The bad thing about being born a human, is that…well, we are highly intelligent creatures, brimming with thoughts and feelings. 

Sometimes all that brain activity, all that emotion, can get a bit overwhelming. Did I say sometimes? I meant most of the time. 

Even for an extrovert such as myself, the (mostly self-imposed) pressure to be on the ball: quick-witted, well-mannered, informed and generally just nice all the time is exhausting. Working in retail adds to that: the shop floor is like a stage, where you always have to be ‘on’: all-singing, all-dancing – jazz-hands at the ready. Actors. And now we have to be actors in full PPE, ‘smizing’ (corporate speak for ‘smiling with your eyes’) above our masks; dancing daily on the cliff-edge of redundancy. 

So is it any wonder, then, that after a long day serving customers, smizing until our eyeballs bulge and jaws ache, we have a tendency to reach for the bottle? Retail workers are like the orchestra on the Titanic, playing on whilst everywhere around them people scurry in all directions, running for cover as the ship lurches and plunges deeper into the abyss.

A long drink of something cold at the end of a long-ass day is like a reward, a pat on the back for successfully completing another 24hrs without committing murder. “Well done, you survived another whole day without sucker-punching anyone,” murmurs the Sauvignon bottle telepathically from inside the fridge, willing you to up-end it into a large wine glass. It certainly takes those jagged edges off the day. 

The experience of being human is so intense that as children we are given dummies to suck on, to pacify us; to stop us crying with fear and anxiety at how scary the big wide world is. As we get older that fear is proven to be justified, but we can hardly be walking around town with a big ol’ dummy stuffed in our gobs, a threadbare teddy tucked under one arm, so we replace it with other, more socially acceptable forms of comfort: cigarettes, vapes, drugs and alcohol. Much better to replace those harmless childish objects with life-limiting addictions, right? At least we’ll get this fraught human experience over with quicker. Jeez, what a messed-up thought process. 

So we drink largely to anaesthetise ourselves from the abject horror of being a highly intelligent spiritual creature, trapped in the confines of a physical body, being controlled by our minds. Why do I say horror? Because the body can restrict us (for example due to illness, disability, being unfit); the mind that controls us is often negative. The brain is always fearful: watching for predators, suspicious, assuming the worst in order to keep us alert and subsequently safe. However the mind’s uber-cautious nature can be like having your biggest enemy – the toughest bully at school – whispering in your ear all day long. We often drink to silence those vicious voices, for some respite, even just for a little while. We get ‘out of our heads’ by consuming alcohol to do exactly that: to get away from the internal chatter for a bit. To numb ourselves against the mischievous monkey bouncing around in our brains. 

So if we’re drinking to escape physical or mental pain, to dampen down our anxieties (or drown them in some cases), or simply to let our hair down and quieten our minds long enough to shrug off our inhibitions, dance, and have fun, surely in order to remove the desire to drink, we need to find a way to quieten the inner chatter in the first place? 

In order to remove the need for that anaesthetic we need to stop flapping and floundering in the choppy waters, drowning in our feelings, and learn to float amongst them instead. We need to find that sense of stillness, a lake to lie back on, toes up, and just ‘be’ instead of constantly trying to swim upstream against the rapids. 

And then the realisation came to me, that one I mentioned in my first blog post, at 3.33am: it’s time to swap spirits for spirituality. Things often dawn on me at dawn. It’s my most productive time (I’m writing this now in the half-light, just after sun-up). If I can find inner peace, the rest will be a doddle. As those sassy-cats En Vogue once sang: Free your mind, and the rest will follow. 

So I decided to get to the root of my problem: my mind. I’ve always considered myself to be a ‘spiritual sceptic’, as in I understand the concept of a higher power, positive thinking, asking the Universe for what you require and being open to receive its gifts and all that stuff. I’ve read The Secret, goddammit! Now where’s all this abundance I was promised?! But then my logical mind takes over, tells me it’s all ching-ching nonsense, rumours spread by people in elephant-print harem pants and nose rings. Hippy hype. 

I might go weeks, months – years sometimes – with zero enlightenment, then suddenly the planets seem to align and the magic begins to happen once more. I start experiencing synchronicity, such as repeated numbers everywhere: 1111, 333….I glance at the clock and it’s 11:11, or I take my ticket in a queue somewhere and my number is 111. It’s a sign. I’m ready to receive. 

I was ready to receive 3 or 4 weeks ago, so the Universe started giving me signs. Got my creative juices flowing. Ok, so it actually got my booze-juices flowing first: I met up with a group of dear old friends for a long-awaited post-lockdown catch-up. But at that long, languid (liquid) lunch, my friend Steve, one of the most spiritual people I know, spoke to me. Or rather, he spoke to my soul. 

I’d been having a rough time mentally, my monkey mind dragging me to places I didn’t want to go…and his words soothed my frazzled nerves and calmed my senses. Hearing him speak, I could feel my stress leave me like a spirit departing a recently-deceased corpse; my tense shoulders sag. I told him “I really needed to hear this today.” Because I did. And then we all got drunk. 

That evening, I told my partner Dave about our conversation. About the books Steve had recommended. And like the sweetheart that he is, Dave dashed out the next day and bought them for me. 

And so it came to be that I immediately tipped the last of the Smirnoff down the sink, swapping spirits for spiritual scripts. The Power Of Now by Eckhart Tolle is as good a place as any to start honing your new mindset. Read it. Once you start to understand that your mind is merely an organ in your body and not your entire being you can learn to control it. To quieten it. To live in a place of consciousness, in the present. The past and future are just illusions. The present is all we have. 

Instead of being controlled by your mind, it’s time you controlled it. Once you can master this, or at least be aware that this is the goal, you’ve taken the first step towards inner peace. The desire to get “off your nut” will dissipate, because you won’t be feeling so nutty in the first place. When you are at peace in yourself, you don’t feel such a desire to dumb down your senses. You can experience them from a higher plane. You’ll resonate at a higher frequency. 

Am I talking mumbo jumbo? Maybe. But surely if you’ve listened to my nonsensical mumblings on a night out, three sheets to the wind, it’s worth listening to me now, when I’m fully compos mentis? This time there’ll be no mind-altering substances involved. We’ll be doing this completely sober. 

Come on, escape the limitations of your unconscious mind. 

It’s time to get completely out of your head. 

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com

www.ifyouboozeyoulose.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (lifeabirdseyeview)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Swap Spirits For Spirituality appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

‘I’m starting with the woman in the mirror

I’m asking her to change her ways

And no message could have been any clearer

If you want to make the world a better place

Take a look at yourself, and then make a change.’

I love these lyrics. (I used to love Jacko too, but that was before he went looking for himself and happened to find what he was searching for in the underpants of young boys. Allegedly, I should add – don’t sue me, Latoya). 

But isn’t now, 2020, the most fucked-up, melon-twisting year of our lives so far, a good time to look in the mirror? Time to take stock of our lives in general? You might not be able to make the world a better place, but you can always work on making your world a better place. 

Since starting this new blog If You Booze, You Lose, documenting my self-improvement journey to alcohol-free living, I’ve heard gossipy rumblings on the grapevine that I must be a full-blown alcoholic, said with the slightest whiff of schadenfreude. I’m sure none of you are losing sleep over this little conundrum, but for the purpose of clarity: I’m not an alcoholic. Not even close. (If you read last week’s blog found HERE, you’ll see that I explain exactly how I’d categorise myself). Haters, I’m sorry to disappoint you huns. 

There hasn’t been any dramatic catalyst for this lifestyle change; no spectacular fall from grace. I didn’t get arrested; the bank aren’t threatening to repossess my house. No, I’m not about to be made homeless; you won’t need to avert your gaze as I ask if you can “spare any change please?” as I sit cross-legged outside the Sevenoaks Waitrose, my grubby palms pressed together like the praying emoji (I’m nearer Aldi actually, but those shoppers are generally as skint as I am, as a lone-living retail-working divorcee). No, I’m just a perfectly imperfect mid-life human being on a quest to be the fittest, happiest, most mentally agile version of myself. That’s it. 

But then I got to thinking: why are some people so quick to throw shade on my parade, trash-talking my public declaration of discontent with my drinking habits? Dissing my endeavours. What is it that’s made them ask other, closer, (better!) mates of mine if I’m spiralling into the abyss? Genuine concern? Or maybe…fear? 

Perhaps my admission has unsettled something buried deep in their gut, something they’ve pushed down, down, down – deep below Saturday’s Sauvignon and the greasy kebab that followed, deeper than the Sunday morning hangover cure  comprising a fry-up and emergency diet Coke. This thing they’ve buried is so deep and uncomfortable that it’s given them acid reflux, a stomach ulcer, and is now finally being expelled from their gassy rear-end…and into my pals’ DMs. No wonder they’re talking shit – it’s been brewing for long enough. 

This thing that’s bothering them about me giving up alcohol? 

I reckon it’s their own deep-seated unease. Unease at their own lifestyle choices. Rather than reach out and admit their own failings, it’s easier to dismiss mine.

“It’s ok because she’s just a weak-willed alchy. I’m nothing like that…” 

By telling themselves I have a serious problem, their own problem seems smaller, more manageable. How do I know this? Because I’ve done it myself. Not necessarily out loud, but I’ve certainly told myself in my head. I’m not as bad as that. It’s much easier to run with this narrative than confront the issue, head on. 

I’ve looked in the mirror and decided a few tweaks are necessary, having caught sight of the bulging boiled-egg eyes the morning after, and the tell-tale half-drunk bottle of red in the background. (See, if I was really an alcoholic that bottle would be empty ). But by doing so this openly it’s as though I’ve swivelled that mirror round and held it up to you, too. 

Do you like what you see? 

If so, sweet. No Pepto Bismol needed for you. If not, what is your grumbling gut trying to tell you? Instead of ducking out of sight of the mirror, why not face it and join me on this journey? Perhaps we can bolster one another. I won’t bite, honest. (Well, not unless you get the absinthe out – that shit does strange things to people). If I’ve got a resting bitch face it’s usually because I’m thinking. (I don’t smile and think at the same time, that’d be like applying mascara with my mouth closed.) 

I dare you to stand in front of the mirror and ask yourself to make a change. Look at yourself; really see yourself. Not just when you’re absent-mindedly brushing your teeth of an evening whilst rerunning the events of the day through your mind like a silent movie. Clear your mind and do it properly. Look past the face you show to the world, the bravado. Look into your eyes. Look within, into your soul. Are you truly happy, at peace with yourself? 

Because unease, that deep-seated anxiety, or should I say the hang-xiety that comes with regular alcohol or drug use, or any addiction for that matter (food, gambling, sex) leads to disease. Dis-ease. Not being at ease in and with your self. What starts out as fun gradually drains your energy and dims your light. You’re brighter, sharper, funnier and better company without it. You don’t even need it. It’s taken me a long time to really comprehend that fact.

Life is a game of snakes and ladders, full of ups and downs. We are all players in this incomprehensible race, hurtling at speed towards the finish line: death. Now that’s one competition nobody wants to win. 

Old habits die hard. So do addicts. 

It’s time to make that change. 

Day 15

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.ifyouboozeyoulose.blogspot.com

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (lifeabirdseyeview)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post (Wo)man In The Mirror appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

It’s 3.33 on a Saturday morning and just like that, I’ve had an idea; a lightbulb moment has roused me from the fitful slumber of a muggy summer’s night and catapulted me into the excited mental state of someone on the cusp of a brand new adventure.

After months of nursing a chronic case of inertia I’ve woken alert, with the crystal-clear clarity of someone whose new path is finally becoming visible, after years of wandering aimlessly through the hazy maze of life. It’s like someone finally took it upon themselves to chop back the overgrown meadow that is my unkempt existence and reveal the neatly-kept garden hiding beneath the brambles. Having blitzed my home over recent months, my Lockdown Elf has finally decided to work on my Self. The planets are aligning and the Universe is calling me once more. My get-up-and-go got up and went…but change is in the air. I can taste it.

So what is this big ‘Aha!’ moment I’ve just had? Have I discovered the cure for COVID, or the elusive formula for world peace? Hardly. In the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing. I’ve not reinvented the wheel. The producers of Dragon’s Den won’t be calling anytime soon. But – don’t go! stay with me – because to me, and millions of functioning fuckwits like myself, it could be something. It’s not so much about what I’m going to do, as what I’m going to not do. If I’m talking in riddles, I apologise. Let me start at the beginning…

Hello. My name’s Sam, and I’m an alcoholic.

No, not one of those alcoholics; those sad-sacks who roll out of bed at lunchtime, fumbling for the sticky half-empty (or half-full, depending on your optimism levels) gin bottle on the bedstand with shaking hands, chugging it down with barely a wince. No no NO! That simply would not do. No, I’m one of those normal alkies, silly! You know, the respectable ones with full-time jobs, a mortgage, neat-as-a-pin houses with expensive-smelling diffusers and fresh flowers in a vase on the dining room table…and a lorry-load of empty bottles cunningly concealed in the garden, to be removed under cover of darkness, lest the neighbours see. I’m one of those. I’m one of you. 

Of course, they all do the same. The neighbours, I mean. We wouldn’t want to embarrass one another by accidentally locking eyes as we silently drag the previous week’s glass recycling out of the front door like we’re trying to dispose of a dead body, the telltale trail of red wine snaking down the driveway. Of course, we’re all faaar too middle-class to be cold-blooded killers – the only things getting murdered in sleepy Sevenoaks are crates of Malbec. Any decaying corpses are purely our own on a Sunday morning after a Saturday night sesh.

No, like you,  I’m not a proper alcoholic – I just get blasted at weekends (with the occasional midweek mashup thrown in to spice things up). I wear my tortured soul on the inside, thankyouverymuch. I’m not a daily drinker – or even every other day for that matter – but I can’t remember a single social occasion when I’ve shrivelled my nose up at a visit to Sozzletown.  I’ve never dreamt of letting the side down by being one of those bores who turns down a Negroni. I have a work hard, play hard attitude. I’m a Weekend Offender.

Then Lockdown happened. And life became one long weekend.

Lockdown for me, like so many, was a time for reflection and spiritual awakenings…usually whilst knee-deep in wine bottles at 2am, chatting animatedly to my partner about What Really Matters In Life whilst wearing activewear that I’d slipped on that morning fully intending to do the daily Joe Wicks PE sesh. (Intending being the operative word.)

The keys to the New Normal were finally handed to (most of) us at the end of June: Bumbling Boris peering through shaggy blonde locks, imploring us through the tellybox to come out of hiding and get back to work, and we nodded, albeit apprehensively; square-eyed after months of goggling at Tiger King on Netflix. We reluctantly wriggled into our work uniforms, now a little snug-fitting in places, and tentatively emerged from our locked-up living spaces looking a tad dishevelled, like when they flip the lights on at the club at 6am and you stumble out into the weak London daylight, blinking like a newborn after the darkness, trying to drink in your first glimpses of this Strange New World.

Drink.

Did someone say drink?

I’ve always been the kind of person who applies myself wholeheartedly to the task at hand, launching myself headlong into things. Fellow Aries, you’ll know where I’m coming from – us rams go at it heads down, horns first. We grab life, and all those we encounter, by the cajones (in the nicest possible way, of course). So my approach to drinking in my teens was no different: I locked horns with the target and challenged it to a duel. The booze won, of course. It threw me on my arse. Undeterred, I got up, brushed myself off, and went at it again. Once more, it floored me. But I didn’t mind. I’m nothing if not determined. Another person, another personality, might have walked away. Not me. I got back in the proverbial saddle and continued to drink, battling hangover after brutal hangover, drunken mishap after embarrassing boozy facepalm, until…

…I got quite good at it. I became a professional piss-artist.

I had fun – lots and lots of fun. I have Sauvignon-soaked stories that’d make you laugh until you cried. I have stories that’d make you just cry – from shame; sadness; shock. I have many, many, anecdotes of wild times. I worked a few seasons in Ibiza: say no more. I could write a book of silly sozzled shenanigans (if only I could actually remember most of them). I’ve lived. I’ve travelled the world. I’ve loved. Laughed. Married. Divorced. I’ve suffered and survived heartache greater than I ever thought I would, or could, endure.

And that’s just it: I’ve survived. I’m alive. And I’d quite like to stay that way, actually. People have passed through my life; come and gone. Many have stayed by my side, loyal, clinging like barnacles on a shipwreck at the bottom of the ocean, keeping the shared secrets of our lives like the buried treasure that lies beneath. The one true constant that’s always been there with them, by my side through thick and thin?

Alcohol.

My faithful friend. Or is she? I’m not sure now. Alcohol is definitely a SHE though, of that I’m sure: erratic, prone to mood swings; unpredictable. One minute swirling on the dancefloor, twirling and giggling, the next offering someone out for spilling her drink. Having her as a bestie is both a blessing and a curse. She’s that friend who’ll bolster you, telling you what you want to hear (”that dress really suits you – buy it!”) whilst simultaneously sniggering as you walk out of the loos with your too-small skirt tucked in your knickers. She is one two-faced bitch.

Well, friend. The gloves are off.

This time, Alcohol, I’m in charge. And I’m calling time on 30 years of ‘friendship’. 2020 is the year of change. And, yes, I’m looking at you, sweetheart.

The time has come. I’m calling you out. You and me are done mate.

But can I really ditch her? Only time will tell. Time, and a few thousand judgy social media followers. I’m telling you because I need your help to blow out the weekly blow-outs. I’m on Day 7.

Are you with me?

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.ifyouboozeyoulose.blogspot.com

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (lifeabirdseyeview)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Last Of The Summer Wine appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.