When I first walked into AA, I expected sobriety to be hard. What I hadn’t expected was the constant bloody noise inside my own head.
During those first four weeks, people were firing advice at me from every direction.
“Do this.” “Try that.” “Keep busy.” “Go to meetings.” “Ring somebody.”
All perfectly sensible suggestions. Unfortunately, my obsession with alcohol wasn’t remotely interested in being sensible. It nagged at me all day, every day: Have a drink. Have a drink. Go on—just have one.
One summer afternoon, I was sitting on my patio in tears. People were in the pub watching football, laughing in beer gardens and enjoying barbecues. Meanwhile, I was at home with gritted teeth, white-knuckling my way through another day without alcohol.
In my mind, the obsession had become a huge monkey carrying one of those inflatable squeaky hammers. It was repeatedly bashing me over the head.
Have a drink! Squeak!
Have a drink! Squeak!
Everybody else is having fun! Squeak!
He was a persistent little bastard.
But underneath all that racket, there was another voice. It was much quieter and far less dramatic.
Make a call.
That was it. No thunderbolt from the heavens. No magical cure. No choir of angels descending onto the patio. Just one small voice saying: Ring your friend. That is all you have to do.
The monkey kept bashing away, telling me that a drink would make everything better. The quiet voice kept repeating the same simple instruction.
Make the call.
Somehow, I found enough defiance to listen to it. I picked up the phone and rang a friend.
She said, “Right. Make sure the kids are happy and safe, then come over and have a cup of tea.”
The children were old enough to be left, so that was exactly what I did.
It sounds ridiculously simple, doesn’t it? Make a phone call. Get in the car. Drink a cup of tea.
But simple does not mean easy—not when a giant imaginary monkey is smacking you around the skull with a squeaky hammer and demanding alcohol.
As I drove to my friend’s house, I imagined the monkey sitting in the back of the car. He had finally put the hammer down. He was very quiet and deeply offended that he hadn’t got his own way. He may even have had his arms folded.
I had the cup of tea. I had a chat. I didn’t drink.
I changed who I listened to
Something far more important happened that day: I changed who I listened to.
I stopped automatically obeying the loudest voice. For the first time, I listened to the quiet one telling me to do the right thing.
That did not make the monkey disappear. Addiction rarely packs a suitcase, apologises for the inconvenience and leaves peacefully. But over time, the monkey became the quieter voice, while my own voice grew stronger.
I became the boss of my future. I became the person who took charge.
Eventually, I discovered that my determination to stay sober could become just as powerful as the addiction that had once controlled me.
I respect alcohol now. I understand exactly what it can do and how much power it can gain over a person. If you slip back into that bottle and start obeying the monkey again, it can tear through your life without mercy.
The monkey has never completely left me. Some days are difficult, and the thought of sinking into oblivion can still sound tempting. But I know what waits on the other side of that first drink. I know the danger it would present to me, and I know how quickly it could take everything.
More importantly, I know what to do when the monkey starts getting loud.
I listen for the other voice.
I make the call.
I choose my future.
I want to be sober, and I will fight that fucking monkey all the way if I have to.
Little bastard.