I’ll never regret going sober
As the festive season sparkles into view, the usual drinking shenanigans begin. I won’t be joining in…
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I was just a few months into my first proper post-graduate job and getting ready for my first work Christmas party, when my housemate and best friend saw me out the door with one bit of parting advice… ‘have fun, but don’t kiss anyone.’
She was trying to look after my reputation in a new office at the start of my career. I did not take heed, got drunk and smooched a colleague. Traipsing into work the next day knowing my drunken antics meant I was in the middle of juicy office gossip was not so great.
Luckily for me, I married Gareth, the colleague I smooched and 13 years on, we have a happy marriage. But at the time, total disregard for my reputation and composure were totally on brand for ‘drunk’ me.
The pattern I perfected in my teens followed me into my 20s: drinking too much, getting lairy, throwing up then waking the next day to regret my actions. I was the girl you could rely on to bulldoze into a party, charm most with witty banter whilst offending others without even noticing. I dominated all conversations and performed at least 17 roly-polies.
Kim mid drunken shenanigans on her first holiday with Gareth in 2008. Photo: Kim Willis
I loved a good roly-poly. The discs in my lower back, slipped and operated on when I was 23, did not.
Once my mate and I drank so much we slept through 175 missed calls and our loved ones started calling hospitals. I cancelled social engagements because of hangovers. I often woke up with cuts and bruises with no idea where they’d come from.
As I got older, I became mortified by my drunken self. I wanted to nurture the more gentle, inquisitive side of my character and no longer wanted to dominate the room. I wanted to ask my friends how they were and actually be able to listen and respond properly to their answers.
But when I drank, I could feel myself waking the beast, looking for a way to argue with my lovely, funny, long-suffering husband. The beast didn’t want to go to bed before midnight like some kind of wuss. She wanted to earn her stripes with the party animals, because she craved their vapid validation. Three day bender at a festival? Just try and stop her! She won’t even sleep! Or eat! Eatin’s cheatin’!
Kim should have been enjoying this boat trip in Antigua in 2011 but was instead hungover. Photo: Kim Willis
I don’t like the label ‘alcoholic’ and don’t think I was one. The official term for my particular set of drunken behaviour was: ‘dickhead’. I was just an insecure introvert masquerading through gin as a confident extrovert.
In time, thankfully, my drunken roly-polies slowly evolved into sober yoga, driven by new needs and desires. I didn’t want to be loud and lairy at 3am, I wanted to be up and running at 7am, seizing the beautiful day. Hangovers got in the way of being the kind of person I wanted to be.
My drinking dwindled and I stopped getting drunk drunk. I kept a three-drink rule that kept lairy Kim at bay and ensured I was still a socially acceptable human who didn’t draw attention to herself by not drinking.
I wanted to get as far from 20-year-old me as possible. But the less I drank, the more unfair the hangovers began to feel, with the effect of a couple of drinks clinging to me for two or three days.
In 2019, after more than 20 years of drinking, I had drunk enough. I was ready for sobriety - perhaps an inevitability given the boozy path I’d been on for so long.
Kim glugging wine straight out of the bottle. Photo: Kim Willis
That May, I finished reading The Unexpected Joy of Being Sober on holiday, bought myself a gratitude journal in the airport and made it official. I was going to find my joy elsewhere.
In the 19 months since I’ve been teetotal, I’ve discovered I’m still perfectly capable of acquiring a hangover. All it takes is a late night, some rich food, and lots of conversation.
My friend Emma (sober since forever) tells me they’re called Sober Hangovers. But what has gone is the guilt, remorse and regret. I don’t wake up wearing my Paranoid Paula hat, mortified by the things I said last night. I wake up bouncing out of bed in sober glee.
During the pandemic, I felt no desire to drink again just because the world as we knew it had been rocked. I spent more time in nature, walking and running every day.
I have yet to find myself in a situation I feel would be improved by drinking, and all this patting myself on the back is so much more enjoyable than scolding and berating myself.
As Christmas sparkles into view, I once again see all the usual connections between celebrating and drinking. Alcohol is ubiquitous in our society and Christmas really ramps that up. Watch the adverts, listen to the language. The mulled wine gets warmed up in November. The Christmas pudding is laced with sherry. ‘Tis the season to be merry - we are expected to spend the entire festivities drunk.
By spending Christmas sober, I miss out on a Christmas Eve whiskey with my brother but I still stay up late with him. The conversation is better and - bonus - I remember it. I don’t start Christmas Day with a glass of prosecco, I start it with a 10k run. I have never felt happier or more well since I freed myself of the shackles of booze culture.
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