December 31st, 2017. I sat on the Victoria line from Finsbury Park to Brixton. I was hungover from the wine and gin I had shared with a friend the night before, and like the rest of London I was readying myself for a night of drunken frivolity.
And then I noticed that the world around me had kind of numbed and dulled.
There was a void inside my chest. An all-consuming apathy.
I looked at the posters on the walls of the train carriage. The names of the stations passing by too fast to read. The blank faces of the people sitting opposite me. I looked for meaning. I looked for hope. And I found nothing.
I sat there and thought about how this train would run back and forth on the tracks between Brixton and Walthamstow Central until the following morning, and that I could just stay sitting there all night, and I wouldnāt care. It wouldnāt feel any different. I could die in this train carriage, I thought, and it would all just be the same.
Then a new feeling hit me - flooded me like an enormous tidal wave.
I was frozen in deep terror.
I was staring down into the abyss, into the meaninglessness and pointlessness of everything, and I wanted to hurl myself in. Just to stop feeling.
And that was when I knew something was wrong.
My name is Isabelle Spray and I am not an alcoholic.
At least, I donāt think so anyway.
My journey with sobriety began in 2018. Iāve not had a drink since August 2021.
But if Iām not an alcoholic, then why?
I get this question a lot - from friends, family members, colleagues, loose acquaintances, total strangersā¦ I know I donāt owe anyone a justification, but Iām always honest because I know sharing my story is a good thing.
Sometimes I have to patiently re-explain it several times before a person stops asking. And Iāve accepted that some people in my life may never stop offering me drinks at any given opportunity. Or stop saying things like ābut itās your birthday?!ā (Today my own mother asked me if I had a glass of champagne at midnight to ring in the new year.)
Something about my being sober makes other people uncomfortable.
They feel the need to push against it in some small way. Perhaps they think I am judging them, although theyād be wrong there. If anything I envy people who are able to drink without it affecting them the way it does me. Perhaps it is to double back on their obvious shock since I donāt āseemā like someone who doesnāt drink. Most likely I think it is a way to reassert their sense of control after being confronted with something uncomfortable.
Being sober is actually a little like being gay in that sense. You are moving through the world in a way that is sort of accidentally resistant, simply in the act of being true to yourself. To discuss it openly takes courage and an admission of vulnerability. People are very uneasy with vulnerability.
And so I answer, calmly and truthfully: itās for my mental health.
Iām not part of AA. Iām not doing the 12 step recovery. I just reached a point where I realised that drinking wasnāt useful to me, and so I stopped.
For some, that is enough to satiate their curiosity, and then the conversation moves on.
Others have further questions; how long have you been sober? What exactly made you stop?
I try to be honest and truthful with these answers too (although the level of detail depends on our closeness, of course.)
Every now and then I am greeted with a softened expression and a kind, knowing smile.
āThat's amazing. Good for you.ā
Usually these are people who have been through it, or have family members, friends or partners that struggle with alcohol. And then I wonder what pain lies behind that knowing look.
The last time I had a drink it was one gin, and it gave me a hangover.
My first two years of sobriety, I thought it might be a temporary measure.
I was working on myself in a lot of ways and I thought once I got my depression and anxiety under control, I could go back to enjoying a nice glass of red with my steak.
In summer 2021 I was feeling more relaxed and stable again, and so I tried it. Just a few glasses of prosecco on holiday with my friends. And it was fine. No crippling existential dread, no unspeakable fear at the transience of my own existence.
And so when I returned to London I had a single G&T whilst catching up with a friend.
That was all fine and dandy too until the next morning when I woke up dehydrated, irritable and generally just feeling quite shit. I sat on the tube, 45 minutes late for the lunch I was supposed to be at, and with a nagging feeling of recognition.
Iāve been this version of myself before, but when..?
Oh right, I thought as the realisation dawned. This was my early twenties.
And then I laughed at myself.
My early twenties were years behind me now. There was no need for me to retrench myself in that mess!
Back then alcohol had been a kind of social lubricant. It bolstered me in situations where my anxiety made it hard for me to socialise - which was often. But now I had grown used to sitting with my discomfort and just trying my best. And mostly it was kind of okay. And when it wasnāt I would just quietly excuse myself.
This was ridiculous and all completely unnecessary.
But there was another layer too. Beneath the drinking to ease my anxiety there was something more insidious that I had never acknowledged before.
Like everyone, I was deeply lonely and confused in my early twenties. I was making choices with no real clue what I was doing and just clinging onto the illusion of control. And my depression and anxiety were always there in the background, although back then I was never looking them in the eye.
I found that the more I drank, the worse I felt the next day. And the worse I felt the next day, the more I could tell people that I was struggling, without them (or me) really knowing why.
I could say I felt sad without admitting I was depressed.
I could spend the day in bed without anyone getting concerned.
I could tell everyone Iād been throwing up all morning and no one would wonder if I was having an eating disorder relapse.
It sickens me now to think of the way I treated myself. And that I didnāt think I deserved to feel better than that. I thought that I alone wasnāt inherently worthy of care and attention.
It took my first hangover in two years to realise the reasons why I had been drinking in that way - the cycles of shame and self-loathing I had been living in. Perhaps I wasnāt a full blown alcoholic, but my relationship with alcohol had been one of abuse.
So I decided firmly that I would never make myself feel that way again. I respect myself too much now. I actually care about myself. I know I deserve better.
Now, I am pretty much okay.
I still get tempted every now and then. A cold white wine on a Friday in summertime will never not call to me.
But that one drink would be so much more than a drink. I want to move forwards with my life, not backwards. I want to grow upwards, towards the sun.
Iāve noticed that as I speak more openly about my sobriety, the more people are beginning to ask me questions - not about why - but about how I got sober. And Iām grateful to be able to offer them some support. I think this is what people mean when they talk about leading by example.
So Iām here. Sober. Hopeful. Still a little scared. And even, sometimes, happy.
