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I Am Not an Alcoholic: Avoiding triggers is to be recommended, but how do you avoid Christmas?

Part 22: Another trigger, and maybe even bigger than Christmas, is holidays

Drawing more attention to the fact I don’t drink gives me an insight into how we treat children. Photograph: iStock
Drawing more attention to the fact I don’t drink gives me an insight into how we treat children. Photograph: iStock
Anonymous
Tue Dec 17 2024 - 06:01

Avoiding triggers is to be recommended but it’s not always possible. A thing called life gets in the way. And at this time of year, it’s a big one: Christmas.

If you are standing at the checkout in your local supermarket, the chances are the trolleys in front and behind you are full of wine and beer.

If you are walking down a street, you will see people carrying bottles of wine carefully wrapped in those nice gift bags. A bottle of wine has become the go-to present, the one everyone wants to receive. No need to put in a gift receipt.

We pretend to be as joyful as the pictures on the Christmas cards. We bake Christmas cakes, mince pies, and plum puddings until our faces resemble the steam running down the kitchen windows. We clean our houses from top to bottom, and we pretend we love all this cooking, hoovering, polishing and scrubbing.

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We pretend to love the present from our husband as we search furtively for the gift receipt. And when we have basted the turkey to perfection, roasted the potatoes to a crisp and golden finish, cooked the Brussels sprouts and glazed the carrots so well that we can see our reflection in them – okay, I’m losing the run of myself – we finally sit down to eat this much anticipated meal only to find exhaustion has set in and we just want to go to bed.

Christmas is over for another year. But alcohol is for life, not just for Christmas.

Sometimes, people get uncomfortable having a glass of wine around me and they will hold the glass down by their side, thinking it’s hidden. It is, but the uncomfortable expression on their face is not. I’ve even seen people elaborately fold a napkin and place it in front of the glass on the table in the hope that I won’t know it’s there. What am I? A child?

Please, have your glass of wine and stop thinking about it.

Drawing more attention to the fact I don’t drink gives me an insight into how we treat children. We spell out words so that they won’t understand. They may not understand what is happening, but they’re aware something is, and become uncomfortable.

It reminds me of one time in France at a Sunday lunch. The whole family was there: maman, papa, grand-mère, grand-père and various relatives of differing ages. They were talking about me and, suddenly, one eagle-eyed family member spotted that I was listening and understanding every word. “Attention, elle vous écoute.” Strangely, I was the one who was embarrassed, as if I were caught eavesdropping.

My sobriety is precarious. I may have years – gosh, can that be true? – as opposed to days or weeks of sobriety, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to think about how I will manage not to have a drink. A desire for alcohol could arise any time, and that is my fear. It could be a joyous occasion such as the celebration of an engagement, a work promotion, a new home. Here is another example where alcohol is everywhere: I was at a recent coffee morning; the hostess had moved into a new home and, when I’m thinking it’s time to leave, she produces a bottle of prosecco to toast her new home. To be fair, she had an alcohol-free alternative but regular readers might remember my fear of alcohol-free alternatives. For me to drink alcohol-free wine is certain to lead me to want the real thing. I think alcohol-free alternatives are a good idea for those who want to do dry January or give up alcohol temporarily, but for those of us who cannot control our alcohol intake, they are to be avoided.

So, to get back to the coffee morning. As we raised our glasses, a friend who had opted for the alcohol-free choice said: “I’m sorry I’m being a spoilsport by not toasting with the real thing.” I looked at my glass of water and felt guilty. Was I being a spoilsport?

I look at the couple at the next table as they pick up cold glasses of beer and their lips open to receive the golden nectar

Another trigger and maybe even bigger than Christmas is holidays. But, again, not one that can be avoided. I weigh up the pros and cons about holidays, and the pros always outweigh the cons. The sun is shining, the people are speaking a different language, the architecture is different, the food is delicious (maybe that’s because it’s served up and I had no part in the planning, shopping, preparation or cooking), I leave my room to go to breakfast and when I come back, the bed is made, the bathroom is cleaned and my untidy clothes have been folded neatly.

Last month I went on a trip to Egypt. It held the usual challenges for me as, like most people on holiday, I am in my devil-may-care attitude, but unlike most people, I can’t afford to let my guard down. I’m sitting by the swimming pool at lunchtime feeling virtuous having swum 10 lengths. I look at the couple at the next table as they pick up cold glasses of beer and their lips open to receive the golden nectar. I turn away and tell myself how lucky I am to be sitting in 30 degrees’ heat in November and I can drink a glass of sparkling water, which will quench my thirst just as effectively as the glass of beer. Then I notice something. The man has a prosthetic leg.

The grass is not always greener on the other side.

But being on holiday can be exacting too. Some people think getting through airport security is the last hurdle. No, it is the first.

Innocently sipping a flat white while waiting for the gate to open, I am unaware that the local general of the mosquito army is getting his resources ready for the offensive. Within days, my legs resemble a red and white polka-dot fabric – mosquitoes take no prisoners. At every landmark before accessing the ticket office, there is a meandering alley to navigate. Here, vendors sell everything. If one looks at anything, never mind pick it up, it’s sold. Try to worm your way out of not buying it? Good luck. Even though I am a well-seasoned traveller, nonetheless I get stung. I pick up a T-shirt and immediately put it down. Not quickly enough. He reduces the price, going from €20 down to a miserable €1 as he pursues me through the bazaar. A plaque I like but am afraid to show any interest in lest the vendor – who looks as if he might have known Tutankhamen, so wrinkled was his face – has it wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper and inveigled me to give him €50 plus another €20 for a bust of Queen Hatshepsut. Eventually, even as I am still being hassled by the irate T-shirt man, I part with €70. No wonder he holds my hand and kisses each finger, telling me I will have good fortune for the rest of my days.

As for the irate man, I give him the money. I have the T-shirt to prove it.

I know if I had haggled (something at which I have no skills) I could have walked away with the plaque and the bust of Queen Hatshepsut for a lot less than €70, but, you know what? Queen Hatshepsut is sitting on my book case looking regal and the plaque adorns my dressing table. I like them.

The following day, visiting the Temple of Karnak, the same onslaught awaits me as I navigate my way to the ticket booth. “Look, beautiful lady,” (every adult female is beautiful) “I have special price for you. Only $20. Come into my shop, no hassle to buy, just to drink a glass of mint tea.” Ignoring his pleas, the price decreases with each departing step. I try not to make eye contact as I am being offered amazing discounts on straw hats, colourful T-shirts, miniature statues of Tutankhamen along with statues of lesser known pharaohs, incense sticks, the smell of which assault one’s senses, all kinds of colourful plastic toys to attract the eyes of children. I se similar plaques to the one I have bought and would love to find out what price they are but decide that one plaque is enough.

By the time I’ve bought my entrance ticket, I need to sit down.

Being out of my comfort zone is something I like to do occasionally, which is how I find myself riding a camel. On the way there I think of snakes and my pathological fear of them. I gesture to the driver to call the hotel for me. He passes the phone to me and I ask: will there be snakes?

He responds: “Snacks?”

I say: “No, snakes?”

Again, he says: “Snacks? You want to eat something?”

I give up and hand the phone back to the driver. My comfort zone well and truly challenged.

As well as my plaque and my queen, I bring back my sobriety. And of that, I am proud.

To quote Maya Angelou: “People won’t remember what you said or did, but they will remember how you made them feel.”

So this Christmas, forget about having the house perfect, forget that the turkey has to be identical to the golden bronzed one in the picture in the magazine, forget that presents have to be wrapped like a nurse makes a bed, with all the corners tucked in neatly and no straggly bits visible.

So, after you put on your make-up and your pretty dress, pick up that smile, dust it off and put it on.

Happy Christmas.

I Am Not an Alcoholic Series

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