Reading Myself Sober

How I read myself free from alcohol

Photo by Emil Hallström on Unsplash

Hello Team CCC! How are you? I’m up to my oxters in novel edits. This time last week, things were going brilliantly. Now the brain fog has descended, and the fear has come down with it. I’m thinking of EL Doctorow - ‘Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way,’ and reminding myself that nothing has gone wrong, it always feels like this.

Recently, I had a lovely time talking about how to Read Yourself Happy with

Toni Jones

at the Shelf Help Clubhouse. You can watch the replay here. This week, I’m sharing an essay I wrote about books, and the way that reading changed my relationship with alcohol. This one is for paid subscribers - if you’d like to upgrade your subscription, hit the button below.

Hope you have a wonderful week!
Love

Daisy

Reading Myself Sober

In my dreams, I’m the sort of person who swings from chandeliers. I’d like to be a cross between the Marquise de Merteiul and the White Rabbit. Find me in a dimly lit bar, in pearls and black satin sipping icy champagne. I’ll lead you through a doorway, into a riot of red feathers, fireworks and literary friends. We might meet Olivia Curtis from Invitation To The Waltz, or Linda Radlett, fresh from her coming out ball in The Pursuit Of Love, or if we’re really lucky, Bridget Jones at a book launch.

In real life, I’ve become the sort of person who itches to switch off the overhead light. Big parties make me anxious, and I can’t take the edge off that anxiety with a glass of champagne. I quit drinking alcohol over two years ago. Books began my love affair with big, boozy parties. Then, books helped me to get sober. I still love going to wild parties on the page, even when it became clear that I couldn’t keep the party going in real life.

Deep down, I’d always suspected that ‘drinker’ was a pose I couldn’t maintain. I read the story that started by journey to sobriety long before I started drinking properly. When I was a teenager, I read Rachel’s Holiday by Marian Keyes – the story of a young woman living in New York, who is shipped back home to Ireland and made to attend rehab for cocaine addiction. I was anticipating a glamorous, scandalous story, and I was shocked to discover that Rachel used drugs because she was as awkward, insecure and anxious as I was. I loved the book, and reread it many times, but I also reread Bridget Jones’ Diary for reassurance, and permission to drink Chardonnay by the pint. Early in my drinking, I started to seek out addiction memoirs, subconsciously searching for proof that I was OK. According to most the books, you were only in trouble if you were having cocaine blown up your bottom or blacking out and buying a tram.

Then I stumbled upon Sarah Hepola’s memoir, Blackout. I loved this book, and I hated it.