I don't drink on the scale that I used to. I had what most would call a burn out during the best part of 2008.
In that time I lived alone. I drank most days, to excessive levels that clouded my judgement and scared all that were close to me. People started staring. Some commented. Occasionally I would half realise that something was very, very wrong. But then continue anyway.
I never worked.
I slowly lost so much weight my friends were even scrutinizing the tops of my legs. Saying they were sinewy.
Most Saturdays and Sundays I would wake up naked and alone, my shoes, whatever dress I had been wearing and handbag spilling all of it's contents would be still by the front door. I would never remember getting home. I was always still drunk.
And I don't mean a little bit drunk.
I mean absolutely plastered.
Not capable of walking in a straight line drunk.
Six or seven hours after I had stopped drinking.
I would crawl into the bathroom and be sick in my Villeroy and Boch toilet. And when I looked in the mirror a ghost looked back. Black eye make-up all down my face, smeared red lipstick, my skin blotchy and steaming. I'd scream and cry at myself in the mirror. Occasionally I would consider gouging out my eyes so I didn't have to see it anymore.
Fragments would reappear, and I'd sob about it. Sometimes they involved others. Sometimes just me.
Falling into things.
Hurting myself by accident.
I always had bruises.
Sometimes, they were there for weeks.
The boy I started dating looked worried because on an evening when I was with him, I would drink. Even if it was just a bottle of wine, usually it would end with me giggling childishly and him stone cold sober and shaking his head. He was an athlete and rarely touched alcohol. I was a mess and trying to hide it from him. At some point he told me I drank too much. I wanted to tell him I was nervous about having a new relationship for the first time in ten years and this was the only way I could control it. But how could I be nervous all the time?
He'd sit on my couch drinking lemonade and I would down a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Occasionally on nights out he'd hold onto me and say "Take it easy."
One night we stayed in a hotel and in the morning there was smashed glass all over the floor and my lip was bleeding. He looked at me as if I was crazy when I asked him what had happened. Seriously not believing that I couldn't remember anything about falling off the chair I had been dancing on and knocking my face off the corner of the dressing table.
The best times I shared with him were when we were both sober. During the day when he'd pick me up and take me for lunch somewhere and we'd order ten dishes and pick at them and spend hours talking. Or just lounging around the house when he didn't have to train. Drinking cups of tea and watching silly action movies. One day we drove up to Leeds and I bought him a sandwich and as he drove he steered the wheel with his knees and I kept grabbing it, scared. He'd drive fast and sing along to the music, tucking his long dark hair behind his ears and I'd smile to myself because I fancied him like mad and if I could have gone back to being with N, I never could have seen myself in that sort of situation with someone else.
In the beginning he'd fall asleep holding my hand and without a doubt wake me up around 6am speaking in Spanish in his sleep.
I know he cared about me, and I really did about him too.
We dated for eight months and when it ended I wished I could have opened up to him and relaxed around him more.
He had a really lovely way of looking at the world.
