When is the right time for kids to try alcohol?

"Noo, have a taste of this", my mother offered kindly. "It's delicious", she promised.

I was in the kitchen when I overheard this conversation going on in the hall.

"It's pear flavour", mum explained.

I looked around the kitchen and saw a half empty bottle of pear cider sitting on the kitchen bench.

"Nooooooo!" I screamed, running into the other room. "Don't let him have any of that! It's alcoholic!" Fear drummed through me. It was if I was about to take my first sip of alcohol in nearly six years.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I didn't realise. I thought it was just sparkling pear juice, like apple cider", my well meaning mother apologised.

The feeling in me was so irrational, I know, but I don't want Noo to have any alcohol until he is of legal drinking age. Not even a little sip. I know that is a crazy expectation to have in this day and age. I can't be with him all the time but I want to do whatever I can to encourage him to wait until he is 18 years old before getting involved with booze and booze culture, if he chooses to at all.

Put it off for as long as possible - image source

I tried and got a taste for alcohol way too early. My parents took the "forbidden fruit" approach thinking it would be better to let us have a try of wine or beer at home rather than make alcohol forbidden, therefore allowing it to become more attractive to the naturally rebellious side of our teenage years.

This is a common way of thinking for parents of teenagers. As reported by Ward, Snow, et al, in their report The influence of parents and siblings on children’s and adolescents’ attitudes and behaviours towards alcohol: A critical review of the literature (2010) prepared for DrinkWiseAustralia:

"Almost half of Australian parents believe that they should teach their children to drink at home before they reach the age of 18".

I'm not saying that my parents giving me a sip of wine at the dinner table is to blame for me abusing alcohol for 12 years but it certainly gave me a taste for it. Research shows that the earlier kids are given their first taste of alcohol, and this is usually under their parent's consent, the more likely they are to increase their alcohol use later in life:

"Longitudinal studies have shown that child reports of parental supply of alcohol for their last episode of drinking are a strong predictor of increased alcohol use over time. Overseas research suggests that when parents do not supply alcohol, adolescents do not increase their consumption of other alcoholic drinks." - The influence of parents and siblings on children’s and adolescents’ attitudes and behaviours towards alcohol: A critical review of the literature (2010)

Now I know my son is only five years old. And I really hope this issue is one I don't have to worry about for a while, but there are still things we, as parents, can do to help mould our kids' attitudes towards alcohol from a very early age.

I've seen in my Facebook feed, and around other websites I haunt, a great parenting quote that goes something like this: "kids will learn more from what we do, than from what we say". The DrinkWise website backs this up:

"Through observing adults drinking, children form their attitudes to alcohol early in life. The attitudes they develop during their younger years will affect how they make a range of important decisions regarding drinking alcohol in the future, such as: underage drinking, pace yourself or fill-up fast, drink and drive or take a taxi, binge drink to get drunk or drink sensibly, drinking every day or occasionally and so the list goes on."

As I'm close to clocking up six years of sobriety from alcohol, Noo has never seen me drink, and I hope he never will. His grandmother drinks rarely and his grandfather is a moderate drinker but Noo has never seen these two extremely important role models in his life, drunk. And I hope he never will.

One day I will tell him about the alcoholism that has plagued both sides of his family. One day I will tell him about my own troubles with booze. I will tell him that he has to wait until he is legally allowed to before he can have a drink. And I will hope that he will grow to be a self confident young person who will feel able to make healthy choices based on knowledge, rather than let himself be peer pressured into doing things he isn't comfortable with just to feel accepted by the crowd. My parenting choices, starting from the day he was born, will hopefully help him become that person.

I know these are grand aspirations I have for my little boy and for myself as his mum. But, you have to be positive in life, set goals, reach for the sky. Sure, mistakes will be made by both of us along the way. If temptation does get in the way and, like a lot of teens, Noo does sneak a taste of booze before he turns 18, the sky won't fall in. We will deal with it. Together.

How old were you when you first tried alcohol?

If you have kids are you going to let them try it at home first before
they turn 18 or make them wait?

V.

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Part 5: On being a victim of rape culture

TRIGGER WARNING: This post may be triggering to those who have been a victim of sexual assault.

LANGUAGE WARNING: There is an excessive use of profanities thought this post. 


On being a victim of rape culture

Part 1: The day before
Part 2: Where am I?
Part 3: The day after

Part 4: Reporting the crime

Drunk or sober I am not to blame for being raped

I have spent most of the last six years blaming myself for being raped by a stranger. Why? Because on the day it occurred I had been drinking heavily. In fact, I was hammered. Like most Friday and Saturday nights and a few other nights during the week as well, I drank a lot.

Of course it was my fault! I gave over all my rights to protect myself when I took away the ability to control my physical actions, mental cognitions, and the ability to verbally give consent or otherwise by drinking a shitload of booze with a group of work colleagues on a Friday night. I might as well have been wearing a sandwich board over my shoulders with the words "FUCK ME FOR FREE" printed on both sides.

WHAT A LOAD OF CRAP!

Yes, there's a good chance that I wouldn't have been raped on 19 April 2007 if I was sober that night.

But there's an even greater chance I wouldn't have been raped that night if the man who committed the crime had any respect for women. Or the law.

Mia Freedman published an article regarding the correlation between sexual assault and alcohol a couple of days ago. It's caused a bit of a shit storm around the interwebs.

On one side of the argument is Mia, and a hell of a lot of her commenters on the post, saying that we need to teach our daughters, sisters, nieces, girlfriends to stay sober while out because if you get yourself inebriated some randy bloke might just come along and stick his dick where you don't want it.

Mia says "Some people are angry at the idea of highlighting the link between drinking and sexual assault. Some people insist that when we mention the connection, we are victim blaming."

Mia, if what you say isn't victim blaming, why have I felt so responsible for what happened to me that night?

And then there are other commentators (Clementine Ford for Daily Life and Kim Powell at the news with nipples) who are crying foul on Mia's argument, saying women have the bloody right to walk the streets at night, drunk and teetering on sky high stilettos, scantily clothed should they wish, without the fear of coming to any harm.

I think I, as a victim of drunk rape, sit somewhere in between the two arguments.

Women should be able to dress up in all their finery, go out and get a little tipsy, drunk if you like, and feel absolutely safe from harm.

But the reality is there are fucking arseholes out there that will take advantage of our drunkenness. There are fuckers out there that will see that lovely cleavage we are showing off as an invitation to sex. Some men will even buy us the drinks to get us to that state of willingness to leave with them. Hell, he could chuck in a rohy to make it a sure thing.

While I was in hospital recently, a blogger friend posted on her timeline this image. It sent me into a spiral of PTSD flashbacks and depression because it brought all the memories back to the forefront of my mind.

Image source

And there it is!

Victim blaming lies in the culture we live in that lectures women to prevent themselves from being raped but doesn't put nearly as much emphasis on teaching our men the meaning of consent and that sex without it is morally reprehensible and against the law.

My right to give consent that night was stripped away from me. By alcohol, yes. But mainly by the man who coerced me by force to his filthy apartment.

You would think waking up out of a drunken stupor while a stranger is violating you, and has been for hours while you were unconscious, is one of the worst things that could happen to a woman.

I've only realised this recently. As bad as being raped was, and I still feel the pain of it every time I sit down on my permanently damaged coccyx, the actual act wasn't the worst part.

The worst and most damaging effect of being raped, for me anyway, is the way I was treated after the assault; once I became the rape victim. 

I've written all about what happened that night in detail which you can find under the tab above titled "From Rock Bottom to Parenthood". The last post that I wrote in the series, "Reporting the crime", is not the end of the story. I've been meaning to write that final chapter for six months but haven't been able to get my head in the right space to do it. I just haven't been well enough to go there. I'm probably not well enough to write it now, but I'll take the risk and go for it anyway...

The interrogation

Even before the night I was raped my life was a slowly, yet surely, moving train wreck in the making. Heavily addicted to cocaine, ecstasy and alcohol I partied hard and I slept around all while holding down a 9-5 office job with a prestigious investment bank. I never, ever blacked out and I never went to a one night stand's house. I always brought them back to mine where I felt safer because my flatmates would be sleeping in the next rooms and could come to my aid, should I need it.

The last chapter ended with me being accompanied by two London Metropolitan WPCs and a friend through what would turn out to be a 17 hour interrogation of my story, my character and my body.

Back in April this year I wrote:

Fear returned to me then as I thought over my life and how by being there, at the police station, it could be put under scrutiny. I've watched a lot of Law & Order and countless other crime shows and I realised that my life was turning into an episode of Special Victims Unit or The Bill. If the cops ever got this guy and it went to court all my secrets would be exposed. All the lies I'd told to my family and my employer would be dragged out in court. Everyone would know about my addictions, my financial debt, my promiscuity. I had visions of my friends and work colleagues being questioned in the witness box as to my character: "Yes Your Honour, Vanessa loves to party. Oh yes, she's known to have slept with a few blokes from the office...".

At some stage in the evening the two WPCs, my friend and I were driven to a rape crisis centre in Whitechapel where I was prodded and poked by two nurses taking swabs of fluids and blood in the hope of finding some DNA evidence. I knew the exercise was superfluous because I'd showered several times since the assault two days before. This was all just routine. I knew I was being put through a series of procedures to be ticked off a standard "girl raped while drunk crime report" as we went from one examination to the next. I remember my friend pointing out to me, while they measured how tall I was and what I weighed, that I was shaking. I hadn't even realised until that moment that I was trembling. I was petrified and in shock. I still hadn't really grasped the idea that I was a victim of a crime. This was all actually happening to me and that my life had been changed forever.

It was heading well toward midnight, if memory serves, when we arrived at what I remember to be a massive police complex situated north of the Shoreditch/Hoxton area I was familiar with. As my girlfriend waited outside I was escorted into what looked like a store room. The WPC asked me to take my top off so she could photograph the bruising on my right shoulder. Photos were also taken of my face from various angles. Instructions to move this way or that were given in cold, well rehearsed lines.

I think it was not long after that the detectives arrived. A male and a female detective. The two WPCs that had been with me all day had done all the hard work now I just had to repeat everything I'd already told them to the female detective while sitting in front of a video camera. This must have been at about one or two in the morning.

I sat there like a good girl, shifting from side to side to avoid sitting directly on my damaged tailbone, and repeated the story of what had happened on the day and night of Friday 19 April 2007. I think one of the WPCs was present as well as the female detective who was asking all the questions. She went over the notes that the WPCs had taken through the day, I guess looking for holes in my story.

Exhausted does not even come close to describe how I felt in those early hours of the morning as they questioned me over and over again. I'd been interrogated for hours and I just wanted to go home. But the questions kept coming: How much exactly had I drank that day? How could I possibly drink that amount and remain standing let alone get myself where I ended up? Is it any wonder why I can't remember anything? What did the perpetrator look like? What kind of black man was he? African, West Indian, Arab? I don't know, I kept telling them. Can't we finish this another day, I asked. When I've had some sleep. No, it was better to do it while it was all still fresh in my mind.

When the WPCs finally drove my friend and me back to my flat in the early hours of Tuesday morning I felt worse than I had before I went to the cops. All those questions asked over and over. The doubt in their eyes said it all: another drunken girl got herself into more trouble than she could handle.

My friend told me that while I was being interviewed on film by the female detective, the male detective sat with her in the waiting area of the police station. He asked her all sorts of questions about my character. Did I like to sleep around? Did I have a thing for black men? Did I get drunk a lot? Had I made this sort of complaint before?

If that line of questioning isn't pointing the finger directly at me, the victim, I don't know what is.

Over the weeks that followed, the police would phone me with questions about everything I'd told them. From the description of the building where the assault occurred (taken from the drawing they'd got me to do from memory which apparently didn't match that of the building I pointed to in the drive-by of the crime scene) to my belief that my drink was spiked which was why I had no recollection of getting to where I did (the toxicology results, obtained from blood taken two days after the assault, came back negative of any stupefying substances).

Learning that my blood was clean was devastating. Even though I knew the chances were slim given the time between the crime and when I was tested, I wanted so much for them to find rohypnol or some sort of date rape drug in my blood to give me a reprieve from the responsibility of the destruction of my life.

Appointments with a counsellor at the rape crisis centre were made and on the second occasion I went the social worker told me outright:

"The police would hate me telling you this but do not go through with the complaint. If they do actually find the man who did this to you his lawyers will do everything they can to undermine your character. From talking to your friends and family, to getting information from your colleagues and employers. Your entire life will be dragged before the courts. They will find a way to say you asked for it."

I don't know why this warning from the social worker shocked me, but it did. I had convinced myself that my previous concerns that my private life would be made public was just paranoia. An overreaction from watching too many cop shows on the telly. But when the social worker confirmed my fears I realised that we, as a so called civilised Western society, had not progressed past the bad old days of victim blaming.

To protect myself, I had to protect the rapist.

I didn't even tell my parents back in Sydney what had happened for nearly a week because I thought they'd blame me too. I turned out to be wrong, but that was how deeply I felt responsible for what had happened to me.

I felt like gutter trash. A drug-fucked whore who deserved everything she got. I stopped seeing the counsellor and started drinking from the moment I woke up through to the moment I went to sleep, if I slept at all. I had my hair cut short so the rapist couldn't recognised me should we have the misfortune of passing each other in the street and I was constantly on the look out for him. I tried to keep up appearances by turning up to work when I could because I was so scared of losing my job.

The company I worked for sent me home to Australia for a couple of weeks so I could get some rest and see my family. As I flew back to London two weeks later I knew deep in my heart I should have stayed in Sydney. I was flying straight back into the path of self destruction. The burden of blame and disgust was so great that I wanted to die.



There are so many messages out there for women to keep a look out for baddies ready to jump on them at any given chance. Just as Clementine Ford puts it, us women are told:

Don't drink. Don't walk by yourselves at night. Don’t wear provocative clothing. Don't flirt with men you don't intend to sleep with. Don't be rude. Don’t lead men on. Don’t accept drinks from strangers. Don't sign a check you don't intend to cash. Don’t go to parties without your boyfriend. Dress like a lady. Understand that the world isn't fair. Look out for evil monsters, but don't make normal men feel like rapists by avoiding their attentions. Smile. Don't imagine for a moment that you have an equal right to take up space in public without having to endure touching, groping, objectification and jokes at your expense. The world is what it is, yo.

The message has to change from telling women to protect themselves to telling men that sex without consent is wrong. We must teach our sons, brothers, cousins, all men from all cultural backgrounds, that NO MEANS NO!

Being unconscious and therefore unable to give consent, means fucking NO!

From the time sex education begins, at home and at school, boys and girls need to have it ingrained in their psyche that non-consensual sexual activity of any type is unacceptable and is a crime.

In an ideal world women should be able to go out and get pissed and walk home alone without fear of being attacked but until we ramp up the message directed at the perpetrators and would-be perpetrators of these crimes, we still must do whatever we can to protect ourselves.


As difficult as it is for me to truly believe I am not responsible for what that man did to me back in 2007, I know deep in my heart I did not ask to be raped. An unconscious body cannot say yes or no. But when I live in a society that is constantly bombarding me with messages like one in Mia Freedman's article, it's a hard not to feel I am somewhat to blame.

I chose to have a few drinks with some colleagues after work.

     I accepted the free rounds of vodka shots that were handed out in the name of lifting office morale.

              I am the one who must have followed that stranger back to his flat...




V.

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Floggin my bloggin With Some Grace

And linking up with Maxabella Loves for

Day 1: The story of my life

Day 1, Wednesday: The story of your life in 250 words or less (or one paragraph... no one will be counting your words... probably)

I was born in NYC to Australian parents but I'm a True Blue Aussie. Moving to Sydney at two, six months later my sister and best friend was born. I grew up in Newtown in Sydney’s Inner West. My big brother and SIL lived up the street in a house that has been in my family for four generations.

At 15 I moved to Melbourne, attending boarding school until my family followed a year later. We lived by the MCG until mum and my sister decided they'd had enough and headed back north. After leaving school I worked as a secretary in the CBD until dad and I also returned to the Harbour City.

I continued to hold down great office jobs while courting my two new best friends: Drugs and alcohol. My parents kicked me out. 18 months later I attempted to escape addiction by moving back to Melbourne with my first love. Drugs were replaced with food and depression and when it all went sour I moved back to Sydney.

Three years, more depression, drugs and alcohol with another good office job until I ran away again, this time to London. But there was never any escaping myself.

Work, party, travel. Repeat. Until CRASH, it all came tumbling down.

Rock Bottom. Back in Sydney. Rehab. Depression, PTSD, anxiety, polysubstance abuse. Hell. Three long hospital admissions. Pregnant. Hope. My boy was born.

Slowly, surely new life. Both Noo’s and mine.

V.

Amazing. 241 words! Can you write your life story in 250 words or less?

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Part 4: On being a victim of rape culture

Warning: This post could be triggering for people who have themselves been victims of sexual assault.

On being a victim of rape culture

Part 1: The day before
Part 2: Where am I?
Part 3: The day after

Reporting the crime

As Monday morning dawned and the familiar smell of freshly baked croissants filled the air, the butter seeming to permeate my pores, I became conscious one again of the constant hum of the air conditioning units below. There was a split second before I was completely awake that I forgot what had happened. Just a few tiny moments where I was free from the horror that was my life until - BANG - it all came flooding back. This was going to be a very difficult day.

I dressed for work wondering what I was going to do about sitting down at my desk all day. My coccyx continued to throb in excruciating pain and even sitting forward, putting my weight towards the edge of the seat, was insanely painful.

The walk to work was uncomfortable. Had the person who had assaulted me found me walking home along these streets on Friday night? Is that what happened? Was I not able to get a cab out the front of the office so decided to walk home after all? Maybe I'd fallen over and that was why my coccyx screamed in agony every time I shifted my weight? The questions were never ending.

The first thing I did when I got to the office was stop by the kitchen to get a coffee. One of the young guys who'd been at work drinks Friday night was there making his breakfast. I don't remember his name now. I spoke to him while I waited for the coffee machine to do its thing. I can't remember word for word what I said. To quote myself now would be complete conjecture. I think I made a comment about the night, that I didn't remember much. He seemed embarrassed. I was embarrassed. I didn't know this bloke enough to question further. Now, in retrospect, I wish I'd ignored my fears and made him go over with me every frigging detail that he recalled. Someone must have seen something!

In my team's room everyone was busy either looking at Excel spreadsheets or speaking to clients on the phone. I attempted to sit at my desk wincing as I lowered myself onto my chair. The first thing I did was email the female manager I remembered talking to just before I lost all awareness of was going on. I asked her what she remembered of the night. What did I say to her out the front of our building?

While waiting for a reply I told my boss, who had become a friend over the years, that I'd hurt myself falling over and needed an alternative seating arrangement. I ordered one of those funny backless ergo chairs that you kind of kneel on.

I couldn't concentrate on work. I wanted answers! Surely someone would know something! But who to ask? I desperately wanted that manager to email me back and say that I'd said I was going to another bar. It would explain why I ended up where I was. Kind of. Maybe that would have meant that I met this person the normal way. That I wasn't stalked and attacked. That it wasn't premeditated.

Finally the email came through. She wrote that I had said to her that I was going to catch a Black Cab home and that she caught the Northern Line home. She said she was really drunk too and fell asleep on the train, waking up at the end of the line.

My heart sank. To me these words confirmed my worst fears: I had been attacked and raped. I retrospect, either way you look at it, whether I went there willingly or by force, I was raped. An unconscious woman can not consent to sex. An unconscious person cannot consent to anything! It has taken a long time for me to accept that.

Blood rushed through my ears, my vision blurred, I thought I was going to vomit all over my keyboard. I had to get the fuck out of there before I exploded. I had to tell my boss, my friend. I couldn't speak to him even though he was only sitting on the other side of the petition. I knew the only thing that would come out of my mouth if I opened it would be a scream or a sob. I didn't want anyone else in the room to know what was going on. So I emailed him: "I need to speak to you privately. Now."

He looked through the glass dividing us and could see my upset face. "Let's go for a coffee", he suggested. I got as far as through our office door. To the left was a door that led to the fire stairs and goods lift. I lurched left, quickly yanked that door open and went inside, my boss following me, and collapsed in a heap as I wailed "I've been raped".

I lost it then, fell apart in my boss's arms as what little hope I had of things getting back to normal finally disintegrated. He held me and I knew he was crying too. Pulling himself together he stood back and said I had to go to the police. I argued that they would just say it was my fault. I was drunk! What sympathy would they have for me?

My boss said no matter what happened I had to do it for me. By going to the police I would be acknowledging to myself that something had happened to me. That I was not to blame. That a crime had been committed against me.

Next my boss told me to go downstairs to one of the cafes on the ground floor. He would call the manager who I'd emailed and ask her to come and talk to us about what she remembered. It felt so good that someone was on my side! Someone was taking me seriously.

The manager sat down with us for a coffee and repeated what she remembered of those last moments of the Friday night before everyone headed home: I had categorically said to her that I was catching a cab home. She had no reason to believe I would have gone back into another bar. By that time, all the venues but the nightclub were closed anyway. I thanked them both and walked to the police station.

Not understanding that the City of London had it's own police force I went along to the only cop shop I knew. It was the Liverpool Street Police Station. I used to catch my bus home to Battersea when I lived there from the bus stop just along the way.

(Source)

The entry to the police station was unassuming and quite small. There was a police officer behind a counter and a couple of people waiting to be seen to. I had no idea what to do. I just walked up to he counter which was in earshot of the people waiting and told the office that I needed to report a crime. He asked me what crime would I like to report. "Um, I ah, yeah, I was raped", I stuttered out.

I felt about sixteen again. Scared and alone in a foreign country. I wanted my mum - anyone familiar to me - to be there with me to hold my hand.  The officer looked embarrassed, as if he didn't know what to do. Finally he ushered me in through a door on the left and along a hallway to an internal waiting area. I wasn't there long before a WPC (woman police constable) led me through what turned out to be a massive complex of rooms and offices.

It was about 10.30am by this time I think. I remember the hallway was wide and long. On the left I noticed an open door that led through to what looked like a classic London pub. Off duty police offices who must have just finished the nightshift were drinking beer. At least that's what I thought I saw. People have doubted me when I've told them that part of the story. I swear it is true. Later in the day, walking down that same corridor, I remember seeing bar snacks on the counter. Like pickled onions and cubes of cheese. Maybe I imagined it.

I was escorted up to a room that was especially designated for victims and witnesses. It was comfortable yet clinical. There was a sofa, a TV and some toys. Posters advertising crisis centres and other such services were up on the walls. I was left there while they figured out what to do with me. You see I'd come to the wrong place. The crime had been committed in Shoreditch which is in the Greater London area only a couple of kilometres away. That area came under the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police. As I waited in that beige room for victims and witnesses I felt a loneliness and despair that is beyond description.

Fear returned to me then as I thought over my life and how by being there, at the police station, it could be put under scrutiny. I've watched a lot of Law & Order and countless other crime shows and I realised that my life was turning into an episode of Special Victims Unit or The Bill. If the cops ever got this guy and it went to court all my secrets would be exposed. All the lies I'd told to my family and my employer would be dragged out in court. Everyone would know about my addictions, my financial debt, my promiscuity. I had visions of my friends and work colleagues being questioned in the witness box as to my character: "Yes Your Honour, Vanessa loves to party. Oh yes, she's known to have slept with a few blokes from the office...".

The wait dragged on as I frantically searched my own handbag and wallet for remnants of cocaine. It would be just my luck for the cops to find an old wrap of lotto paper with scratchings left behind. When I came up empty I scanned my mobile phone for dealer contacts and deleted every single one. Of course I was being irrational. The police weren't going to search me. Or were they?

Finally two Met WPCs came and sat with me. They had come from a large police station in the area where the assault had taken place. They asked me to tell them exactly what I remembered. I think they left again. I just remember waiting. A lot. Next thing I recall the two WPCs, who would be my escorts for the entire day, drove me to my flat. We were to collect the clothing I wore on the Friday night. I text my flatmate to warn him that I'd be home soon with a policewoman in tow.

My jeans, top, underwear and socks were all on the floor of my bedroom where I'd stripped them off just two mornings earlier. I half expected the WPC to crouch down by my dirty knickers and pick them up with the end of a pen from her pocket like I'd seen done so many times on Law & Order. Instead she donned latex gloves and bagged each item in separate brown paper bags. I wondered why on the telly the cops used plastic evidence bags. Why didn't the shows' producers ever get that detail right?

Back in the police car the three of us were to do a drive by of where I thought the assault had occurred. I can't tell you how horrific it was to return to the scene of the crime. I was so scared I'd see him on the street! That he'd see me in the back of the police vehicle cruising past the flats where he lived. I slouched down in the back not wanting to be seen. That rush of adrenalin, as the urge to run overtook me, whooshed through my senses and I couldn't focus any more. I had to get out of there. I think I pointed at the building and we left.

(Out of morbid curiosity and/or to challenge myself I looked up the place on Google Maps just two days ago. I really didn't think I'd find it but I did. The building is just how I remember it. Those streets I walked along they are still there just as I recalled.)

Back at Liverpool Street I was returned to the room for victims and witnesses. I waited some more. In that time a friend called. She didn't know what had happened and when I explained the story to her she said she'd come to me immediately. It was around three or four in the afternoon by then. This friend of mine, who I'll be forever grateful for, left work early to come and be with me.

I've just done the numbers in my head again. If I arrived at the police station at around 10am by the time my friend turned up at 4pm I'd been with the police for six hours. We didn't make it back to my flat until three the next morning so there is 11 more hours of this story to tell you. For both our sakes I'll save it for the next post in this series.

Thank you once again for reading and for your supportive comments.


V.

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Part 3: On being a victim of rape culture

Warning: This post could be triggering for people who have themselves been victims of sexual assault.

On being a victim of rape culture

Part 1: The day before
Part 2: Where am I?

The day after

Grief and shock overwhelmed me. Pain, both physical and emotional threatened to completely engulf me but I tried to hold onto some hope. Maybe what had happened was something I had wanted, it was just a bad, stupid, drunken one night stand. I couldn't sit down because of the pain in my coccyx. I looked in the mirror at my naked body and saw that I was bruised all over my left shoulder and on my forehead and I knew these injuries did not happen willingly.

Questions kept ringing in my head:

What happened to me last night?

Why can't I remember anything?

Why was someone having sex with me when I was out cold?

How long was he taking advantage of me before I came to?

What exactly did they do to me?

Why was my coccyx so damaged?

How did I bruise my forehead and left shoulder?

At what point in the night did he meet me? In the forecourt of my office building or somewhere on the way home between the office and my flat?

Had I been complicit or did I struggle, causing the bruising and coccyx pain?

I rang the girl who I had started the evening with. I didn't really know her at all, she had not worked in our office for long. I can't even remember her name now or what she looked like. I felt awkward talking to her on the phone. I can't remember the conversation very well which is weird but I remember the feeling it gave me. She didn't want to know about it. I felt I was making her uncomfortable when I told her that I didn't remember anything from about 10.30-11pm when we were all leaving to go home. I told her something bad had happened to me. I think I asked her if she'd seen me talking to any strangers. I didn't get any worthwhile answers from her and the conversation was over quickly.

For some reason I couldn't stand the thought of sleeping in my own room. I set myself up on one of the three large sofas in our lounge room. With my pillows, doona and the TV going, I had to lay on my side because of my coccyx that burned in agony. My flatmates offered to go to Boots the Chemist to get the morning after pill which you can buy over the counter without a prescription in the UK. I took a stack of Tylenol PM which I'd bought from the States. It was an over the counter painkiller with a sleep aid in it. I just wanted to sleep and wake up with this nightmare over.

In my head I tallied up the amount that I'd drunk the day before: 1 third of a bottle of white wine with lunch, 2 bottles of beer between 4.30-5pm, 1 whole bottle of white between the two bars, 2 vodka shots. Quite a lot but I doubted enough to make me not remember anything. I never black out. Ever.

It got me thinking: Maybe my drink had been spiked. The use of date rape drugs in the UK is a significant problem. In this article I just found from early April 2007 on the Guardian newspaper website the author states that date rape drugs are used in one in three sexual assaults in the UK. Maybe that's why I couldn't remember anything from 10.30pm through to 3.30am: someone had put something in my glass. Remember we had been sitting/standing at two tables near the entrance to the bar. It could have happened when I went to the toilet. Or when I went outside to call my dealer.

But who would have spiked my drink? My first thought was that I'd got into a minicab out of the front of my building and the man whose flat I ended up in was the driver. A version of this is still one of my theories.

Minicabs in London are 'private hire taxis'. They have to be pre-booked and are not to be flagged down in the street unlike a Black Cab. But they are always found touting their service out the front of pubs and clubs on busy nights looking for fares. Minicabs are not put under the same level of scrutiny as Black Cabs. Anyone with a car with a satellite navigation unit can look like a minicab driver.

The message is everywhere not to get into minicabs off the street. I just found this latest advice from Transport for London. It basically says do not get into a minicab unless you have booked it through the minicab office yourself. I remember adverts on the back of toilet cubicle doors in clubs with statistics about unlicensed minicabs and rates of sexual assaults against women.

Pretty much everyone I knew got in them despite the warnings. You come out of a nightclub in the small hours of the morning and all you want to do is get home. The drivers mill about at the exit to venues and call “taxi, taxi, taxi!” trying to get your business. You then negotiate your price home. It’s a flat rate, not on a metre like a black cab. If you've only got twenty quid left in your pocket who’s to debate it when the driver offers to take you across London for that price?

The not knowing what happened was driving me insane. I had to know! A very vague image came to my mind. One of me struggling. Of putting my arms up and pushing someone away. The memory is so hazy that I don't know where I am but I think it is dark and that maybe I'm outside. Maybe I'm on the ground and I'm trying to get away. I don't know. I've thought over that tiny shred of information for six years. Has it changed in that time? The mind plays tricks.

From Saturday morning through Monday I laid on the couch popping painkillers, smoking cigarette after cigarette and drank beer. I wouldn't sleep in my room. I kept the TV on for distraction. I did everything I could to avoid processing the events of Friday night but the image of his face kept popping into my head no matter what I did to try and block it out.

I don't know why I didn't just go straight to the police. I guess I felt like it was my fault. I asked for this. I got drunk and went home with some guy, passed out and he fucked me. It was my fault. I was so drunk I must have deserved it. My luck had finally run out. No longer could I brag about living dangerously without a cost.

I felt lucky I hadn't paid the ultimate price for my stupidity and irresponsibility: my life. The shame that crept over me was all consuming. What would they say at work? Did my colleagues see me with this person? What would they think of me when I asked them on Monday morning to help fill in the gaps of Friday night?

My reputation at work was already pretty bad. I often came to work hungover. I had got pretty good at hiding it but sometimes I would come to work on a Friday morning still drunk from the night before. The year round sniffle was speculated to be cocaine addiction which was of course true. And to top it off I had slept with a couple of men from our office after drunken work functions. I might as well have had "Drug Fucked Slut" tattooed across my forehead. I knew that's what they all thought of me. My work colleagues would think I'd finally got my comeuppance.

And that's exactly what I felt like: Scum of the earth who'd got what she deserved.

So began the victim blaming.

And I blamed myself for everything.




V.

Linking up with the #IBOT crew at Essentially Jess.

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Part 1: On being a victim of rape culture

Warning: This post could be triggering for people who have themselves been victims of sexual assault.

I've been avoiding writing this post. I know it is going to be long and it is going to be painful. It is going to hurt to dredge up the memories. It might free me or it might bring back my post traumatic stress disorder flashbacks. I don't know. I just feel I should write about it and tell my story of being a victim of rape culture.

The recent case in Steubenville, Ohio, in the United States has brought it all back to me. I've read article after article about the appalling crime that happened against an innocent 16 year old girl. I've also read about the disgusting backlash against that young women. The victim blaming she has suffered because she was drunk and passed out at the time two men raped her while her peers looked on and did nothing has been reprehensible.

It is six years this month since the night I was raped. 

Me in a pub in Shoreditch four months earlier

This is the story:

  

It was Friday 19 April 2007. The day had started like any Friday. I woke up hungover and tired and in a bad mood. I was living in Shoreditch in East London in a three bedroom flat that was inconveniently located above a bakery. You might think it would be lovely to wake up to the smell of freshly baked croissants but I can assure you, it is not. Hot, humid and buttery the air made me feel a constant hum of nausea just below the surface of my skin. Probably because I was hungover most of the time.

That day it was cool, but not as cold as it can be mid April in London. I dressed in my favourite blue Lucky Jeans jeans, a black knit sleeveless cowl necked top, black velvet blazer from Gap and my cherry red Doc Marten ankle boots and headed off to work.

My office was about 20 minutes walk from the flat. The not so fresh London air woke me up as I pounded the back streets to get to the centre of the Square Mile in time for work. I had that usual Friday morning feeling: Gagging for the end of the working week so I could party all weekend.

Lunchtime came around and a couple of the girls from other departments asked if I wanted to go for lunch. We went to a restaurant not far from the office. It was Italian if my memory serves me. We shared a bottle of white wine between us. I remember we talked about our party lifestyles. The other girls both had boyfriends but they still liked to go out and drink with their mates. I remember gloating about the risky, outrageous life of sex, drugs and music I led. About how trashed I could get on the weekend without anything really bad happening to me.

In those days I was proud of my ability to consume vast amounts of alcohol, cocaine and ecstasy. Either alone or, usually, together. I thought the double life of corporate slave by day, drug loving rock chick by night was so incredibly cool. But the reality was that during the day I hated myself. At night the drugs and the booze set me free from that hate. 

To stop the self loathing I was drinking earlier in the day, every day. On the weekends I often woke up (if I slept at all) and began drinking not too long after. My hangovers stopped seeming so bad because they just kind of felt normal. I bruised easily and always had the shakes. My nose ran constantly and the excuse of year long hayfever was starting to wear thin. 

We returned to the office late from lunch and as the buzz from the wine started to fade I felt agitated and annoyed that I wasn't tipsy any more. By 4.30pm our trusty Friday arvo drinks trolley made its rattly way around the office floor. Drinking a couple of beers in quick succession took the edge off but just upped my desire for more.

My flatmate had text me to say he was making a roast lamb dinner and did I want to share it with him and his girlfriend who was practically living with us now. This really annoyed me. Why the fuck would I want to spend Friday night home with a couple? As if on cue, one of the girls I'd had lunch with emailed and said she was going for a drink in one of the bars on the ground floor of our building, did I want to join her? Yes, bloody oath I did.

We shared another bottle of white wine. If you've started to total up the amount of grog I'd had that night you're probably thinking I should be pretty wasted by now, at least a little tipsy. But as I said earlier, I was used to drinking one or two bottles of wine a night during the week so a couple of beers and half a bottle of wine (not to mention what we'd drunk at lunch) was really not a lot for me.

We discovered there was a group of people from our office drinking in the bar next door so we went there hoping to score some freebies. The corporate credit card was over the bar and the drinks were flowing thick, fast and without cost to me. My friend and I shared another bottle of wine. By this stage I was definitely on my way. That familiar edginess started to overcome me and I went outside to call my dealer. Alcohol just made me want coke and vice versa. There was no answer so I went back into the bar.

All my work colleagues were as pissed as girls on a hens night while a couple of trays of vodka shots were passed around the group. I pretty much always stuck to beer, wine or cider in those days but not to be outdone, or to miss out on free grog, I joined in and downed a couple. Things started to get hazy then.

There must have been at least six people from our office there. They weren't from my department so I didn't know them well but that didn't matter. We were all pissed and having a laugh. We milled around two high circular tables near the entrance to the bar which was pretty busy being a Friday night.

There were four bars in our building, one of them being a nightclub. When it was near last drinks at the bar we had been drinking in a couple of people suggested going to the nightclub for a dance.

I vaguely remember going down the stairs to check out the club and then coming back up the stairs. I remember the girl I had originally gone out with had gone back up to the office to get her bags before heading home. I remember standing in the forecourt of the building with a manager who had been drinking with us and we talked about how we were each going to get home. She was getting the Northern Line to go home to South London. I was going to get a cab because I didn't like walking the backstreets late at night. It must have been around 10.30ish.

I have no recollection of what happened in the five hours that follow.

Over the last six years huge amounts of my mental energy have gone into trying to piece together what happened to me in those five hours.

Right now I am overwhelmed by emotion just writing this. My breathing has become shallow. Noo is in his bed behind me so I'm trying not to dip too deep into this chasm of fear lest I start crying.

I've often wondered why I need to know. Isn't it better that I don't know? That I wasn't conscious?

Thank fuck there were no smart phones, no Twitter or Instagram to have recorded it. Facebook was so new that only a few of my friends had started using it. Not like the 16 year old Steubenville victim who had her photo taken as she was carried by her hands and feet by two animals who managed to gain the sympathy of the mainstream media because their lives were going to be ruined by the evidence they spread around the world via social media.

I feel weird right now. I'm just typing for typing sake. What comes next? What does come next in this story of the night that changed my life forever?

V.

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What about the high life?

Have you ever taken a close look at my blog's banner?

The subtitle to babblingbandit.me is "From the high life to parenthood via rock bottom".

I've written a lot about that filthy place called Rock Bottom and a lot about parenting but next to nil about the High Life.

Despite where it got me (ie on the slow train to Rock Bottom) I actually had a lot of fun while living the High Life before it all turned to shit. And believe it or not I miss it sometimes.

Me just before heading off to a music festival on New Years Day 2007

This morning Noo and I were driving around looking for a place to park the car in the inner west of Sydney because I was gagging for a good piccolo latte. While swearing my way around several blocks of Marrickville (Sydney's latest centre for good coffee) we were listening to my favourite radio station, Triple J.

Zan Rowe, who does mornings, had a couple of the fellas from The Cat Empire on the show talking about some of the all nighters they'd had and their top five favourite tunes to party on to. You can check out the podcast here if you want to listen to it. The Cat Empire absolutely rock!

Anyway, the show got me thinking about the all nighters I used to have. Boy, have I had a lot. In the almost four years I lived in London I would guess at least once a week I missed a night of sleep because I was out and on it. Or in and on it. At least once a week.

I guess I've never written about it here because I don't want to glorify drug taking and boozing. I also worry that I couldn't do the stories any justice if I didn't.

Those were heady days as the cliché goes. Debauched, risky, exciting, arousing, demented, exhilarating. An escape from reality that I don't get any more. There's a reason why people get addicted to the party life. When you're on a high, up all night, breaking all the rules it feels fucking fantastic.

In rehab they call it "dry drinking". Basically talking about past experiences of drinking and drugs can give a sense of euphoria with just the memory it. You're not allowed to talk about using while you're an inpatient. It's counter productive to getting sober.

I enjoy it. Not that I do it often but I can sit with my buddies I used to take drugs with and talk about our past nights out until the sun comes up. It makes me feel good. I get tingling body sensations as the memories shoot through my brain, travelling along the same neural pathways that used to be filled with alcohol, cocaine and ecstasy.

Just writing this post is having a mild affect on me. But, don't worry, I'm not gonna run out and try to score. For me those memories are just that. Ghosts of my past.

I don't yearn for drugs any more or for booze. I don't even crave cigarettes which is amazing. But I would never be tempted by any of it lest I get hooked once more.

There will need to be stories written one day. Perhaps I'll veil them loosely as fiction. Names will have to be changed to protect the guilty.

Until then I will just savour my fond memories alone.


V.



PS. I just want to say thank you to all those who read and commented on my last post about my anxiety attack on the weekend. You have no idea how wonderful you all are and what relief you provided me with your acknowledgement of my blog and support for what I tried to express. A million times, thank you!

Floggin my bloggin over at With Some Grace.

The BB top 10 benefits of living sober

As I my five year soberversary draws near I've been thinking a lot about the benefits of living sober. I keep asking myself if I miss drinking or not. Over and over again, in nearly every situation where alcohol is present, I realise I don't miss it all.

Why don't I miss having a glass of wine or a schooner of beer? There are just too many benefits to living sober.

Here are my top 10:

The babblingbandit.me top 10 benefits of living sober

1. Living sober means no hangovers! 

The first benefit to not drinking alcohol is not having suffered a hangover in nearly five years. Anyone who has had a night on the piss will know a hangover is a horrible disgusting feeling. You feel nauseous, headachey, dizzy, shakey, sweaty and just generally gross. Nobody in their right mind enjoys a hangover.

2. Living sober means spending less money!

Not drinking saves money. Did you know it is about $7 for a bottle of beer out in Sydney now? A glass of wine at a decent restaurant is $12! Have a couple of those a few times a week and bam! I probably would have spent enough money to pay to fill our fridge with fresh fruit, veg and meat for the week. Then add on top of that all the money I've saved on cab fares in the last five years. That's a fair bit of dosh!

3. Living sober means saving face!

When you're sober, you're not going to do things you might have done when drunk. Like falling over on your arse in public*. Or like kissing someone completely inappropriate from your team when out at work drinks**. Getting drunk impairs your judgement and can make you think you're invincible. Being drunk can make you lose self control and do and say stupid things.

Living sober means I still go for 'drinks' with friends but I don't wake up and cringe at the thought of what I got up to the night before.

4. Living sober means being safer on the road!

Did you know you are twice as likely to have a car crash if you drive with a blood alcohol concentration of over 0.05? We've all seen the ads right? Drivers affected by grog cause more accidents on the road then any other factor. Going to a mate's BBQ on the other side of town is no problem for me because I've got my car, I can come and go as I please without the expense of a cab and without the risk of having an accident.

5. Living sober means staying safer on the streets!

OK, so even sober people walking around Kings Cross in Sydney or King Street in Melbourne can get king hit by a wanker pissed out of their brains. But if you're not out at an unfriendly hour walking from bar to bar you are less likely to become a victim of an assault. In 2011 40% of all reported assaults in Australia were alcohol related, according the Bureau of Crime Statistics and Research.

I've been a victim of two assaults when I was drunk. One I was mugged by an arsehole who came at me from behind, late at night after I'd been drinking and my guard was down. The second was much more serious. I was drunk, my drink was spiked and I was sexually assaulted by an unknown person in an unknown place, for an unknown period of time. If I hadn't been drinking that night it never would have happened.

6. Living sober means looking (and feeling) younger!

Researchers in Italy have found that drinking too much booze leads to premature aging. When I gave up alcohol the first thing I really noticed was that my eyes looked clearer. My skin felt smoother and I got way less pimples and cold sores than I did when I was chugging back the beers. I am blessed with good genes (my mum looks at least 15 years younger than what she is) but I really do think the fact that I don't drink is why people regularly think I'm only about 30-32 years old rather than 38. I know that is only a matter of six to eight years but every year counts as I head towards the big four oh!

7. Living sober means being healthy and living longer!

There's more evidence to suggest that regularly drinking even moderate amounts of alcohol can lead to health risks. So living sober can mean I am less at risk for getting some cancers and, more obviously, cirrhosis of the liver. Factor in that I gave up smoking around the same time as cutting out the booze and I'm looking pretty good for a nice long innings in the game of life!

8. Living sober means I am a good role model for my son!

I'm very proud of the fact that my son has never seen me drunk and never will see me drunk. I also think it is great that he will never see me habitually have a drink at the end of every day. A parent's attitude and behaviour with alcohol in front of their kids can play a big part in how a child learns to manage the issue of drinking and alcohol in the future.

I've never seen either of my parents pissed but I have watched my dad habitually have a beer and/or a glass of wine or two almost every single night that I've lived at home. I don't blame my dad for my drinking becoming a problem for me but I think that habitually drinking every single day is not good for anyone and it is not a great example to set for kids. Living sober means this isn't even an issue for me!

9. Living sober means a clear heart and mind!

Being a long time sufferer of depression and anxiety alcohol has no place in my life. Living sober means I don't have the added depressant of grog on top of whatever other issues are going on with my brain chemistry. I love the clarity I now have that was so absent when I was a drinker.

The day after a night of drinking was often so soul destroying for me. The come down, the guilt, the embarrassment and the shame were too much to bare in the end. Living sober means I wake up every day without any of that.

10. Living sober keeps me connected to my friends and family! 

When I was a heavy drinker I often cancelled appointments with friends and family because I was either too hungover to get out of bed or I was still out at the pub getting pissed. The lies and the excuses and the bad behaviour got to be too much for some people and a number of friends dropped off along the way.

Living sober means I never have to text a friend in the morning and say I can't meet them for lunch because I'm lying in bed with a rotten hangover or I'm still dancing the day away in some seedy club.


So when I ask myself do I miss drinking?

I abso-fucking-lutely do NOT!



Once again I want to say good luck to all the febfasters giving up alcohol for just 28 days!

If you haven't signed up yet, I think you still can so just do it!

As an official blogger I'm proud to support febfast in 2013, a challenge and a tonic for all drinkers, to see if you can take a break from alcohol for 28 days this February.

febfast is aiming to raise $1m to help vulnerable families and teenagers tackle serious alcohol and drug issues. Let’s band together and make a change—not only in our own lives and for our own health—but also for those who are struggling with substance abuse and addiction.

Check out the febfast website here.

V.


Disclaimer: I am working with febfast as an official blogger. I am not receiving any payment for any posts I might publish about febfast. I am participating because addiction is an issue I deal with every day and my sobriety is something I love and encourage any person to give it a go, even for just 28 days.





*I've done this too many times to count.
** Ditto. Eek!

The Definitive Guide to Dating Sober

Guess what folks?

I am just two months off my Five Year Soberversary!

Shut up. It is such a word!

Yep. Five whole years since an alcoholic beverage has passed these lips.

Five whole years since I've been pissed, hammered, wasted, blotto, tipsy, sloshed, caned, wankered, drunk, inebriated, shit-faced, plastered. Amazing!

Five whole years since I've been hung over, seedy... can't think of any other words for hung over but I am so glad that horrible feeling you get after a night on the booze has not been experienced by my brain and body for nearly half a decade! Awesome!

And you know what? I don't miss it one little bit.

Except when I'm on a date and then I miss it just a little bit.

_____________


When I decided to get back 'out there' again about 18 months ago it was the scariest thing in the world. Fresh from my metamorphosis from party girl living the high life to sole parent living the quiet life, making the decision to start dating again was a big one.

Despite my fears, I was psyched by the new person I had become so put my profile up on a singles matchmaking website and started the process that is Internet dating.

I filled out my details, chucked a few decent looking pictures up and ticked all the boxes of what I required in a potential partner.

The two factors I worried about most with my profile were:

1. I have a kid

2. I don't drink.

Neither are negotiable for me and they can be deal breakers for others.

Before I gave up drinking I did the online dating thing a few times. The night always started with me knocking back a couple of beers for some liquid courage before I turned up to meet the guy. I'd still be nervous as hell when I arrived and so continued to drink throughout the night and if the guy hung around long enough I probably ended up pretty pissed by the time the date was over. Not really a great look when I think back to it.

Now, it is a totally different story. After several sober dates I can now give you the...

The Definitive Guide to Dating Sober

1. Make it clear from the beginning that you don't drink alcohol. Put it on your profile. I also mention it during the initial email contact phase because, like I said earlier, it can be a deal breaker for some so it should be made clear.

2. Whether you are just taking a break from the booze because you've signed up to febfast (which you should do by the way!) or you are in recovery, there's no need to mention on the first date exactly why you don't drink. That's your business.

3. Dress your best (appropriate to the time of day and venue), look in the mirror and remind yourself how good you feel and how confident you are now that you don't drink. You are a brave, strong, confident person who doesn't need alcohol to make you feel good about yourself.

4. If you really don't want to make an issue out of being teetotal organise your first date to meet for a coffee instead of a "drink". Subsequent dates could be meeting for lunch in the park or checking out a new exhibition at a gallery. There are plenty of non-alcoholic activities to choose from.

5. Turn up with a smile and, if you're meeting at a bar or restaurant, order a non-alcoholic beverage. Easy.

6. During the date, remind yourself you are being your authentic self. There's no false confidence brought on by alcohol. If you like him (or her) and he/she is enjoying your company by the time you get to dessert, you're doing really well because they like you for who you really are.

7. If you like the person you are on a date with be flirtatious but don't go overboard like you might have when tipsy. Show restraint. Be a lady (or gentleman).

8. Don't go on about not drinking. Don't be a wowser and carry on about how much better life is without alcohol. Don't act superior about it.

9. In moderation, a glass of wine is fine, so don't be judgemental if your date has a glass or two. That's their business.

10. If you are just on a short term break from grog don't carry on about how much you miss it. That is just boring and annoying. It also makes you sound kinda desperate and like you may have a problem.

11. The trickiest part to dating when sober is at the end when you're saying farewell: the kiss, should the sparks have flown. On a first date it is likely to be a chaste peck on the cheek or maybe even a quick one on the lips (in my experience anyway). Maybe it is just me, but I find this moment of intimacy extremely embarrassing without the social lubrication that is booze. It is the one moment in life that I miss alcohol. I can't give much advice on how to cut through that.

12. Enjoy yourself! When it is all over go to bed knowing that you've had a great time, you've met a nice person and you're going to wake up in the morning without regrets and without a hangover.

Have you been on a sober date? Can you give me any advice on how to do romance sober without behaving like a giggling school girl? 

_____________


I should say I'm not necessarily the best person to give dating advice. Eighteen months in and I'm still single. But, while I may not be in a committed relationship (yet) I have had some great nights out and met some really lovely people (and some not so lovely) and I've done it all while sober.

I have definitely had more success dating sober than I did dating drunk so I can't recommend it enough.

Good luck to all the febfasters giving up alcohol for just 28 days! I'm going to be joining you but I'll be giving up sugar instead. It would be cheating if I asked people to sponsor me to give up grog. Pfft! Too easy!

If you haven't signed up - just do it!

As an official blogger I'm proud to support febfast in 2013, a challenge and a tonic for all drinkers, to see if you can take a break from alcohol for 28 days this February.

After the celebrations of Christmas, summer holidays and the Australia Day long weekend, febfast is a great opportunity for people to take stock and put a focus on health in the New Year while at the same time raising some money for a worthy cause.

febfast is aiming to raise $1m to help vulnerable families and teenagers tackle serious alcohol and drug issues. Let’s band together and make a change—not only in our own lives and for our own health—but also for those who are struggling with substance abuse and addiction.

Check out the febfast website here.

V.


Disclaimer: I am working with febfast as an official blogger. I am not receiving any payment for any posts I might publish about febfast. I am participating because addiction is an issue I deal with every day and my sobriety is something I love and encourage any person to give it a go, even for just 28 days.

**Thanks go to my brother in law who let me use his manly arm in the photo.** 

What's in a name? Alcoholic, dipsomaniac, boozehound, alcy, drunk, wino, trashbag...

Hello, my name is Vanessa and I'm a recovering alcoholic.

Or... 

Hello, my name is Vanessa and I'm a recovering dipsomaniac.

International dipsomaniac: Beer in Berlin, Vienna, New York City, Dublin, Copenhagen.

I'm not sure which one fits.

I think the difference between an alcoholic and dipsomaniac is slim:

An alcoholic, or someone suffering alcohol dependence syndrome, has a physical dependence on booze. They must drink continually otherwise they start suffering alcoholic withdrawal syndrome if they quit drinking, or even just go an extended period of time between drinks. Withdrawing is like a hangover, but 100 times worse, and the only way to avoid it is to start drinking again.

Alcoholics feel powerless over their dependence to booze. Alcoholics constantly crave alcohol. Alcoholism is a disease that is suffered.

I've been to AA meetings. The word powerless is used a lot there. When I was an inpatient at a psychiatric hospital for drug and alcohol addiction, PTSD, depression and anxiety just before Noo was conceived we were made to go to six Alcoholics Anonymous meetings a week. I found them to be very sad but pretty boring. Listening to people get up and tell their story of despair was harrowing, but it got repetitive which it is kind of meant to be I think. I understood why retelling their story over and over helped these people stay clean, but I always felt my story didn't really match up. I felt like an impostor, like I didn't deserve to be there.

A dipsomaniac is basically a binge drinker. Someone who doesn't need a drink first thing in the morning but they like to get wasted every weekend or they only drink heavily in the evening but can take a few days off here and there if they want to. Dipsos function: get up in the morning, go to work, socialise, have families. You know what I mean, they drink more than the average person but they seem normal. Ben at Year of Living Sober describes dipsomania perfectly over at his blog.

I definitely think I am a recovering dipsomaniac and not an alcoholic. I never had a physical dependence on alcohol. Even the doctors in rehab said that. But I probably had an emotional addiction to alcohol up until I first gave it up in mid 2007.


Is being a dipsomaniac any less of a problem than being a full blown alcoholic? 


The Australian Guidelines For Drinking Alcohol state that both men and women should have no more than two standard drinks a day and no more than four standard drinks on one occasion. Four. That's not that many for a Friday night out with the girls from work or at your best mate's wedding. But that is what is recommended to keep safe from any harm from alcohol.

By saying I believe I'm a recovering dipsomaniac rather than an alcoholic I'm not saying I didn't have a problem. I definitely had a problem. A serious drinking problem. When I drank booze I pretty much always drank to get drunk. But I could go days and even weeks at a time without drinking. Occasionally I could have one beer or a glass of wine and leave it at that but mostly I didn't want to. I loved getting hammered. I loved partying and getting high. I loved the escape and the adventure a night on the tiles would bring.

After 12 years of heavy drinking I had a pretty large capacity to hold a lot of liquor and I was proud of it. I never vomited, passed out or blacked out. I did do things I wished I hadn't. I behaved inappropriately at work functions. I spent more money on alcohol than anyone really should. I woke up with bad hangovers, anxiety and often felt depressed about my drinking. I felt guilty about the amount and frequency that I drank. I would often get sick and had more sick days than anyone should.

In the final few years of drinking I was out of control. I was living in London where drinking is practically a national sport. You can find a busy pub and people to drink with Monday through Sunday. In an English pub a bottle of wine only contains three large glasses, but a 250 ml glass of plonk is almost three standard drinks here.

In London I had an office job in financial services during the boom before the Global Financial Crisis hit. At work functions Verve Clicquot and Taittinger were standard. We had a drinks trolley that came around on Friday afternoons at 4pm with beer, wine and bubbly. It was standard practice to knock back a stack of free booze before hitting the bars situated conveniently on the ground floor of the same building.

Now I'm not blaming the city I lived in or the company I worked at for my drinking problem. But the culture within which I lived and worked made it very difficult to quit. Couple that with some serious undiagnosed mental health issues, followed by a violent assault and boom! The perfect cocktail mix to create an out of control dipsomaniac.

Fast forward five and a half years since I left London and I'm in a totally different world. I am the most stable I've ever been and I have a beautiful son. I'm happy, content and working for myself. Could I now have a glass of wine and leave it at one? Or would I be powerless to stop?  My psychologist thinks, given how well I am today, I could drink just one or two glasses of wine or beer. But I just don't want to drink.

I love being sober.

I don't crave alcohol and I don't really miss it. Except maybe on a hot summer's day when I see people drinking an ice cold beer out the front of the pub down the street. This apartment that I share with my parents is full of beer, wine and spirits but I'm never tempted to have some. I don't even think about it - except when dad's beer takes up space in the fridge where my Diet Coke should be!

For now I think I'll leave it at that.

Alcoholic or dipsomaniac?

How about non-drinker, coffee addict, Diet Coke lover, teetotaler?

I'll take one of those labels instead.


Are you a big drinker? Or can you take or leave it? Have you considered giving up for a while to see what it feels like to have a break?


Maybe 28 days alcohol free is just the tonic for you.


As an official blogger I'm proud to support febfast in 2013, a challenge and a tonic for all drinkers, to see if you can take a break from alcohol for 28 days this February.

After the celebrations of Christmas, summer holidays and the Australia Day long weekend coming up, febfast is a great opportunity for people to take stock and put a focus on health in the New Year while at the same time raising some money for a worthy cause.

febfast is aiming to raise $1m to help vulnerable families and teenagers tackle serious alcohol and drug issues. Let’s band together and make a change—not only in our own lives and for our own health—but also for those who are struggling with substance abuse and addiction.

Check out the febfast website here.


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Disclaimer: I am working with febfast as an official blogger. I am not receiving any payment for any posts I might publish about febfast. I am participating because addiction is an issue I deal with every day and my sobriety is something I love and encourage any person to give it a go, even for just 28 days.