High Sobriety (40 page)

I drink my bubbly very slowly, worried that it will go straight to my head and leave me incapable of singing. An hour passes and I'm still only halfway through. Then I realise I'm not actually that keen on champagne. Why am I drinking this? I leave the half-filled glass on a table, proud of myself for walking away from alcohol I'm not enjoying — something I've rarely done before. What I really want is a beer. Someone gets me a pot of my favourite pale ale. I look at the frothy head, inhaling its rich aroma before bringing it to my lips. This is something I've really missed.

When I take a sip, I'm disappointed. It tastes ordinary. Another hour passes, and the half-pot of beer I have left has turned flat and warm. I stop drinking it. I thought that after nearly 14 months without booze, half a glass of champers and half a beer would be enough to leave me reeling. Or at least give me a buzz. But I feel no effects.

This turns out to be a good thing. When it's my turn to get on stage with the wedding band, to belt out the rock classic ‘What I Like About You', I'm completely lucid. The dance floor fills up, friends cheer, and I'm on a natural high. In another song, the band drops out, leaving me singing a verse
a cappella
to a hushed audience. It should be scary, but it's not. In fact, the experience is so exhilarating that I can feel the hairs on the back of my arms standing up. Gripping the microphone, my eyes half closed under the lights, I think of my 413 days without alcohol. And I think of Jude's short life. The two things that have forever changed my view of the world. They brought me here, to this stage. I'm no longer the scared procrastinator, cowering under the covers with my dreams still inside me. I hope I never will be again.

Our finale, in which we form a supergroup with the other wedding band and perform the Rolling Stones' classic ‘Jumpin' Jack Flash', nearly brings the house down. Watching her friends sing for her, the bride is moved to tears. Being involved in this band on such a happy occasion is one of the most fulfilling experiences I've ever had. If this wedding had taken place a year ago, I'd probably have got hammered first to give me courage. What a waste it would have been if I couldn't remember the performance the next day.

I have another beer after the set, but again it goes flat and warm as I struggle to drink it. It just tastes bad. I feel gassy and bloated. All I want to do is drink water. A friend tells me to persevere: if I want to get my drinking boots back, I'm going to have to put in the hard yards. I feel like I'm 13 and trying to push through the foul taste of alcohol to get the desired result. The difference this time is that I don't really want to get drunk. My friends are hitting it hard and having a great time, but after two half-finished pots of beer over four hours, I already taste the hangover. And I'm hit by a wave of melancholy that I can't quite explain. Maybe the alcohol is having a depressive effect — I've hardly drunk anything, but the effect on my nervous system is probably amplified after so long without it. Part of the sadness also comes, I think, from knowing that this is the end of a chapter. The challenge is over, and now I'm just like everyone else. How many times did I feel on the outside of the group this last year? Yet now that I'm back inside it, I'm already missing my difference.

I put the beer down and start drinking water. It doesn't stop me from dancing. It's the complete opposite of how I expected this night would end up when I decided to have a drink. I worried that alcohol would have such a hold on me, I'd lose control at the first taste. Part of me is thrilled to realise that maybe I can be one of those people who drinks moderately. The other part thinks, settle down, there's a long way to go.

I don't have another drink for the rest of the night. I decide that walking a kilometre up a steep hill in stilettos and waking up with a hangover that leaves me despondent is too big a price to pay for being drunk. I leave the wedding at 2.00 a.m., sober and driving, as I'd originally planned. I go to sleep wondering if maybe I've cracked it. Everything in moderation. Dad would be so proud.

A FEW DAYS
later, I catch up with Kath for dinner, and something changes. I have my first glass of wine in nearly 14 months. It tastes great. The next one tastes even better. That buzz is back. I go home after two glasses, but I know that if Kath wasn't driving and didn't have to leave early, I'd have ordered another, and maybe another after that. I've no desire to buy a bottle on the way home and drink on my own, but I do sense that my transition to moderate drinking isn't going to be as smooth as I thought.

Tonight, the indifference I felt towards drinking at the wedding is replaced by feelings of excitement. After so long without it, I'd forgotten how enjoyable that tipsy feeling can be. It doesn't necessarily mean I'm on a fast track to annihilation, but it makes me cautious. Can I stop at that fun, tipsy stage, or will I always crave more?

It reminds me of an article that my editor emailed me a few weeks ago, helpfully pointing out how booze makes us happy. Researchers from the University of California managed to pinpoint the exact regions in the brain that are excited by alcohol. Previously, studies on animals had shown that drinking creates a pleasurable effect by releasing endorphins, the feel-good chemicals, in the brain, but this study was the first to prove the effect in humans. The researchers examined the brains of heavy drinkers and compared them to moderate drinkers. The more endorphins that were released, the more pleasure all participants felt. What was fascinating was that as endorphin levels increased, the heavy drinkers felt more pleasure than those in the control group. This suggests, the scientists said, that the brains of heavy drinkers are altered in some way to make them more likely to find alcohol enjoyable. The greater the feelings of pleasure, the more they drink. Even when it's 3.00 a.m., they're on their 12th beer, and they've just thrown up in a post-box.

Jon Currie warned me that although my brain scan showed no structural damage, the neuropsychological tests and my drinking history suggest that I may have difficulty avoiding those big binges. Perhaps my brain's pleasure centre is more susceptible to alcohol's effects than the average drinker. I think of Will and his 18 cans a day, and wonder if maybe I
am
destined for the ‘High Sobriety' club. I thought that we were so different because I drank less than him. But after a year without booze, addiction is not as black-and-white as I once thought — there are so many shades of grey. I'm reminded of another comment that a reader left at the end of my confessional
Sunday Age
article. He was a big drinker who loved a party, but it was getting out of hand, so he took a month off the grog. He felt great and thought he could be a moderate drinker. Soon, old habits sneaked up and booze was back in control. He said he was convinced he was the type of alcoholic who can only operate in polar opposites — he can abstain, but only if it is completely. ‘The true definition of alcoholic liberty is moderation,' he said.

That's the challenge ahead for me. I don't want to be counting drinks and prostrating myself if I have a big night. But I'd like to feel that if I get drunk it's a choice, not an accident. If it turns out that I can't choose productive Sunday mornings over Saturday nights I don't enjoy and can't remember, or if I can't choose getting things done over feeling done in, maybe I'll have to part company with my old friend booze for good. Whatever happens, I know now that alcohol does not define me. Getting drunk does not make me more Scottish or Australian, nor does it make me a better daughter, friend, aunty, or sister. I don't need a beer in my hand to be accepted as a journalist, a writer, or a footy fan. I stayed sober for more than a year, and I was still all of those things. Without booze, I loved, laughed, and lost. Life did not stop. But it certainly did change.

Acknowledgements

WHEN I WAS
writing this book, I had an outstanding support crew. True friends are those who see you at your worst — during the tears, tantrums, and trips down the rabbit hole — and love you anyway. For that, I thank you, Nat, Mel, and Bach; and I also thank you for your endless patience and advice, and for those days at work when you put me back together and reminded me to keep breathing.

Likewise, Amy, my rock, thanks for those long telephone conversations well into the night. When I was so confused that I couldn't see straight, you made the path ahead clear.

Lisa, my oldest friend, and one of the most incredible women I know, thank you so much. Without your help, the hardest parts of this book might never have been written.

Similarly, Mari-Claire, your open heart and willingness to listen saved me from being pulled under when things were bleak. I'll never forget it.

Ben, my very first proofreader — I'm so grateful for your generosity, honesty, and PR disaster-planning. Your kind words sustained me, and gave me faith that I was on the right track.

The advice from my publishing friends, Bridget and Bronwyn, was priceless. You helped me to negotiate a foreign land and made sure I enjoyed the journey along the way.

Book club girls, your passion for literature and for language continues to inspire me. Thanks for letting me take part in our boozy book critiques — even without the booze!

To the good people from my writers' group — particularly Bek, who also helped with my research — your suggestions with those ugly early chapters were greatly appreciated.

And kudos to you, Timmy, the pillar that props up our inner-north crew, for not questioning why a journalist/would-be-author didn't have her own printer when I asked to print a 300-page manuscript on yours, 12 hours before deadline.

Chris Raine, who navigated this year-long boozeless odyssey before me, and talked me down from the ledge when those bottles of wine became too tempting, thanks for letting me be part of the extraordinary movement you started.

At Scribe, thanks to Henry Rosenbloom and Julia Carlomagno for taking a punt on this binge-drinking health reporter. Your judicious and gentle editing made the process far less painful than I'd anticipated. Thanks also to Allison Colpoys and Miriam Rosenbloom for the kick-arse cover art, to Ian See for the diligent proofreading, and to Cora Kipling for making me feel less terrified about the prospect of publicity.

To my former
Sunday Age
editor Gay Alcorn, thanks for your support and patience as I took time off to finish this book. I'm a better writer for having you as a mentor. Thanks also to your successor, Mark Forbes, for being so accommodating about my book commitments.

I'm incredibly grateful to all the people in the alcohol and drug sector who have helped me, not only with this book, but also throughout my six years of covering alcohol issues for
The Age
and
The Sunday Age
. But I'd particularly like to thank Jon Currie, Rob Moodie, John Rogerson, and Geoff Munro, who have gone out of their way to assist me from day one. Special mention to Renee Lustman, too, for assisting with my research, and for never being flummoxed by my many requests, no matter how obscure.

To my friends Nick, Cat, Tony, and Brigitte, thanks for sharing your experiences with (and without) alcohol. Your generosity made my job easy. Likewise, to all the people in Australia and Scotland who I interviewed — colleagues, fellow
HSM-
ers, academics, specialists, and strangers — I can't thank you enough for your insights into our drinking culture. You told your stories with lived knowledge, honesty, and bravery. This is as much your book as mine.