When Timaru Courier reporter Shelley Iñón decided it was time to face up to the role alcohol was playing in her life, she did not realise that stopping drinking was only the beginning. In the second instalment, Shelley shares her alcohol-free journey.
***
My journey to bright-eyed, bushy-tailed sobriety started well.
Previously, the thought of not drinking for the rest of my life had given me horrifying visions.
I envisaged a life of weak cups of tea while watching endless episodes of reality television, because my poor befuddled brain could not imagine a life where the couch was not a main focal point.
When I made the decision to stop drinking, I had tried telling myself it would not be boring, nothing like that.
Instead, I would feel incredibly rested.
Restored.
In reality, I felt absolutely shattered.
I had claimed back three hours of my day where I was no longer being held hostage by a wine glass.
There were things I could get done which I had been putting off for months.
A lot of the ‘‘free time’’ between those endless chores, I am ashamed to say, I spent in front of the mirror.
I was so desperate to wish adieu to my jowls and so full of longing to no longer have to lift my eyebrows in an attempted coquettish fashion so my eyes could be seen from under my puffy eyelids.
I had become fixated.
My body did not let me down.
My stomach — which had seemed permanently bloated throughout the pandemic — suddenly realised it could take a rest.
And the whites of my eyes (or ‘‘the creams of my eyes’’ as they had become) were getting clearer every day.
I had taken a multitude of selfies wearing the exact same shirt with the exact same gormless expression, so I could see it was not all in my head.
Unfortunately, my new-found hobby of staring into the mirror had really brought my attention to the big broken blood vessel on my nose.
My husband had fretted about it over the years, asking for me to get it checked in case it was a melanoma, so I had taken that as a fantastic excuse to get the thing zapped off.
Besides, it only cost the same as a weeks worth of gin.
I went in to Timaru’s Blush Beauty Clinic to get it seen to.
During the consultation — before the zapping could begin — they took a series of photos of my face.
Despite the freckles and pigments on my cheeks, I did not have bad sun damage.
Nor had my face been struggling with dietary irritants. . . I was impressed, surely my stomach had been affected by all the alcohol I had only recently given up.
I was also confused. If my face was not sun-damaged as I had initially believed, what was wrong with it? I knew it was not my age, as other mums at school drop off glowed. The beautician flipped to the final photo; an 80-year-old version of myself stared back.
‘‘Dehydration,’’ she said. ‘‘Your skin is really dehydrated.’’
I feigned a look of surprise.
‘‘Do you use a flannel?’’ she asked.
‘‘No.’’
While she went into detail about why I should use a flannel — or should not — I can not tell you which, as instead of listening I was trying to remember the last time I had used any kind of face products.
Maybe I had last used moisturiser when I was pregnant? Otherwise, I would have been too tipsy or too hungover to be faffing around in front of the mirror for no reason.
There was another thing causing my dehydration, the fact I was drinking litres of alcoholic drinks a month.
Alcohol — a diuretic — which was causing my body to remove fluids from my blood through my renal system at a much quicker rate than other liquids.
I was done with it.
My husband could remember all my previous attempts to cut down.
There had been one memorable time I had given up drinking for six months after promising my oldest son I would stop drinking for a year. The first six months had gone well, really well . . .To the point where I was enjoying myself.
Half way through the year my oldest had allowed me three alcoholic beverages to celebrate my 40th birthday. After tasting those margaritas I had been hooked again.
I had managed to bargain with him — I would pay $5 every time I wanted a drink. After all, I wouldn’t need that many drinks, just one a week.
He agreed, and — in the same breath — informed me his little brother would need payment too.
For the remaining half of the year I was paying $10 a drink to my kids’ bank account. It turned out the one weekly drink I had planned had quickly escalated.
If my husband had not intervened and asked my oldest for leniency I hate to think how much money they would have made. This time was different. Because this time it was not a promise to someone else, I was doing it for myself. And this time, there was no end in sight.
My husband could not see what I could see . . .the anger I had at alcohol.
Nor could he see the determination I felt.
I was absolutely over it.
It was easy, I decided.
Sure, Christmas was approaching, but — apart from a few work parties — there was nothing that could get in my way.
Little did I know, life was going to throw me some serious plot twists before Christmas Day. It would take some mad restraint to get through the festive period unscathed.
