Emily Laing: A Letter To The Sober Curious & To My Life

When I look at my life, there is a before and there is an after.

The before appears to me like the climax of a Michael Bay movie, slathered in destruction and chaos displayed in super HD and probably playing in 3D in a cinema near you. A dramatic description but par for the course when existing as an addict. Drama and I have been in a problematic relationship for the last 30 odd years.

I was the protagonist of my own action franchise, helpless, safely snuggled in victimhood, selfishly avoiding responsibility, occasionally cutting a fringe to seem more interesting and possibly French and slowly drinking myself to death.

I have come to terms with my former status of absolute binfire human. It has left me with a plethora of stories which make for some great dinner party content but, as strange as it sounds, I have no regrets. Every second of the before led to the after and the now, and I would not exchange it for anything.

18 months ago, 90% of my character was based on just how much I could knock back without batting an eyelid. Paintstripper vodka that would make most people gag if its aroma even brushed their nostrils fell down my throat with more ease than water. And I wore my ox like constitution like a badge of honour. I thought I was quirky, interesting, unpredictable, artistic and wild. A sort of 21st century Zelda Fitzgerald. In reality I was an utter nuisance and, without my knowing, those who had been close to me were slowly backing away hoping I wouldn’t notice, like the T-Rex in Jurassic park.

I skimmed like a stone on water along the surface of euphoria. Momentarily, blissfully flying but ultimately aiming from a deadly plummet to the depths from which I may never return.

And I very nearly didn’t. New Years Eve 2021 was my breaking point. I was dumped fifteen minutes before midnight by the man I unequivocally believed was the great love of my life.

(Spoiler – he wasn’t). What followed was an unsuccessful suicide attempt and forced entry into primary care.

Upon arrival I was subjected to various tests to determine just how far gone I was. I merrily believed that there was nothing wrong with me and allowed my end of rehab glass of wine to dizzily hover in front of my eyes in a delicious daydream while a doctor probed my side with a sterilized wand.

So disconnected from my body and self I was all at once as impenetrable as steel and as corporeal as a unicorn.

I didn’t believe I truly existed and so my relationship with booze and narcotics couldn’t have harmed me. One thing that I thank the universe for on a daily basis is being given the literal black and white evidence of my poor, battered liver. (Excuse the pun). Directly in front of me was a glorious display of just how much I had harmed myself.

I felt like I had been dunked into an ice-cold plunge pool and yanked up, gasping for air. Finally awake and radically aware of my situation. Had my liver been tickety-boo, I cannot guarantee that I would have emerged from recovery and remained sober. It was the literal evidence that saved me. I do not claim to be a sober jedi. I am definitely not a martyr. And I am not trying to induct you into a cult. But I can say, without hesitation, getting sober is the best thing I have ever done with my life.

Had you met me eighteen months ago, a very different woman would have been stood before you. Selfishly searching for the next injection of euphoria, desperate to remain in fuzzy Kansas. Free of care and culpability.

I lost a lot in the personal apocalypse. Work, most of my closest friends, my family came close to cutting me out.

The space that created, as harsh and painful as the cut was, left room for magical new people, glorious experiences and a smorgasbord of self-awareness.

For the sober curious, if you think you’re cool now, trust me, just wait till you’re five months in glowing, turning heads and biting your tongue when you see the individual in the last throws of active addiction and desperately wanting to tell them about the life that will unfold when they shelf the booze and start again. I would not give up the lows I have now (and yes, they still come we are all human – good news about sobriety, you get your feelings back – bad news about sobriety, you get your feelings back) I would not give up my lowest lows for my highest highs from the beforetime.

I am incredibly lucky and happy to be alive. And there was a time that I wouldn’t open my eyes unless I had some kind of clear, cool spirit as a bed partner waking me up with a burnt throat. Now I wake up to my cat. And I couldn’t be more thrilled.