Waving Not Drowning 17: Giving up Drink is Harder than you'd Think

A B&B run by an unsympathetic witch who is obsessed with getting breakfast plates cleared up before eight forty five is not the ideal place to give up alcohol. But if Stephen and I were to build some sort of future, I had to get clean. Lying in bed, clutching the bed sheets, I saw before me the ‘Life Problems’ drawing that I’d made at Shady Sands. I saw the island, the small black fish swimming in the sea, Stephen paddling in the waves with his shorts hanging off his bum, the sun shining down on us both. For a while this image kept me going, allowed me to breathe easy and ignore the creeping sense of unease, the pangs of nausea. But quickly the benign, friendly sun metamorphosed into something terrible and every ray was a hot poker burning my body, making me itch and sweat so that the cheap under-sheet stuck to my back and then the top sheet wrapped itself around my neck and I was a giant fly stuck in a mountainous web of fly paper. The bed was trying to eat me alive. The mattress sucking me into its core where it could digest me at its leisure. I tried to conjure up the waves, the sand, Stephen bringing me a nice, fresh pineapple juice, one of those like you get on holiday in an hollowed out fruit with a straw and umbrella but as he held out his palm all I could see was a handful of yellow worms. I rolled onto my front and lifted the top sheet off my body, flapping my arms in the air, circulating it through the fetid flytrap.
I heard the door swing open. A cauliflower smell, the smell that I’d remembered when we first arrived swept in.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I moaned.
Whoever it was didn’t answer then sat down on the end of the bed.
‘I got you some Lucozade,’ the voice said.
It was Stephen. The boy who had once given me the finger had become the most important person in my world.
‘Did you get juice?’ I asked turning back round again, this time the sheet working its way round my body. Out of frustration I wrenched it off and threw it on the floor but because it was damp it just kind of hung limply to one side, still partially wrapped round my clammy leg.
‘I thought Lucozade would be better,’ Stephen said holding the orange bottle up and reading from the label, ‘it says it gives you energy.’
I grabbed the Lucozade from his hand, screwed the top off and took a swig.
Or would it be a sip? There’d be no more swigging that was for sure. No more fun.
‘Is that normal?’ he asked watching me.
‘Is what normal?’ I said placing the bottle down on the side table next to a grey flannel which had become another close friend. Stephen walked over to my handbag and eventually located my make up mirror which he threw onto the bed. I held it up to my face.
‘Put the light on,’ I said and as he did I almost passed out.
A corpse would have had more colour in their cheeks, a more dynamic expression, a certain savoir faire. Someone would have at least combed their hair.
‘It gets worse before it gets better,’ I said philosophically, recalling something someone had told me at Shady Sands.
Stephen held up a magazine. On the cover was a photo of Angelina Jolie.
‘I thought you’d like this,’ he said
‘Give it here,’ I said.
Now you may be thinking that I’m being unnecessarily abrupt with Stephen, that maybe I’m not as articulate or as respectful as usual. All I can say is try saying long sentences when every time you open your mouth, your stomach contents gurgle their way up to your throat and try to make a quick exit. Whilst I tried to focus on the contents of the magazine, Stephen pulled out a bag of chips which filled the room with the stink of old greasy, sick-making fat.
‘Eat those outside,’ I said.

Stephen nodded and left, shutting the door gently behind him. I’d pay him back as soon as I could stand up again. We’d do lots of great standing up activities, like walking, running, maybe even dancing. Though the idea of dancing without alcohol terrified me. I skimmed through the magazine, each article written by aliens from another planet. Each photograph depicting someone who didn’t look like anyone I’d ever know or could hope to meet. I put the magazine down and retrieved the sheet of doom, wrapping it back round my body. Then I had a brain wave, bent my legs so they pointed upwards, pinning the sheet under both feet, then lifted the top bit over my head and wedged it behind my neck. Cool, white and completely private. I had the perfect sanctuary. It had been approximately thirty eight hours since my last drink. Everyone is different, they tell you at Shady Sands. But essentially it’s the same phases, what differs is the length of time. It all depends on your size, age, your psychological state, how many tanks of booze you slosh down your throat everyday. I was pretty lightweight by some people’s standards. So it wouldn’t take long. And then once it’s out, that’s just the start. Every situation requires a drink so it’s not about avoiding the pub, the restaurant, the social gathering. The threat is constant. But this time I felt it was different (like every numbskull before me), I felt optimistic, I had something (someone) to keep me going whereas before …well actually that was nonsense because before I’d had my family, my job, Ruth, a boyfriend (of sorts). But if you don’t believe that this time can be different then what’s the point? Then out of the blue, perhaps it was the womb like feeling of my self-made rehab tent, I started thinking about Ruth. Was she okay? But before I had time to feel guilty the sweating and itching started up and I took myself back to the island screwing my eyes up and imagining the sheets were a bed of sand, supporting me as I bathed in the sunlight, the warm, sea water lapping at my feet.

A knock at the door woke me up.
‘Stephen,’ I mumbled.
But the room was dark; he’d obviously been in, switched the light off and gone out again. Poor lad, he was probably down the arcade again, desperately trying to find some sort of escape amongst the crap, out-of -date slot machines.
I struggled to stand up; the tent had deflated and now lay back on the floor again. I was hot one minute and freezing the next. I picked up my old cardie and wrapped it round my shoulders. As I opened the door, the witch had her arm at half-mast ready to knock again.
‘Hello,’ I said running one hand across the top of my head, trying to at give least a semblance of normal person.
‘I want you out of here first thing tomorrow morning,’ she said, her eyes not meeting mine.
‘But we’ve paid in advance till the end of next week,’ I said fighting the rising tide of warm, bitter Lucozade that was working its way upwards.
‘I don’t care,’ she said still addressing the floor, ‘You can have it back once I’ve taken the extras out. I’ll need to replace the bedding and see what other damage you’ve…’
‘There’s been no damage,’ I said swallowing quickly, ‘I’ve had a really dreadful… bout of food poisoning that’s all.’
I tried to get eye contact. My eyes were my secret weapon. If only she would look in my eyes she’d see… what? That I was a raging, detoxing ex-alcoholic barista who’d kidnapped a young hoodie and was living on credit? Now I looked at the floor.
‘Can you let us stay till Saturday? It’s only two more days, then you’ll never see us again,’ I pleaded.
The Lucozade was back in my mid-section, it was going to break out of that broken, old frame if it was the last thing it did.
‘You’re lucky that I’m letting you stay a minute longer. You’re sick. I said to my husband, you weren’t normal but he said ‘give them the benefit of the doubt’ but I’ve heard the noises coming out of this room and it’s disgusting. I’ve watched a programme about people like you.’
‘But you don’t…’ I tried to speak but it was too late the Lucozade mixed up with nothing but yellow worms and bile was coming out and I shut the door in her face and ran towards the bathroom. But that’s the cruel thing with alcohol withdrawal (one of many), you feel like you’re going to be sick but when you try and do it, nothing comes up. So you don’t even get that nice celebratory feeling afterwards. So I dry heaved over the toilet making a sound not dissimilar to a pig being minced alive and then I pulled the seat down, sat down and rested my head in my hands. I was shaking all over and felt disorientated. How many days had we been here? And what day was it tomorrow? I stood up carefully (I didn’t want to pass out, not where there were so many hard surfaces) and then lent over the sink, running cold water over my wrists and arms until I felt a bit more normal, then I went to fetch my little grey flannel friend. I soaked it in cold water and then made my way back to the bed, my sanctuary, putting the flannel over my forehead and sinking back into the pillow which was indented with the shape of my lumpen, sweaty head like an unholy version of the Turin Shroud. As I tried to conjure up images of the island, the beach, the little black fishes, I heard breathing at the door. The witch was still out there! I pulled myself up with as much energy as possible (see Lucozade, it really works!) and opened the door.
‘What kind of food poisoning?’ she asked slowly.
A little chink of light appeared.
‘Well I don’t know. It might have been something I had at The Crown,’ this time I faked like I was going to be sick again.
The witch looked almost kind for a moment.
‘Alright, I’ll give you till Saturday,’ she said.
‘Thank you so much,’ I said trying for a smile that wasn’t too ghoulish in my current corpse like condition.
I shut the door and climbed back into bed, rearranging the sheets into the tent configuration.
It gets worse before it gets better.
I wondered whether two days would be enough then fell asleep again.

Stephen arrived back soaking wet and carrying a large bag.
‘It’s pissing it down,’ he said struggling to get the waterproof off and hang it over the back of the armchair.
I made an effort to sit up straight and stop drooling.
‘I got you some of this ‘Cup of soup’, it’s got like these little noodles in. My sister used to make them when I was sick,’ he said unpacking the bag and laying the contents at the bottom of the bed as if they were prizes he’d won in a competition.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
‘And then I got this DVD for when we go home, it’s about this bloke who lives in a cave and when you get inside the cave it’s all covered in the skin and eyeballs of different people and he keeps all the stuff like souvenirs,’ he continued.
‘Are you listening?’
‘Then I got the new Playstation magazine, I know you said not to spend too much but I thought when we get back I’d get this new …’
‘Stephen are you listening to me? I asked whether you’re okay? Look at me!’
He stopped momentarily, the Playstation magazine in one hand.
‘It’s not that bad,’ he said quietly.
He looked sad, the sides of his mouth were turned down. I could tell he was trying not to cry.
‘Come here,’ I said and patted the side of the bed.
The nausea had temporarily gone. I wasn’t feeling well but then I wasn’t feeling dreadful either. I was in limbo, waiting for the next strange symptom to creep up on me.
‘No it’s alright,’ he said shaking his head.
‘Come on.’
With great trepidation he approached the side of the bed, like I was a dragon that was going to set his hair on fire and then gobble him up whole. He rested his bum in mid-air rather than sit down, then turned awkwardly to face me, holding his breath the whole time.
‘Do I smell that bad?’ I said.
‘Yeah you do.’
I smiled. I’d like to think it didn’t look too scary. It came from a good place.
‘How would you describe it?’
Stephen paused, and then breathed in a tiny bit.
‘Well…it’s like a really old dog turd that’s been left outside for a long time and then it’s mixed up with something really sour and stinky like maybe baby puke or worse,’ he said looking more comfortable, his bum now touching the bed rather than hovering above it.
We were silent for a bit. The only sound the rain outside and the occasional seagull wailing as it circled above.
‘Don’t you feel like this is home?’ I asked but I knew the answer.
This B&B could never be our home. And the timing was wrong. Whilst I was feeling dreadful, trying to kick the booze, it was impossible to try and look for somewhere else to live or find a job. And whilst four thousand pounds sounded like a lot of money, we’d already spent a sizeable chunk of it on accommodation, food (Southwold was pretty pricey) and trying to keep Stephen amused whilst I thrashed about in bed like a beached walrus.
‘Maybe it’s better in the summer,’ he said philosophically.
‘Yes maybe we can come back when it’s warmer. You know when I’m better.’
Of course I didn’t believe this. I was only sorry that the adventure hadn’t been longer or a proper adventure, rather than a nightmare.
‘So are we going back?’ Stephen asked standing up, selecting a long cigarette butt out of the ashtray (I could only have a couple of drags at a time before I felt sick) and lighting it with the Zippo lighter he had in his jean’s pocket (left over bounty from the residents of W11).
I looked around the room. The mess, the old bottles, the heaps of clothes on the floor and chair. The stench. It’s funny how quickly you forget old mess and make new. Maybe it was better to get out soon. Stephen sat on the window ledge and pulled back the curtain. The rain was coming down in sheets. An old couple were battling to walk in the wind, their umbrellas held up in grim determination as they strode towards the pier.
‘I didn’t even have a swim,’ he said sadly.

We watched TV in silence. Two women doing up a property to sell on. One fat bloke, so fat that he needed a crane to lift him up and out of the roof so he could have his stomach stapled in hospital. One woman with so little liquid in her body that she could do nothing but dry heave, something she did at regular intervals, standing over the toilet and waiting for something to change, something to come up. Then she developed a thumping headache that made it hard to keep her eyes open, then a light sweat, this time making her feel nervous like any moment someone would jump out of the wardrobe and attack her with a coat hanger.
It can only get worse.
We both fell asleep earlier than usual. In the middle of the night I woke up sticky with fresh sweat. Stephen was making strange moaning noises, growing louder and louder with each breath.
I lent over and shook his shoulder.
‘Wake up.’
He rolled onto his back, his eyelids fluttering like something tiny was trying desperately to fight its way out. Then he forced his eyes open and stared at the ceiling.
‘They were coming to get us,’ he said, ‘You were ill so I had to fight them off.’
‘Who was it?’ I said switching the light on.
Stephen had a fine layer of damp on his forehead and top lip. The room was like a sauna. Even the furniture was sweating. I dabbed at him with the battle weary flannel.
He grimaced.
‘Urrr get off, it stinks,’ he complained and the spell was broken.
‘Who was coming for us?’ I repeated.
It gets worse.
‘Nothing. It was just a dream,’ Stephen said turning onto his side, his back turned away.
I didn’t sleep after that. I kept thinking about the state I was in, being this ill and being back at the flat. How would I look after the two of us? Stephen was right. He would have to do it. And how fair was it, to expect him to take care of an ailing, alcoholic middle-aged woman? He couldn’t even cope with a couple of days by the seaside. What would happen when we returned? And slowly the argument played itself out in my head. Little lies that turned into the convincing evidence I needed to make the pain stop.
Now was the worse time to stop drinking.
It wasn’t the time to be dry heaving, hallucinating, on the back foot, not prepared for whatever came next. If we were going back I needed to be at my fighting best.
And that meant drunk.
By the time the sun had started seeping in under the green, velveteen, mildewed curtains my mind was made up.
Start drinking.
Go Home.
Stop running scared.