Day 30

I received a motivational quote this morning: “24 hours is all we have, make it count!”

Rogue images of world-ending scenarios swam through me. Never has a sobriety quote sounded so apocalyptic. It was just after 8am, storm Dudley is brewing across North Yorkshire, the wind blowing the car all over the motorway. I was on my way into work – a place where accomplishments seldom happen when the job is the white-collar analogical equivalent of herding cattle and training them to run a marathon against a constantly moving finish line. With the free periods today, I’m feeling conflicted on what to pursue - do I work on my play script? Do I study for Uni? I have some new insights into a dating article I want to finish.

This blundering sensation is akin to how I felt when I drank. I decided I could be productive and drink at the same time, so a writing day would look like this: 10am – an opaque, cloudless Saturday outside my top floor window, pale smudges of sunlight cast across the Q-connect board decorated with index cards and an “encouraging” writing quote: “write drunk, edit sober.” A blank word document open, “Music for writing” playlist on, a cold glass of golden sauvignon beside the notepad. Picturesque, insta-ready setup for aspirational writers, no? It was fucking serenity…

Cut to 2 hrs/bottles later… what I achieved was this: a document of clumsy, nonsensical word vomit called “this better be good.docx”, saved amongst other Saturday files littered with unfinished potential, and the undead spirit of inadequacy and a lingering sense of time wasted. To cloak those truths, I’d open YouTube, watch Oscar speeches, and drawlingly practice my own.

I once took myself on a writer’s retreat to Devon. Four days straight I wrote for two hours each day then drank copious amounts of wine for the rest of it. On the last full day, I was so hungover I didn’t tap the keyboard once except for “iPlayer.” I fell asleep and dreamt of the day I would write a masterpiece like Fleabag and win an Emmy. As toxic positivity goes, I gingerly told myself: “It’s OK. Your time will come.”

I’m approaching my one-month milestone and am leaning into holiday plans. I got carried away and subscribed to the mailing list of upcoming book fayres/retreats. Then felt the of pang of anxiety that I had when I booked that retreat years ago. I stepped back – would I be ok on my own? My first sober trip by alone? Would I crumble under the pressure to use my time wisely? I believe in myself. But do I trust myself?

The industries I work in are benchmarked by deadlines. The clock is constantly ticking. Writing isn’t really different when you really want something out of it. With my self-imposed clock on my dreams, time can be cataclysmic.

I’m reading an excellent book at the moment by radically honest psychotherapist Whitney Goodman (@sitwithwhit) aptly named “Toxic Positivity”. It’s hard not to be affected when we’re surrounded by memes and quotes reminding us: we could have X if we simply subscribe to Y, yet we’re left feeling like Z. When aspirational content leaves you feeling despondent and failing, where do you go from there? It’s the kind of mental break we need that can’t be solved by a cup of tea and a hot bath. Real healing involves raw reflection and critical evaluation of our emotions.

I’ve put my holiday plans on hold for now – I can’t jump into the inspirational lifestyle projected on social media when the bones of my sobriety are delicate, like that of a baby trying to walk before they can crawl. Growth at my own pace might be the key to long-term positivity and peace. It might be that I finally reach the emerald city and the doors are closed. If’s and but’s change our direction like storms blow a road sign round. One thing’s for sure, where I’m heading, I’m learning. The road is paved with healing challenges, not the dystopian marketing ploy that “happiness” is just one click away.