Hear Me// Sobriety and Me: The Contemplative Watery Qualities of a Boiling Bath.

By Neve Robinson
06 February 2021

I rub my wrinkled fingers through my newly shaven, duckling-down head. Like a dew-saturated lawn. I’ve been bobbing nonchalantly beneath the rich glimmering bath-bombed waves of yet another one of my scalding baths. Under, eyes screwed shut, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, emerge gasping and spluttering, then repeat. There is something strangely comforting about this bizarre ritual. Whenever my brain weighs particularly heavily and the lines between minor nerves and all-encompassing neuroses become increasingly blurred, the warmth of a long bathe is the first place that I seek solace. Being underwater for just a few moments makes one hyper-aware of their thoughts with the absence of auditory and visual distraction. It is a time for organisation of the thoughts, a Dewey Decimal System of even the most egregiously cluttered encephalon. I am morbidly infatuated with pushing this peaceful minute to the absolute limit. The sensation of my lungs crashing against my ribcage in a desperate bid for oxygen is jarring, and I love it. I think strong sensory reactions make me feel more ingrained in a body and existence that my recovery sometimes prevents me from fully associating myself with. I know for certain that I’m not alone in having such ruminations, and yet I feel I am. I struggle to believe, as daft as it may sound, that anyone’s cranium is as crammed to capacity with concerns as mine is. It’s an isolating and exhausting sensation. As a young person on a recovery journey from alcohol dependency, I suppose it can feel like this a lot, particularly in a society that has drinking culture so embedded in its younger, naiver members. Despite its occasional obstacles, I would not trade this abstemious existence on the proverbial wagon for the life that I led before. Especially in these calm, contemplative moments, I can reflect on just how much of my life has blossomed into a very wonderful one thanks to abstaining from alcohol even for such a short period. I am by no means cured of my mental maladies. But I am certainly much better. I am happier and healthier than I have ever been, and I can proudly attribute this almost entirely to my continued effort at sobriety. Without this detoxing period, I may not even be here at all to splish nor to splash! This is a loathsome thought that I would rather not give any credence to.

I often wonder if the scorching baths that I indulge in are a replacement for the way I would immerse myself into drunken stupors – they comfort me in a blanketing, enveloping way that intoxicants once did. It is undoubtedly a far less self-destructive substitute.  The self-sabotaging behaviours I have exhibited over the years have merely been indicative of the crushingly low self-esteem that I had a lot of my youth robbed by. Most prevalent of these self-sabotaging behaviours was, of course, alcohol. At the peaks of the mental ailment, that I tried to deny for many years, plunging myself into drinking was seemingly the solution. As a self-professed social butterfly, I flourished in alcohol-heavy activities – parties, nights out in seedy clubs and packed pubs were the places that I truly thrived. These were situations where a couple of drinks would make me invincible. I didn’t worry about how others perceived me (as I perennially did) because I was safe in the knowledge that they were normally as battered and, thus, as unbothered as I was. I could interact confidently with a flurry of faces, adopting a ‘fun’, faux-blasé attitude that seemed to appeal to people who I supposed were worth appealing to. I was drinking heavily every day, assuring myself it was normal to do so as I was a student, and this is what students did. 

Inevitably I began to forget what my personality consisted of without the aid of Dutch courage. Was I really an outgoing, bubbly person? Or was that just me increasing in degrees of outrageousness per unit I poisoned my dog-eared psyche with? It was difficult to tell, and as time went on I only grew more and more miserably confused about it all. I knew what the cause of my persistent melancholy was because of the unmistakably entrenched patterns of it. A night of heavy debauchery would result in a morning of unrelenting sobbing for reasons I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It didn’t feel like a tonne of bricks nestled on my chest. No, it felt like ten tonnes of bricks. A whole quarry of them. The Unshakeable Sadness. Not to mention the events that would unfold when I actually was intoxicated. That wizened old claw of trauma always seemed to jab me in the back and encourage my recklessness. I was doing more things drunkenly that I regretted than not. This was no existence. Something eventually had to give.

I am absentmindedly flicking some water droplets from the bathroom tiles surrounding me as I tally it up mentally. I’ve been sober for, as of the hasty penning of this, 132 days. That’s 3,168 hours without cradling a Camden Hells whilst on another tangential madcap rambling, chewing some poor bugger’s ear off with some nonsense that would make my toes curl when my hungover self recalled them. 190,080 minutes, give or take, of (miraculously!) managing my kamikaze destruction attempts. It has been by no means an easy ride. First came the medical intervention, which in honesty, felt at the height of degradation. I was humiliated by my circumstances. It’s no secret that I am surrounded by so many loving forces, thankfully, who care for me at the first sign of retreat into neglecting my health. On the days when my depressive tendencies make me vulnerable to solo binge-drinking, the days when I am unable to eat, the days when even washing is a task, I know that I have people around me to support me. Alas, this unfortunately too comes with its detriment. I regularly feel like my mental illness renders me child-like. It’s terribly burdening in my perspective. In the month that I suffered The Final Breakdown that brought my alcohol dependency to an apex, I was a ghost girl. A shadow of a soul. I had lost such a huge portion of my regular routine that I truly struggled to find a purpose to replace this drinking gap with – I began to wonder how else I could possibly damage myself now. I became very ill and withdrawn physically, which I now understand was part of the withdrawal symptoms. Most of what I can remember of August is days and days going by of listlessly staring at moving pictures on a television screen. I slept around 16 hours a day, wretched REM laced with poisonous night terrors. I was perpetually nauseous and perpetually on the brink of tears. I would run my fingers along the crest of my spine, and it felt like a warped stegosaurus. My nails were brittle, my skin was sallow, my appetite non-existent. It wasn’t so much living as it was…being. As I gaze at myself in the reflection of the misted bathroom mirror now I am struck by how visibly more alive I am since then. Rosy-cheeked. Stronger physically, and of character. A woman that now understands her worth. A woman who didn’t understand that at all when she was under the thumb of spirits.

Without sounding too cliched, life is truly in technicolour since leaving my old life behind. It’s Dorothy in Oz, but with fewer anthropomorphic scarecrows. I can’t quite say what it was that jolted me into accepting that I’m just not meant to be a drinker for the time being. Maybe it was the loving concern of my friends and family who witnessed my multiple spirals at the sullied hands of pints. Or, rather selfishly at its heart, perhaps it was just that being so desperately unhappy and needlessly doing things to make oneself even unhappier took its toll. Either way, my recovery is probably my biggest achievement in life. I admit, lockdown has heavily aided the banishment of alcohol from my life – no open clubs or pubs means no temptation. Plus, my housemates have noticeably cut down their drinking around me. I’m not sure if they have noticed that I have noticed they are doing this, but if you’re reading this (Mae, Josh, Carla, Frances et al) then please know, I’m grateful. Therapy works. AA meetings, virtual though they may be, work. Plus, I finally adhere to the correct medication and! Who would have guessed it! It works when you take it as prescribed! My healing was not just of the mind, but of the fractured heart, too. During the blessed Tier 2 days, the substitution of drinking-based activities with pure days out to the zoo, beach and parks really put the spring back into my step. Swapping vodka and cokes with…well, cokes, became easier and easier as time went by. I reconnected with my hobbies. I reconnected with nature. Most noticeably, I reconnected with my innocence, something I’d always felt had been tarnished beyond repair thanks to traumatic events that occurred in the not-so-distant past. I remember one summer evening – my God, such a simplistic but euphoric moment - the stars were scattered like pierced holes through the dark. And beneath it my best friend and I went for an impromptu walk, that turned into an elated run across the sandy plains barefoot. The wind was whipping strands of green hairs into my eyes and we were laughing at nothing at all as gravity struggled to keep a grip on us. I could hear my heart beating, feel the chatter of my teeth. I finally felt that I belonged in my body, and understood just why I did. To experience fleeting moments like this. That happy-go-lucky buzz is one that you can only really get to experience as a kid. I do theorise that maybe that’s why I drank, to try and replicate those sorts of emotions. The emotions you had before everything got more complex. But I don’t think any amount of substance can ever truly mirror those feelings. All you can do is treasure the rare few bursts of this wonderment that you get here and there, rather than trying to induce them by speedily necking a bev. I’m starting to sound like a terrible self-help book – ‘Sobriety For Dummies’? Hm. I may empty the bath now.

The magenta water glitters as it drains down the plug. I really do find time to myself to relax far more cathartic than ever as I am often fatigued these days. Still, I would rather be a bit tired than regress into the same unhealthy unmedicated patterns I once did. To say I will always be immune to all chemical pleasures would likely be an untrue statement. I am, after all, only 22. I do not know what is mapped out for me and I’m not sure I want to know such a thing yet. However, I definitely intend on remaining sober throughout 2021 for as long as possible. As I mentioned before, it is the one thing I feel truly proud of. When I talk about my sobriety, I worry I come across insincere or even boastful to those who struggle with maintaining theirs. I promise I don’t mean to romanticise things too much. I think that’s the Bronte fan in me. In all seriousness, I do hope that reading this stream of consciousness about this topic does not inspire that thought in you. Rather, my passion and enthusiasm on the topic is kind of a celebration on what wonders it has done for me. I suppose I want to urge others who have considered it for a while to try packing in the six-packs, maybe even beyond Dry January (though any effort is a valiant one in the battle against the beer!) In the most candid way that I can convey it: I did not see myself living past 2020, let alone happily. And yet here I am. I’m here. I enjoy little details of my days far more now. Be it these baths, be it watching the squirrels tussle in the leaves, be it a short phone call with my mother. Everything seems a lot…brighter than it once was. I’d even argue that I am now far more social as a sober woman, as I no longer feel I need to play a character to fit in. I am forced to present myself as I really am, and people don’t seem to half mind it. Not that that really matters. I far more see the value of a quiet teetotal night in binge-watching Richard Curtis films with my housemates, than that of lying indented on my mattress hammered, waiting for the ceiling to stop revolving. Maybe one day I’ll be able to have a nice glass of vino without a second thought, maybe even a pint again at the beloved Shepherd’s Arms. But for now, I think I’ll stick to the J20s. Cutting out the so-called liquid ‘black dog’ got me my life back. Now, if I can only kick that bloody hot bath dependency…

Neve is a 22-year old BA American Studies student and aspiring writer. She is a vibrant and larger than life character. She has suffered with anxiety and depression for many years and decided to become sober in order to focus on her therapy and recovery, and she is slowly blossoming as a result. She aims to encourage others to at least dabble in sobriety for a period of time to reconnect with oneself a little better. She loves to collect records and write about music over on her record Instagram, @robinsonsrecords.