of it is making me a little nervous, though. I guess if it was easy, then alcohol wouldn't be as popular as it is now!
Nothing new there. You just need to learn to reign it back in. Don't drink as much.
Right?
Wrong.
My reasons for drinking in the past can by crystallised into one statement.
I drink when I feel uncomfortable.
The setting may change. I may be at home alone, watching the TV and open a beer. I may be out with old friends I haven't seen in a long time. I may be at a wedding where I know virtually no-one.
Each setting carries with it varying levels of discomfort. Take the above cases.
If it was a midweek evening, and I was stressed from work, I'd have a beer which would help to temporarily anaesthetise me. Help take me away from my problems at the office for a little while. Nothing wrong with that you might say, except for the fact, the work issues are still there unresolved, patiently biding their time until you return to being fully conscious. Nothing but escapism.
Being with friends in a social setting, brings peer pressure to drink. No one wants to be perceived as a party pooper, ostracised from the group. You want to feel connected, as part of the team. The act of sitting down with friends and just connecting, seems difficult to fathom for some, if there is no end goal in sight. A football team can still have craic before and during a match. Change the environment, plugging the same group into a pub, and alcohol is a pre-requisite. Hmmm.
In social situations outside your comfort zone, there is a huge incentive to drink. Drinking helps to drown out your conscious critical voice, desensitizing your discomfort thereby freeing you to act the maggot. You can always blame it on the booze the day after.
--
My friends have told me that I'm going a little bit too hard-core in giving up alcohol. Instead. they want me to drink in 'moderation', whatever that means. If I could drink in moderation, I wouldn't have had such an eventful backlog of excruciatingly embarrassing stories to tell.
The problem with moderation is that even with a couple of drinks I'm 'not me'. How can I actively improve my social and conversation skills if I'm starting from a false base? Where's the learning lesson in that?
Instead, I'm going into the next few weeks, eyes wide open. My mission, to improve my social skills, embrace discomfort but rather than let it paralyse me, I hope to gather the strength to break free from the bonds that have prevented action. To use real confidence, and not the bottled variety.
I heard a term recently...social skydiving. It's a phrase designed to illustrate the act of 'just going for it' and speaking to strangers in bars sober. I can't imagine a lot of people being comfortable doing that, but I think it would be an incredible skill to learn, and something I intend to practice over the coming few weeks. The thought of it is making me a little nervous, though. I guess if it was easy, then alcohol wouldn't be as popular as it is now!
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Baby Steps
Typically, towards the end of a work week, my thoughts inevitably drift toward the oncoming Friday and Saturday night activities.
Where will me and the boys go to? Should we start drinking in the house first? Can I afford to catch an afternoon match in town and stay out drinking throughout the evening?
Drink has been deeply embedded in my weekends for as long as I can remember. Any social occasion or weekend meet-up involved booze in some capacity. A day after boozing, was typically a write-off, so Friday's were preferred, so that on a Sunday, some of the weekend could be enjoyed. Bladdered, Cleanse, Repeat as desired (every weekend).
My best intentions to forego alcohol this weekend were not met with staunch criticism from friends. Not surprising, given the time of year. I've lost count of the number of times I've heard people this week mention the word 'detox' with a resolution to 'get off the drink' for January. Friends, family, people on public transport. It seems everyone has the same intention, but the litmus test is always that first weekend. This weekend.
My conviction never wavered for a second. Granted, my staying indoors on Friday night took me out of the line of fire! I reluctantly agreed to join my closest drinking buddy CJ, on Saturday. The prospect of another night in front of the TV bored me.
We met in Temple Bar at 10pm, and over the next 3 hours, went to 5 different pubs. Some, I'd never been to before.
"We were here last month you mug! You were skulled off your bean!" CJ informed me, in his London accent.
"Oh right."
Every pub we went to, I felt compelled to buy a soft drink. Something to hold in my hands out of habit. I must have drank 2 litres of coke in total, and one energy drink, bloating me towards the end.
Strangely, I found myself mildly embarrassed asking for a soft drink at the bar. Self-conscious, I was 'taking up space' in a busy bar, or weak in some way. Looking at the receipt I soon got over that. Pint of coke more expensive than a beer! Alcohol Brigade 1 - Sober Brigade 0.
This was the first time CJ and myself went out sober, in probably 200 nights and 5 years of hanging out.
It was very raw, and we chatted a lot. I think this was probably because we were both slightly outside our comfort zone.
Typical booze related nights out involved us strutting into a club together, 6 pints better (or worse?) off, splitting up within minutes and approaching separate sets of women. Sometimes we'd drop in with each other over the course of the night, depending on how lucky/pissed the other person was.
This night, we clung to each other for dear life! The normally more successful charmer with the ladies and cocky wide-boy CJ, still had his trusty laser sight on, eye-groping everything in sight. Unless it was presented on a plate, there would be no approaches tonight. Meanwhile, I was just battling my internal demons. Painfully self-conscious, and wary of my body language (where do I put my hands?), I tried to elicit some attention from others by catching their eye. I've been weak in the past with eye contact with strangers in clubs. Drinking helped shortcut the internal monologue, and in my primitive mode, I ACTED without thinking. Now I was a prisoner inside my head, and not enjoying the view.
There we stood, by the dance floor with the other wallflowers, trying to look receptive, and interesting, but without the lubrication of alcohol, the cogs just couldn't kick into gear. Impotent.
Daring each other to approach women. Sending furtive glances to women at the bar. Swishing around the ice cubes in a glass. Frequent breaks to the toilet to unburden the coke from our bloated stomachs. Watching the punters at the bar as it grew 3 people deep. Mostly males, frustrated at their lack of success, topping up with some more courage before going back into the battlefield. Watching the same heavy eye-lidded guy approach women around the bar, some of them twice, and shouting into their ear.
It was infinitely much more interesting than watching TV, but ultimately incredibly frustrating. I felt disconnected. Unable to take part in the fun and just LET GO of myself. On the other hand, I was strangely satisfied with having gone out, seeing some new venues in Dublin, having not drank myself stupid and to be in bed clearheaded.
Unfortunately because of the litres of Coke I drank I couldn't get to sleep until about 5am!
Might need to choose another drink for the next night out.
Where will me and the boys go to? Should we start drinking in the house first? Can I afford to catch an afternoon match in town and stay out drinking throughout the evening?
Drink has been deeply embedded in my weekends for as long as I can remember. Any social occasion or weekend meet-up involved booze in some capacity. A day after boozing, was typically a write-off, so Friday's were preferred, so that on a Sunday, some of the weekend could be enjoyed. Bladdered, Cleanse, Repeat as desired (every weekend).
My best intentions to forego alcohol this weekend were not met with staunch criticism from friends. Not surprising, given the time of year. I've lost count of the number of times I've heard people this week mention the word 'detox' with a resolution to 'get off the drink' for January. Friends, family, people on public transport. It seems everyone has the same intention, but the litmus test is always that first weekend. This weekend.
My conviction never wavered for a second. Granted, my staying indoors on Friday night took me out of the line of fire! I reluctantly agreed to join my closest drinking buddy CJ, on Saturday. The prospect of another night in front of the TV bored me.
We met in Temple Bar at 10pm, and over the next 3 hours, went to 5 different pubs. Some, I'd never been to before.
"We were here last month you mug! You were skulled off your bean!" CJ informed me, in his London accent.
"Oh right."
Every pub we went to, I felt compelled to buy a soft drink. Something to hold in my hands out of habit. I must have drank 2 litres of coke in total, and one energy drink, bloating me towards the end.
Strangely, I found myself mildly embarrassed asking for a soft drink at the bar. Self-conscious, I was 'taking up space' in a busy bar, or weak in some way. Looking at the receipt I soon got over that. Pint of coke more expensive than a beer! Alcohol Brigade 1 - Sober Brigade 0.
This was the first time CJ and myself went out sober, in probably 200 nights and 5 years of hanging out.
It was very raw, and we chatted a lot. I think this was probably because we were both slightly outside our comfort zone.
Typical booze related nights out involved us strutting into a club together, 6 pints better (or worse?) off, splitting up within minutes and approaching separate sets of women. Sometimes we'd drop in with each other over the course of the night, depending on how lucky/pissed the other person was.
This night, we clung to each other for dear life! The normally more successful charmer with the ladies and cocky wide-boy CJ, still had his trusty laser sight on, eye-groping everything in sight. Unless it was presented on a plate, there would be no approaches tonight. Meanwhile, I was just battling my internal demons. Painfully self-conscious, and wary of my body language (where do I put my hands?), I tried to elicit some attention from others by catching their eye. I've been weak in the past with eye contact with strangers in clubs. Drinking helped shortcut the internal monologue, and in my primitive mode, I ACTED without thinking. Now I was a prisoner inside my head, and not enjoying the view.
There we stood, by the dance floor with the other wallflowers, trying to look receptive, and interesting, but without the lubrication of alcohol, the cogs just couldn't kick into gear. Impotent.
Daring each other to approach women. Sending furtive glances to women at the bar. Swishing around the ice cubes in a glass. Frequent breaks to the toilet to unburden the coke from our bloated stomachs. Watching the punters at the bar as it grew 3 people deep. Mostly males, frustrated at their lack of success, topping up with some more courage before going back into the battlefield. Watching the same heavy eye-lidded guy approach women around the bar, some of them twice, and shouting into their ear.
It was infinitely much more interesting than watching TV, but ultimately incredibly frustrating. I felt disconnected. Unable to take part in the fun and just LET GO of myself. On the other hand, I was strangely satisfied with having gone out, seeing some new venues in Dublin, having not drank myself stupid and to be in bed clearheaded.
Unfortunately because of the litres of Coke I drank I couldn't get to sleep until about 5am!
Might need to choose another drink for the next night out.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Memoirs: Absinthe Makes The Heart Grow Fonder (Part 2 of 2)
I crawled off the ground, using the boarding to prop myself on 2 jelly legs.
Head was swirling at this stage, confusion eventually subsiding as I tried piecing together fractured memories. Where am I? Why am I on the street? Where is my shirt? Nothing seemed to register. Some distance ahead I could see a thin trail of car's cut across my street. I approached with abandonment, completely oblivious to how I must have appeared, vomit smudged face, shirtless and staggering with a stupid grin on my face. Oh how they'll laugh at the state I'm in!
Every car I sidled up to, refused to give me a lift. Even the taxi's. I couldn't believe it. Changing tact, I tried asking instead for directions to the City Centre, but no-one complied, which really irked me. Why are they being rude?
I decided to keep walking until I found Tot's place. I didn't know where it was, what road it was on, but I was determined to find it. If only I could recognise a landmark. Besides, the cold night breeze was quite exhilarating. What a nice night for a walk.
About an hour passed in this manner, exhilaration turning to piercingly sober. My fortune suddenly changed as a stray taxi man took pity on me, indicating to pull into the kerb. Thank Christ.
"Where to?" he asked, looking me up and down.
I hadn't thought that far ahead. I had no contact number or address for Tot's. All I could think of at that moment was getting home, 100 miles away.
"Take me to the Station. Train Station mate."
The lush and comfortable interior instantly eased my aching joints. The heated radiator began to warm my chilled body as tiredness began to take me.
"Not sure if it'll be open at this time." he said, doing a 180 turn in the road. Christ. I was walking the wrong way. How long would I have been walking for...
"I'll wait outside it."
"You sure?" the taxi driver said, now looking at me in his mirror.
I was preoccupied picking little gravel stones embedded in my chest, flicking them at the floor.
"Yeah, it'll be grand." I said, no longer in a conversational mood.
My elbows began to sting, and lifting my arms, I could see small folds of skin loosely hanging, exposing a raw pink core. Ah, Christ. Give me my bed.
He parked the cab up at the front entrance where the gate shutters were down. As I gave the money across to the Driver, he reached out and took it, then stroked my hand, looking at me with sudden interest. Freaked, I jumped out of the taxi rounding the corner out of sight. Walking around the block a few times and wary of falling prey to a taxi pervert, I came back to the entrance just before 6am. Thankfully the entrance was now open. After some pleading with the staff, they allowed this shirtless, drunken, vomit stain on their morning train.
My next conscious memory was being startled out of a deep sleep, by the passenger next to me who shared my cabin. The train was packed and my embarrassment was painfully exposed. The morning commuters were making their daily pilgrimage to work in Dublin and all eyes were on me. I could have died there and then.
----
At that moment Tot's was sleeping off his hangover. The previous night's activities saw me disappear around 11pm. In his equally, but less sensational drunken state, worried about my safety, he went to the nearest Police Station to report me as missing (2 hours had elapsed). They took all his details, my physical description, and my next of kin contacts. Advising him to sober up, they suggested he come back the next day, but that they'd schedule to call my parents next morning as a precaution.
As soon as I got home, charging my phone (dismissing the 49 missed calls from Tots) I went straight to bed. An incoming call beeped from my parents. Explaining why I hadn't arrived at the family home as prearranged didn't seem relevant. It could wait until I woke up.
One of the worst experiences of my life.
Head was swirling at this stage, confusion eventually subsiding as I tried piecing together fractured memories. Where am I? Why am I on the street? Where is my shirt? Nothing seemed to register. Some distance ahead I could see a thin trail of car's cut across my street. I approached with abandonment, completely oblivious to how I must have appeared, vomit smudged face, shirtless and staggering with a stupid grin on my face. Oh how they'll laugh at the state I'm in!
Every car I sidled up to, refused to give me a lift. Even the taxi's. I couldn't believe it. Changing tact, I tried asking instead for directions to the City Centre, but no-one complied, which really irked me. Why are they being rude?
I decided to keep walking until I found Tot's place. I didn't know where it was, what road it was on, but I was determined to find it. If only I could recognise a landmark. Besides, the cold night breeze was quite exhilarating. What a nice night for a walk.
About an hour passed in this manner, exhilaration turning to piercingly sober. My fortune suddenly changed as a stray taxi man took pity on me, indicating to pull into the kerb. Thank Christ.
"Where to?" he asked, looking me up and down.
I hadn't thought that far ahead. I had no contact number or address for Tot's. All I could think of at that moment was getting home, 100 miles away.
"Take me to the Station. Train Station mate."
The lush and comfortable interior instantly eased my aching joints. The heated radiator began to warm my chilled body as tiredness began to take me.
"Not sure if it'll be open at this time." he said, doing a 180 turn in the road. Christ. I was walking the wrong way. How long would I have been walking for...
"I'll wait outside it."
"You sure?" the taxi driver said, now looking at me in his mirror.
I was preoccupied picking little gravel stones embedded in my chest, flicking them at the floor.
"Yeah, it'll be grand." I said, no longer in a conversational mood.
My elbows began to sting, and lifting my arms, I could see small folds of skin loosely hanging, exposing a raw pink core. Ah, Christ. Give me my bed.
He parked the cab up at the front entrance where the gate shutters were down. As I gave the money across to the Driver, he reached out and took it, then stroked my hand, looking at me with sudden interest. Freaked, I jumped out of the taxi rounding the corner out of sight. Walking around the block a few times and wary of falling prey to a taxi pervert, I came back to the entrance just before 6am. Thankfully the entrance was now open. After some pleading with the staff, they allowed this shirtless, drunken, vomit stain on their morning train.
My next conscious memory was being startled out of a deep sleep, by the passenger next to me who shared my cabin. The train was packed and my embarrassment was painfully exposed. The morning commuters were making their daily pilgrimage to work in Dublin and all eyes were on me. I could have died there and then.
----
At that moment Tot's was sleeping off his hangover. The previous night's activities saw me disappear around 11pm. In his equally, but less sensational drunken state, worried about my safety, he went to the nearest Police Station to report me as missing (2 hours had elapsed). They took all his details, my physical description, and my next of kin contacts. Advising him to sober up, they suggested he come back the next day, but that they'd schedule to call my parents next morning as a precaution.
As soon as I got home, charging my phone (dismissing the 49 missed calls from Tots) I went straight to bed. An incoming call beeped from my parents. Explaining why I hadn't arrived at the family home as prearranged didn't seem relevant. It could wait until I woke up.
One of the worst experiences of my life.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Memoirs: Absinthe Makes The Heart Grow Fonder (Part 1 of 2)
Belfast. Circa Summer 2003
"Right Tots, let's do this shit!"
Tot's looked up at me nervously, then towards the bundle of notes and coins I had thrown down in the centre of the table.
Tonight we were on a mission.
I had travelled all the way up from Dublin, to join him in Belfast for the night. I rarely venture up to the North so it would be a welcome change from the over-priced, congested Temple bar of Dublin. Tot's would be a tour guide of sorts tonight showing me what the city had to offer. I didn't know Belfast at all, and I was scheduled to stay in his flat that night...but I'd get the actual address off him later...For now, I would need to stick to him like glue. Last thing I needed to do was to lose him, especially when the drinks were flowing.
However, tonight the beers clearly weren't flowing fast enough. It was almost 9pm for Christ's sake! Time to play hard ball.
He smiled nervously at me, then slumped forward holding his head in his hands in mock resignation. We both knew where this was going.
"8 shots mate. It's party time." I said with conviction. "It's on me. Ask for the most toxic shot behind the bar."
With reluctance, Tot's lifted himself to his feet, scooping the money into an open palm and staggered over to the bar. He didn't quite look as fresh as I felt. He'll soon catch up I thought.
He came back a few minutes later with a tray of 8 shots, neatly lined side by side.
"What are those?" I asked, as he lowered them carefully to the table.
"Absinthe."
"Oh right. Didn't think they were allowed to serve more than 1 to a punter. They must be watered down then. Down in one?"
The first one lit a sticky trail of fire right down my throat. It nearly came back up, were it not for my constant swallows of spit to douse the flames. I couldn't show any weakness in front of Tot's. I had a reputation to upkeep. After all, I was the seasoned hard-core boozer from Dublin that promised to drink him under the table tonight. Within 30 seconds, I had taken my other three. Tots feigned illness for his own, and I ridiculed him for not being able to finish the round, slurping up his remaining two in quick succession, licking my sticky absinthe fingers to prove my point.
"Piece of piss mate! It's your round!" I forced a smile, pointing to the bar, to prompt him to leave quickly as I waged battle with my gag reflex. This wasn't going to be pretty. Please go now Tot's. I'll slip out to the toilet when you're at the bar and throw up. Ah Christ. Help me. Swallow. Maybe if I hold my head up and look at the ceiling, and swallow. Swallow.
In my periphery I saw him get up and move over to the bar.
That was my last conscious memory until I awoke, curled up in a side street in complete darkness, shirtless and a streak of vomit down the side of my face. I rolled over on the sharp pebbled surface to dig out my phone. The battery had died. My watch showed it was 4am, and I was completely alone and lost.
To be continued
"Right Tots, let's do this shit!"
Tot's looked up at me nervously, then towards the bundle of notes and coins I had thrown down in the centre of the table.
Tonight we were on a mission.
I had travelled all the way up from Dublin, to join him in Belfast for the night. I rarely venture up to the North so it would be a welcome change from the over-priced, congested Temple bar of Dublin. Tot's would be a tour guide of sorts tonight showing me what the city had to offer. I didn't know Belfast at all, and I was scheduled to stay in his flat that night...but I'd get the actual address off him later...For now, I would need to stick to him like glue. Last thing I needed to do was to lose him, especially when the drinks were flowing.
However, tonight the beers clearly weren't flowing fast enough. It was almost 9pm for Christ's sake! Time to play hard ball.
He smiled nervously at me, then slumped forward holding his head in his hands in mock resignation. We both knew where this was going.
"8 shots mate. It's party time." I said with conviction. "It's on me. Ask for the most toxic shot behind the bar."
With reluctance, Tot's lifted himself to his feet, scooping the money into an open palm and staggered over to the bar. He didn't quite look as fresh as I felt. He'll soon catch up I thought.
He came back a few minutes later with a tray of 8 shots, neatly lined side by side.
"What are those?" I asked, as he lowered them carefully to the table.
"Absinthe."
"Oh right. Didn't think they were allowed to serve more than 1 to a punter. They must be watered down then. Down in one?"
The first one lit a sticky trail of fire right down my throat. It nearly came back up, were it not for my constant swallows of spit to douse the flames. I couldn't show any weakness in front of Tot's. I had a reputation to upkeep. After all, I was the seasoned hard-core boozer from Dublin that promised to drink him under the table tonight. Within 30 seconds, I had taken my other three. Tots feigned illness for his own, and I ridiculed him for not being able to finish the round, slurping up his remaining two in quick succession, licking my sticky absinthe fingers to prove my point.
"Piece of piss mate! It's your round!" I forced a smile, pointing to the bar, to prompt him to leave quickly as I waged battle with my gag reflex. This wasn't going to be pretty. Please go now Tot's. I'll slip out to the toilet when you're at the bar and throw up. Ah Christ. Help me. Swallow. Maybe if I hold my head up and look at the ceiling, and swallow. Swallow.
In my periphery I saw him get up and move over to the bar.
That was my last conscious memory until I awoke, curled up in a side street in complete darkness, shirtless and a streak of vomit down the side of my face. I rolled over on the sharp pebbled surface to dig out my phone. The battery had died. My watch showed it was 4am, and I was completely alone and lost.
To be continued
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Direction
Throughout this blog, I hope to share with readers my challenges adapting to an alcohol-free existence; candid stories of some of my previous debauched nights out that have led me to forego booze; and hopefully provide an entertaining and provocative read which will either challenge your own beliefs about alcohol, or provide some light relief about some of the stupid antics myself and friends have 'enjoyed'.
Typically I will provide 'field' reports after each night out, musings about the pub/club scene in Ireland, and comments on social dynamics and how alcohol distorts the picture.
I completely respect each persons freedom of choice to drink. Simply put, I want to try things from the other side for a while, and won't be condemning or criticising anyone's wish to take alcohol, nor will I be getting up on my soapbox to convert anyone.
Some background to my story is that I'm also a single man. Drinking was always the easiest way for me to summon the courage to approach women, and I've been relatively successful using bottled confidence. Without this aid, I really don't know what to expect, so it will be a steep learning curve. That curve shoots upward this Friday, with my first sober night out in months.
Typically I will provide 'field' reports after each night out, musings about the pub/club scene in Ireland, and comments on social dynamics and how alcohol distorts the picture.
I completely respect each persons freedom of choice to drink. Simply put, I want to try things from the other side for a while, and won't be condemning or criticising anyone's wish to take alcohol, nor will I be getting up on my soapbox to convert anyone.
Some background to my story is that I'm also a single man. Drinking was always the easiest way for me to summon the courage to approach women, and I've been relatively successful using bottled confidence. Without this aid, I really don't know what to expect, so it will be a steep learning curve. That curve shoots upward this Friday, with my first sober night out in months.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Origin of Species
I'm a bit of a lightweight. It only takes me one drink to get drunk. Problem is, I don't know if it's the 12th or 13th one.
Running a pantry check of my fridge, it's been cleared of the 12 beers. 2 empty wine bottles stand tall on the kitchen counter beside it. The acidic burp tells me it was red.
Another weekend, another hangover. This one would spread out toward the beginning of the work week though. That's how hangovers worked now. At 28, they were harder to shift, and I knew this one would be a fucker. One last parting shot before I try a life of sobriety (again), coinciding with the beginning of a New Year. 2011.
"If we are going to rebuild him, we must break him down first."
I go into this period of sobriety, horrible hung over but with an unflinching resoluteness that I no longer need the booze to enjoy myself. That's normally how these things work out though isn't it? All fire and brimstone in the beginning, but after a few days, you revert back into the comfortable mould created for yourself over a lifetime of passivity..
Which brings me to this blog. An unashamed, blow by blow, warts and all account of a 20 somethings battle to beat the booze. I'm no different to most other drinkers out there. The odd drink or two during the week, and bit of a binge drinker at weekends.
I've used it as a crutch ever since my first drop of San Miguel in Malaga at 16. What a revelation! Interactions flowed easier, and the discomfort of meeting strangers lessened drink after drink. This pattern continued throughout my life, so that at any given social function, in the vicinity of people I didn't know, I made a beeline for the bar, to lubricate the social wheels.
Intellectually I know that a reliance on alcohol is seriously limiting my ability to meet others (especially those of the opposite sex), but I've never been fully aware of my habits with drink until now. So ingrained in our Irish culture, refusing a drink is almost considered sacrilegious. Rare sober nights out in the past have been eye-opening. Although I've lacked the courage to approach new people, seeking refuge ‘inside my head’ for the most part, I have had some encouraging experiences. However, those have been isolated incidents; my work undone, swallowed up by consequent heavy binges.
So as I venture out into the pubs and clubs of Dublin in 2011, notebook in hand, I do so with some trepidation but excited that this could be my healthiest and happiest year yet. I'll drink to that!...oh right! The sober thing!
Running a pantry check of my fridge, it's been cleared of the 12 beers. 2 empty wine bottles stand tall on the kitchen counter beside it. The acidic burp tells me it was red.
Another weekend, another hangover. This one would spread out toward the beginning of the work week though. That's how hangovers worked now. At 28, they were harder to shift, and I knew this one would be a fucker. One last parting shot before I try a life of sobriety (again), coinciding with the beginning of a New Year. 2011.
"If we are going to rebuild him, we must break him down first."
I go into this period of sobriety, horrible hung over but with an unflinching resoluteness that I no longer need the booze to enjoy myself. That's normally how these things work out though isn't it? All fire and brimstone in the beginning, but after a few days, you revert back into the comfortable mould created for yourself over a lifetime of passivity..
Which brings me to this blog. An unashamed, blow by blow, warts and all account of a 20 somethings battle to beat the booze. I'm no different to most other drinkers out there. The odd drink or two during the week, and bit of a binge drinker at weekends.
I've used it as a crutch ever since my first drop of San Miguel in Malaga at 16. What a revelation! Interactions flowed easier, and the discomfort of meeting strangers lessened drink after drink. This pattern continued throughout my life, so that at any given social function, in the vicinity of people I didn't know, I made a beeline for the bar, to lubricate the social wheels.
Intellectually I know that a reliance on alcohol is seriously limiting my ability to meet others (especially those of the opposite sex), but I've never been fully aware of my habits with drink until now. So ingrained in our Irish culture, refusing a drink is almost considered sacrilegious. Rare sober nights out in the past have been eye-opening. Although I've lacked the courage to approach new people, seeking refuge ‘inside my head’ for the most part, I have had some encouraging experiences. However, those have been isolated incidents; my work undone, swallowed up by consequent heavy binges.
So as I venture out into the pubs and clubs of Dublin in 2011, notebook in hand, I do so with some trepidation but excited that this could be my healthiest and happiest year yet. I'll drink to that!...oh right! The sober thing!
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