'I trashed my mate's hen night'
Saturday 6th June 2009
Have you ever got so drunk, you can't remember bits of the night before? Maybe you can't figure out quite how you got home or where the half-eaten kebab on your duvet came from. Well that was me one day in September 2005. I'd woken feeling really terrible, with a sick sense that I'd done something bad. Very bad. But what? 'Oh God,' I groaned, trying to force my eyes open. 'What on earth did I do?' I tried to run through the night in my mind, but most of it was a blur. I remembered getting ready for my mate Jasmine's hen night at home, necking half a bottle of vodka before I even left the house. I remembered pouring the rest of the vodka into an empty Evian bottle too, which I'd popped in my handbag and kept swigging from in the taxi.
'It's cocktail time,' I'd slurred when I arrived at the swanky bar in London's Soho, being cheeky with the waiter so he'd pour more generous measures. I had a vague memory of hen night games, a Mr and Mrs quiz… After that though, everything was a bit hazy. Had there been a row of some kind? Whoosh! I breathed in sharply as something came back to me. How I'd fallen down a flight of stairs in the bar and come round to find the worried hens crowding round me. Someone had thrown a cup of water at me to bring me round. They'd wanted to call an ambulance. The shame.
Poor Jasmine. Not what you want you on your hen night. Oh hell, now I remembered, I'd been so drunk she'd had to cut the night short and take me back to her hotel. But once there, I'd thrown a strop, and insisted on leaving and going home. Heaven knows how I'd made it, the state I was in. I picked up my mobile and typed out a text. So sorry babe. I ruined your hen, didn't I? There was no response for ages. Then… I need some time before I can talk to you. The shame burned deep. We'd looked forward to this night for ages, talked of little else for months, and my behaviour had wrecked it for everyone. Jasmine and I had been really good mates for the past two years, ever since meeting at the domestic violence helpline where we both worked. She'd been so excited when her boyfriend, Jack, had proposed the year before. She'd been planning her wedding in India for months.
'I'd like you to be one of my bridesmaids,' she'd said two months ago. 'I'd love to,' I'd smiled. 'I'm really honoured you asked me.' I'd never been to India before and I'd carefully saved up the £500 for the flight out there. Now, I felt overwhelmed with guilt. Some bridesmaid I was, trashing the hen do. No wonder Jasmine was fuming. When I called our mutual friend, Kelly, 33, she filled me in. 'You were a nightmare from the start of the night,' she admitted. 'Arguing with everyone, you wouldn't stop drinking, insisted the barman give you a kiss…' 'Stop,' I begged. I really didn't want to hear any more.
It was a week before Jasmine finally called. 'I think it's best you don't come to the wedding, don't you?' she said gently. 'You need help. Your drinking's out of control.' And just like that, I knew I'd reached rock bottom. I was so hurt. The wedding was just weeks away, and I'd been so looking forward to it. Now, Jasmine couldn't trust me not to get drunk and ruin her wedding in front of all her family. Deep, deep down, I knew I couldn't trust myself either. I'd always drunk too much. There was no dark reason for it. I'd had a happy childhood and my family weren't drinkers. I just liked getting drunk, and one or two was never enough. In the past, friends and family had commented. But I lived by myself, so no one really knew the true extent of my drinking, how I drank two bottles of wine a day or a bottle of vodka in one go. Which was why I was so ashamed that I'd trashed poor Jasmine's hen night.
The date of the wedding came and went without me, and Jasmine stayed in India afterwards. So she wasn't there a few weeks later, when I woke up after a Halloween party at my mate Amy's with no memory of the night before. Worse, this time I was covered in bruises. Did something happen last night? I texted Amy. You tried to attack me, she replied. Attack her? I wasn't a violent person. Had I been that drunk? A week later, I was due to go on a two-day conference with work and I was terrified about it. How would I cope in a hotel with my colleagues? How would I hide my drinking then? I drank and drank that night, and the next day, when I woke, the room was spinning. 'I'm late for work,' I panicked, flinging myself out of bed. My legs buckled underneath me, and I collapsed. I managed to reach my mobile and call an ambulance.
Not long after I arrived at Whipps Cross Hospital, my mum, Yvonne, dad, Edward, 60, my brother, Terence, 38, and my older sister, Kate, 35, and all turned up. Mum had flown in from her home in Holland. 'You called last night, said you were going to take an overdose,' she said. 'We've been frantic.' This really was rock bottom. 'I'll see a counsellor,' I promised. Meanwhile, I was referred to a treatment centre. Mum stayed with me for a month, and while she was there, I didn't touch a drop of alcohol. 'See, I'm better,' I reassured her when I waved her off home. But as soon as she was gone, I bought a bottle of vodka. Trouble was, it felt like something was missing when I was sober. So there were more binges after that, and a few more times when I took too many pills. I wasn't trying to kill myself. It was all just a massive cry for help. In the end, my counsellor advised my family to withdraw their support. I'd wanted everyone to stop hassling me for so long. But once the calls stopped, I felt alone, scared.
One morning, in February 2006, I woke up vomiting blood. I've never been so terrified. The hospital diagnosed Gastritis. I'd drunk so much that the lining of my stomach had become inflamed. Lying in a hospital bed yet again, the past few months flickered through my head like a film. I'd ruined one mate's hen night, attacked another mate, and put my family through sheer hell. And now I'd made myself vomit blood. Finally, the lightbulb went on in my head. Ping! I had a real problem. I was scared and the fear was enough to stop me drinking for four months. I started being honest with my counsellor, too. It wasn't easy. I had a few more lapses in the following months. But finally, I cracked it. I haven't had a drop since August 2006.
Jasmine moved back to England while I was getting treatment for my alcoholism. 'I'm so pleased you're sorting yourself out,' she smiled. 'I'm so sorry for everything,' I said. 'You're sorting yourself out now. That's what matters,' she insisted, giving me a hug. It was at the treatment centre that I met Paul Monaghan, 36, a fellow recovering alcoholic and, after we'd finished treatment, our friendship grew into something more. Of course, it crossed our minds that two addictive personalities together could be dangerous. But we were both determined that we'd changed for good. We moved in together two years ago, and we haven't looked back. Now, I'm working as a nutritional life skills worker in a hostel and Paul is a substance misuse worker. Our lives don't revolve around drink any more. Every day, I thank God for my lightbulb moment. It really brought me back from the brink.