How I learned to be alive

Finding true joy in life without alcohol

‘Joy is not made to be a crumb’ - Mary Oliver

Before I begin, I wanted to invite you to my next FREE online workshop all about connecting to joy and fun without alcohol. It will take place on Zoom on Tuesday 1 April at 10am UK time. Register your place here.

This workshop is for you if you:

• Are looking for a compassionate, realistic and gentle approach to exploring sobriety

• Know you’re done with alcohol and want to explore what life could be like on the other side

• Are newly sober and just starting to explore this new chapter of your life

• Have been sober a while and very much still discovering who you are without alcohol

• Need some inspiration, hope and sparks of joy to keep you motivated and sure you’re on the right track

Words from previous workshop attendees

‘I really enjoyed that session. Loads of great content. Loved your first poem, very powerful! I feel quite chilled now.’

‘I found the breath-work, meditation & mindfulness techniques and general discussion on sobriety very helpful.’

‘You invited us to consider alcohol use from an interesting and important angle - that alcohol might well have been a means of numbing out, and quelling that inner child who is crying out for love or compassion or something else. I hadn't ever thought about it in that specific way, but it made so much sense to me. We have a cultural acceptance of using alcohol to "de-stress" after a difficult day and, if we fall into that pattern, we barely scratch the surface of why we are stressed, why we are in pain.’

Join us

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In case it offends you - there is some swearing up ahead.

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I’m alive!

As I hop nervously at the water’s edge, shivering with anticipation, Helen says to me and Vicky: ‘You’ve both given birth, so you’ll be fine.’

I don’t find this comforting.

I slowly take each step down the ladder into the still lake. The water is so cold it feels like it’s burning my skin. I shout from the sudden pain. Gasp out a: ‘Fuuuuuuu….!’

I grip the wooden sides of the little jetty built out into the lake, and then let go. I shriek as my body is covered by the icy water. I circle my arms and kick my legs in a desperate attempt to warm myself up. I’m gasping and can’t fully take a breath. Vicky and Helen both lower themselves in to the water. Vicky swims for a few minutes and when she climbs out I decide it’s my time to exit too. Helen stays longer: she’s a pro, she swims outdoors all winter.

I walk across the wooden jetty til I reach the grass outside the sauna, and, shivering, peel off my swimming socks and gloves. The cool breeze on my bare skin brings up goosebumps all over my legs. I shiver and mutter ‘oh my god’ - still shocked by the cold.

But I feel alive. Audaciously alive. Above us, the sky is the brightest blue. The fields stretch away to the graceful arch of the chalk cliff on the edge of Lewes. Piled on top of the hill is Lewes castle and the old town around it.

We open the door of the wooden sauna and step into the heat. I sit on a towel on top of the wooden slats, my legs still covered in goosebumps and slick with water. In front of me is a window: a rectangle framing the serene scene of trees and the lake like a painting.

We talk with the others already heating in the sauna. I realise the woman I’m sitting next to lives on my road: she says she was the youngest of nine children and was brought up to be seen and not heard. The man across from us says it was the same for him. They chat about playing music. A woman tells me you need to be in the water for three minutes to get the benefits. She says: remember to breathe deeply.

We leave the sauna to brave a dip in the lake again. This time I breathe more slowly. I stay in a bit longer, kicking and circling my arms. When we get back in to the welcome heat of the sauna we eat slices of sweet orange.

After I get awkwardly changed under my dry robe, I sit down on the grass by the lake and breathe in deep. Feel the warmth of the sun on my face. The light breeze.

A woman is drying her hair with a towel and says this was just what she needed for her hangover. She’d been out clubbing in London and had had one hour’s sleep. I think: But for the grace of God, that could have been me.

We walk back to Vicky’s car and stand outside a while drinking tea Helen has brought in a thermos. I am full of such gratitude and wonder and awe. Buoyant. Truly amazed that this - this! - is what I’m doing on a Sunday morning. My sweet friend inviting me, and driving me to this impossibly idyllic place just outside of the beautiful town I get to call home.

My god. So much thanks. What else can I say? So many blessings befall me each day.

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That could have been me

I used to think I wanted extreme feelings. Intensity. I thought I wanted to live in the busiest parts of cities. To go out night after night. To drink and drink and take drugs and throw myself into mosh-pits and the arms of men I didn’t know. Sitting at an acoustic folk gig on a fucking chair and having to be quiet was such an excruciating experience. I thought going to a meal or party where there wasn’t a ton of alcohol was so dull and uncomfortable as to be almost pointless. I needed my drug to be able to soften the edges of life, loosen up, step sideways into a different reality.

That’s what I thought.

But none of it was fun. None of it was fucking fun.

I wasn’t feeling joy, either. It was oblivion I was seeking, always. What do I need to escape from my own body? What do I need to escape my experience of being alive in all it’s simplicity and terror?

Quitting alcohol meant having to face reality. Having to be here in the sometimes agonising experience of being alive. I had to learn how to go to party and actually be at the fucking party! Quite a trippy experience in itself, actually. Being present. Being able to listen to people and remember what they said. Getting the bus home and, you know, not feeling like I was going to throw up. The next day having the most curious feeling of clarity. Something simple and clear. Not quite calm - I wouldn’t go that far. But certainly curious. Very curious indeed.

Getting sober meant I got to actually see what it was like to experience reality, moment after moment, day after day, for the first time since I was a kid. Nothing to fuzz out the edges.

Like when I got glasses when I was 17 and stepped outside.

‘I can see the leaves on the trees!’

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Learning to be alive

I sometimes joke to people: if 20-year-old Ellie could see me now and my life, I think she would be shocked at how boring I am. And that’s fair enough. We’re very different people, me and her. And I love her dearly.

And I love my sweet, simple little life.

The truth is, it’s far from boring. It’s peaceful and calm; there’s no drama. I don’t wake up full of shame and regret. I have deep connections, real friendships. I experience joy and gratitude in the everyday. Each day I feel showered by gifts. I’m not chasing anything. I’m not desperate for escape. I’m happy to be here. I am so grateful to be alive.

But I had to learn this; I had to practice this. I had to practice feeling safe being sober. Being with other people. Being with myself. So my 20-year-old self would, actually, probably not think I’m boring exactly. She would be incredulous at how I’m managing it.

How the hell am I meeting with people for a coffee and talking for hours, without imploding from anxiety? How can I spend a few hours just wandering around the town without feeling constant terror? How can I curl up with my husband on the sofa and watch a movie without needing anything to take the edge off the moment-to-moment experience of presence?? Insanity!

If I’d jumped right in I couldn’t have done it. To be honest that wasn’t an option, because I tried using willpower to not drink and it didn’t work. Using willpower was the only advice I was given at the time. ‘Just stop drinking.’ Oh yes, why hadn’t I thought of that?? Silly old me. I can just stop! Just stop, each day at a time, here’s your one day chip, in a few more days you’ll get another one. Oh yes of course it’s excruciating and it will be for the rest of your life. But that’s your sentence - the punishment for your sickness. You’ve relinquished your drinking ‘privileges’. Jesus.

Alcohol was ruining my life, yes. But I also had the belief that it was the only thing getting me through life. My only true comfort. Spending the rest of my life without drinking felt like a worse fate. And for what? Just to survive? Just to claw my way to the end of my life with white-knuckles, with slightly less shame than if I’d drunk myself to an early grave?

In the AA meetings I went to, everyone sat around retelling their past drinking experiences. Hunched over mugs of instant coffee, we gathered in the same room again and again, retelling stories of shame and desperation. Saying hello by declaring our sickness. Saying goodbye and doing the same.

I had to leave. It didn’t seem like living to me.

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TO BE ALIVE
by Gregory Orr

To be alive: not just the carcass
But the spark.
That’s crudely put, but…
If we’re not supposed to dance,
Why all this music?

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A practice

One of the practices that really shifted things for me was gratitude. For seven years now I have written down, at the end of each day, three things I feel grateful for. The song of the blackbird. My little boy’s smile. A conversation with a friend. Having a bed, having running water, having safety, having a home. Once I start writing things I’m grateful for I can really see the abundance of riches in my life. I can appreciate the exquisite little things in life, as well as the big things.

By doing this practice, it means I’ve changed my brain to feel gratitude many, many times a day. To see the beauty and the gentle gifts, alongside everything else we walk with in life.

Savouring, too. When you notice something good, something beautiful, something joyful: let yourself really feel. Notice it. Bring full awareness to it and allow your heart to fill up with thanks. The sun warming your face in the morning. A moment of calm and connection with your kids. Those teeny-tiny flowers that grow out of the soft green moss on the wall.

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When it’s difficult

Sometimes, we can’t access joy. Sometimes it’s just impossible. We’re just surviving, just getting through the day. The body can stay in a state of chronic stress and hyper-vigilance due to trauma, racism, discrimination of any kind, being a carer, a single parent, and so many other reasons. And when this is the case, joy isn’t always possible. Gratitude can feel really far away.

I’m not here to give advice on this. You know what your lived experience is like. And I’m sure as hell not going to tell you to just feel gratitude for the daisies and you’ll be fine.

It’s so important to acknowledge what is there. To notice if our body doesn’t feel safe. To notice it doesn’t feel safe to feel joy, or to relax, or play. To notice when there is anxiety, even terror. To notice when there is anger and rage.

What might be possible is to create a little space by saying: Something in me doesn’t feel safe. Or, I’m noticing something in me doesn’t feel safe.

I’m noticing something in me doesn’t feel safe to play.

I’m noticing something in me feels angry.

Or: anger is here. Anxiety is here. Fear is here.

And just notice what happens.

Too long I have felt like ‘relaxation’ was another stick to beat myself with. I’d lie down and listen to a meditation, and my whole body would be tense and my mind racing. And I’d be shouting (inwardly) ‘relax! relax! why can’t you relax?!’

What has helped me is to notice that tension. Just bring awareness to it. My stomach is clenched right now. That’s OK. I’m noticing there’s tension in my shoulders. I’m noticing something in me doesn’t feel safe to relax. That’s OK.

Welcoming all of it. Noticing what is here and saying hello to it. This belongs.

And: is there something else? Perhaps as you lie on the bed, you notice the softness of the bedding underneath you. You might notice that the bed is supporting you. The earth is supporting you.

You might notice sounds. Perhaps a pleasant sound - birdsong perhaps? Or your own breathing. You are alive. Your body breathes without you even noticing. Your heart beats constantly for you, taking care of you every day until your last breath.

All this: just to notice and consider. To be curious about, perhaps. Perhaps something is possible. Perhaps.

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To ponder (and perhaps journal about)

• Does alcohol really make things more fun?

• What does ‘fun’ feel like to you?

• Can you think of examples of when alcohol made things a lot less fun?

• What did you find fun as a child?

• When was the last time you had an experience sober and enjoyed it? What was wonderful about it?

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If you enjoy this post and anything resonates with you, I’d be so grateful if you could ‘heart’, share and comment. I read and reply to all comments and love hearing from you all so much.

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In case you missed it…

I was interviewed for

Parents Who Think

and it was such a gift to be able to reflect on my writing, reconnect with it and share a bit about my process (‘process’ lol!) and inspiration.

Towards the Rising Sun

Finally…

Remember I have a free self-compassion guide for you when you sign up to my newsletter on my website.

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