My Cat Has Acne. And other stories.

Two and a bit weeks ago (and two and a bit weeks in to being sober), I restarted my health kick with a BANG and joined a 28 day shred that last year, I failed to make it past 8 days on. This time around has been verrrrry different to the last time where I was allowing my resistance to win (by drinking booze/eating shit/not exercising, I can’t succeed because it’s too hard and I don’t really want to anyway), whereas this time I have kicked it so far up its resistancey arse, it doesn’t even know what it was that it didn’t want to do. This two and a bit weeks also coincides with my two busiest working weeks (GCSE time, woop!) and aside from a couple of minor transgressions (a full fat mocha with cream towards the end of an intolerably long and arduous 12 hour day and a Lidl Snickers or Twix here or there), I have been able to stick to both the healthy eating plan and the exercise plan. So what is it that is so different this time? Have I developed into a fully functioning hu

Yesterday was a tough day. It turns out that sober pub crawling in these first early throes of sobriety is not the best idea I could have had for a Saturday. At 4pm, in the fifth bar of the day, I had a taste of a friend’s beer and it was so good. And I mean, SO good. In fact, it was everything I could ever want in a beer. Fruity, hoppy, full bodied delicious amber nectar, poured straight from the keg. Cold and refreshing. Filled with promises that I had temporarily forgotten that it couldn’t keep. And I had to leave. After 29 days, I almost reached a point where I caved and bought a beer. A combination of factors led to that point. A spot of tension, social anxiety and sobriety all muddled together in a moreish mojito of moments that could easily have derailed 29 days of progress. The lesson I am taking from this is that I am not ready to return myself to my previous social life yet. The talks with friends earlier on in my journey about activities that don’t revolve around the pub n

4 weeks sober. 28 days. 672 hours. 40,320 minutes. 80 drinks passed. £242.80 saved. 1 day 2.98 hours of my lifetime regained. A stone, a fucking stone, in weight lost.  Day one. Your blood is completely free of alcohol. Day three. Your brain cells have started regenerating. Anxiety and nausea are high at this time. Day seven. Anxiety, nausea and possible hallucinations should be much easier after week one, withdrawal symptoms have diminished or disappeared. Day fourteen. Many signs of your physical health will appear after two weeks. Skin health, sleep and digestive system will all improve. Day twenty one. New neurons are developing in my brain after three weeks, supporting your cognitive functions. Day twenty eight. Grey matter in the brain has been shown to have increased in size after quitting drinking for one month. Grey matter includes regions of the brain involved in muscle control, and sensory perception such as seeing and hearing, memory, emotion

It’s Saturday night at 9pm and I’m sat on the sofa alone watching Brave for the 98 th  time (I’m not entirely sure why, but the fiery red head Princess resonates with me). After getting home from a trial run treasure hunt at around 6pm, having dinner and the husband immediately falling asleep after five pints and two halves (one of which was 8.3%), I’m sat mourning a wasted evening that we could have spent together had one of us not been so wankered we were in bed by 7pm. Ahem. It’s hard to complain when this is something that, up until recently, I would have been doing too. Well, it’s not hard to complain at all. It’s actually really easy to be seething with rage when you’ve carried your other half home and minutes before you get there he walks through a tree and ends up with a branch sticking out of his fucking eye. Or he jumps up to hit a tree and punches you on the way down because he has no concept of distance, space or balance. Or he stands in the middle of the kitche

Deffo's one of the best low alcohol, tastes like actual beer, beers I've tried. Today, I am three weeks sober. Let’s stat this out: 21 days sober. £186 saved. 62 drinks passed. 8lbs lost. Average steps per day up from 7,453 to 12, 342. 2 workweek hustles won. 4 workouts completed so far this week. 2 days where I almost caved. 19 days where I didn’t. 8LBS LOST. Did I say that twice? The past three weeks have been disconcertingly easy for me. I guess it all boils down to choosing to stop drinking rather than forcing myself to stop drinking for events like Dry January or Sober October. A choice that has come from a desire to live my best life and be the person I have always wanted to be (and never believed I was capable of being). Whilst it has been easier this time to stop, I have still almost caved on two occasions. Looking at those times where I was desperate for a drink, it’s interesting to see where I used to follow the loving yet

Today, my Sunday is going to be a day of self-care; one of refuelling the tank so I am prepared for the week ahead (a very busy week indeed with three GCSES’s taking place!) and revitalised to be the best version of my personal, and professional, self. One can not drive comfortably and well without any fuel in one’s tank. My self care today looks like wearing pyjamas all day, achieving less than 1000 steps (which is ruined as I have already done two thousand, how?!), lounging on the sofa watching multiple films, snuggling cats (who are currently ignoring me), prepping my lunches and dinners for the week (in between films and snack runs), not putting any make up on, maybe having a bath this evening, drinking copious amounts of tea from my absurdly growing tea collection and not drinking alcohol. My current favourite coffee, roasted locally. Last night, I attended a hen party, my first big social event since I stopped drinking. There was prosecco on the table and the usual

Yesterday at 11pm, I toasted two weeks of sobriety with a pint of Erdinger Alkoholfrei beer and an ice pack on my knee after a formidable fall following seven hours of moving house for a friend. And I felt like shit. Yesterday was the first day that I really wanted, no needed, a drink. We’ve moved house a couple of times over the past few years and have been lucky enough to have plenty of notice to get organised. Unlike yesterday, where we found ourselves with 24 hours and about 30 minutes notice. Each time we’ve moved house, either for us or helping friends, the pinnacle of all of the hard work, tears and heavy lifting is the pub and a pint glass filled with delicious, amber nectar; the ultimate thirst quencher when you are hot, sweaty and tired. The experience of sitting around with the people you love, retelling stories of the day and winding down with a drink is what you work so hard for. Only yesterday, I couldn’t do that. Instead, after seven hours of heavy lifting