elizabeth

posted on January 17, 2019 by elizabeth

Why I gave up alcohol for 100 days

I had my first drink when I was 15 years old. It was vodka and it was disgusting. It took a surprisingly short amount of time for that initial disgust to turn into love -a fine line between love and hate and all that.

I dabbled in alcopops, I never got the taste for beer and because my mother always says: ‘It takes a certain type of animal to drink whiskey’ I never tried it. Vodka was my jam.

By the time I was 18 I had a weekly social life based around how much drinking and partying I could fit in between Thursday and Sunday. I loved it. I never missed a weekend out and I never experienced a hangover that a packet of meanies and another night on the town couldn’t fix. By second year of university I was really hitting my stride with alcohol. I was always the one you could depend on for an impromptu night out and was the source of amusement and a model on ‘how not to do relationships / study’.

I pissed away my university education and barely scraped a 2:2 at the end of it but I chalked it up to life experience and got on with my life. Life as an adult didn’t curb my love affair with vodka . My hangovers got steadily worse but that didn’t stop our house being the epicentre of weekend carry outs. My friends joked that their hangovers were always worse when they went out with my husband and I (I would basically shame people into drinking more or they would be labelled ‘shit craic’) and as long as I was still able to rock up to work on Monday then I had no reason to evaluate my drinking.

When my kids came along the nights out stopped but the drinking didn’t. Friday night was my night and my reward for keeping my children alive all week and I definitely rewarded myself. I would force the whole family outdoors the next day so I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about being hungover and the kids were happy so I could still justify being able to drink a large amount on my Friday.

I was functioning, my kids were happy and healthy and life was pottering on nicely. Drink wasn’t the problem, I was exhausted from having two young children. So what if I was having a few too many drinks, it’s not like I was a raving alcoholic, right?

Now for the truth: I had my first depressive episode when I was 16-years-old. It’s no coincidence that these episodes coincided with my first flurries into alcohol.

I was a teenage girl who was crippled with insecurities and could only find my worth in the boys that deemed me attractive enough to take under their nose. Alcohol helped my confidence sore so I could spend the nights dancing and walking up to complete strangers in order for them to notice me.

Alcohol turned me into a loud, obnoxious, overly confident asshole that could take on the world and fuck anyone who got in my way.

Spoiler alert: it still does.

We all know it lowers inhibitions but that’s the thing about inhibitions: they’re there to protect you so it’s not exactly a good thing to throw them out the window with the appearance of a cocktail or ten. With the rise of the #metoo movement I sat and really looked at all those ‘funny’ times I was too drunk. Those times when I woke up with no memory of the night before or worse: with memories of boys that should have resulted in my reporting them to the police and I felt shame.

Isn’t that sad? I was the one that felt shame for what they did to me? At the time I buried it with more alcohol and more bad decisions. I was the one ready for a party and that was my role in my social circle. I was stuck in a cycle of drinking to suppress all the things I hated about myself and then feeling shame when I inevitably drank too much and made a tit out of myself.

Fun times.

I never had cause to really sit down and examine my drinking – even when my children came along. As I said earlier: as long as I was showing up in my life then I did not have to take a look at my choices.

Two year ago I had too much to drink at my mother’s Christmas party and the next morning I was filled with so much self-loathing I decided to quit booze. I was confident that this was the time I could wise up and start putting my mental health first. I lasted 28 days. My best friend died and after her funeral I spent the next 16 hours drinking heavily ‘in her honour’. Drink to the good times; that’s what I told myself. What utter bullshit.

Her death was all the excuse I needed to go back to drinking. Life was too short to deny myself a drink when I felt like it and as long as I’m not putting vodka on my cornflakes everything is cool, right?

Wrong.

My depression was coming and going but I could handle the episodes like a champ but now there was a new player at my mental health roulette table – anxiety. At my mother’s 70^th birthday party back in August, I drank until 6am. What followed was the worst hangover of my life. The anxiety was crippling me so badly that I genuinely thought I was having a heart attack. It took over a week for that feeling to subside and it still haunts me. It was the final nail in the coffin for my drinking.

Sitting on my bathroom floor trying to figure out if I needed to get sick or go to the hospital to get my heart checked out was a wake-up call when I realised that I literally didn’t need to feel like this again. I could choose, then and there, to never have another hangover again.

Sounds easy?

At first it was, my anxiety (which was not all caused by alcohol) had resulted in me not wanting to even go down the stairs so I mean that was easy enough… not ideal for a functioning adult though.

I went on Instagram and Pinterest and read about all those inspiring people who were now sober and how much their lives improved and I felt totally inspired but it wasn’t until I came across Catherine Gray’s book ‘The unexpected joy of being sober’ that I really began to believe I could do this.

If you’re doing dry January or are simply sober curious then I urge you to check this book out.

I got in contact with her and with her encouragement I decided to commit to 100 days alcohol free. Today is day 100 and to say that my relationship with alcohol has fundamentally changed wouldn’t do the experience justice.

Sure, it’s really made me take a look at my ‘grey area drinking’ where I wasn’t considered an alcoholic but my drinking was definitely problematic, but the most important change was my relationship with myself.

I really like who I am now. I can say that with kindness and sincerity. My worth is no longer tied to toxic and draining relationships and I put absolute value on my time meaning there’s not a chance in hell I’m wasting it on those who don’t deserve it.

I read recently that a person’s character is made up of the five people you spend most of your time with and that hit me hard. If you want to be inspired, spend time with inspiring people. If you want to be drained and unhappy, by all means continue spending time with the friendly neighbourhood narcissist (I know it’s not as easy as that, I’m simply making a point).

And that point is: I didn’t give up alcohol, I gained a life I am happy and proud to be a part of.

The decision affected every facet of my life: personal growth, professional ambition and relationships with my family.

I don’t know what the future holds when it comes to me and alcohol but I know for certain that it’s not going back to where it was. Ever.

That’s enough for me, for now.

posted on January 13, 2019 by elizabeth

Why I’m so done with waiting

In case you haven’t realised it yet: I’m, like, inspirational as f**k now 💋

Patience isn’t a virtue of mine, it never has been but I’ve decided to take this seemingly negative trait and use it for good.

I’m so sick of hearing phrases like: ‘give it time’ or ‘some day’.
For years I felt like I was always waiting for permission to get what I wanted and was fobbed off with promises of ‘some day’
(There’s a special place in hell for people who say that phrase to me).

Things work differently in my brain now. Unless there’s a justifiable reason not to do or achieve something then, as far as I’m concerned, it’s simply an excuse I’m hiding behind.

Over the last few months I’ve been really looking at my fears and insecurities. More often than not, simply calling them out into the open helps to diminish their hold on me.

It always helps to remind yourself: fear is a damn liar.

With all this in mind I’m calling bullshit on that old adage: “good things come to those who wait”.
F**k that, anyway.

As far as I’m concerned: “good things come to those who show up and work for what they want”.
As the good Lord and saviour Britney Spears told us: “You better work bitch.”

I have zero tolerance for ‘some day’, I’ve got shit to do.

posted on January 9, 2019 by elizabeth

The truth about Lego

Santa, we need to have a word. One word in fact: Lego.

What kind of heinous invention is this? Why would you bring so much of this into my children’s lives? Do you hate parents? Do you want to punish us for something we’ve done in a previous life?

Everywhere I turn it’s there. Under my bare feet, in my bed, embedded into carpet, rattling into my hoover, chewed up and pooped out by my dog… you get the picture.

You ‘blessed’ my kids with several sets on Christmas morning and although we spent two bloody days building the things it took less than 30 seconds for them to be dismantled. This was followed by multiple breakdowns because they couldn’t put it back the way it was and their horrible mother threw out the instructions and boxes. There’s no sound more soul-destroying than hearing the contents of the Lego box being tipped out onto the floor; and if I waited until my children actually pick up the damn stuff afterwards I would be 90.

My nails and spirit are broken because of these toys from hell.

If I have to feign interest at another collection of random bricks thrown together which – I’m told – are meant to be a spaceship I’m going to lose it and scream: IT’S SHIT! BUILD SOMETHING I CAN RECOGNISE!!!

I’ve spent the morning looking for one particular teeny tiny green piece which is apparently essential to the existence to the universe. If I don’t find it before school pick up my life won’t be worth living. I’m 90% sure the dog ate it.

If you’re reading this, head my advice: squash your child’s imagination and creativity before it’s too late. Don’t get into bed after a long day and find a small square of plastic lodged into your spine (a present left by my youngest).

I urge you to save yourself and kill their brain cells with television.

posted on January 7, 2019 by elizabeth

Learning to love Sunday

I used to hate Sunday; not in the ‘I have the fear of Monday’ kinda way I just got uneasy about them.

I could never put my finger on why but over the last few months I’ve been changing them in my mindset.

Spurred on by my friend I took part in the #last90days challenge which was to treat the last 90 days of the year like I’d treat the first 90 of a New Year.

Part of that was practising gratitude.
This small addition to my daily life has brought with it an abundance of positivity. Literally sitting down and finding the little things to be grateful for in that particular day has been a fantastic way to keep me present and not stuck ruminating over an argument I had a decade ago, cracking up because the words won’t get onto the paper or giving my husband a concussion with the toilet brush because he’s left a wet towel on the bed AGAIN.

Thirty seconds of thinking about something you’re thankful for can lift my mood or readjust a negative mindset and prevent me from getting a criminal record.

Today is Day 90 on my alcohol-free journey and I am grateful for a whole bunch of things but mostly it’s for not breaking this promise to myself.

It’s the last ten days and then I will sit down and write about the whole experience but one of the best parts of it has been my love for Sunday.

They’re no longer plagued with residual hangovers or anxiety; now they’re filled with trampoline park get-togethers, good food and feeling proud.

It’s a nice place to be.

posted on January 2, 2019 by elizabeth

Why ‘New Year, New Me’ can f**k off

So it’s New Year’s Day – also known as ‘What the hell am I doing with my life?’ Day – but before you commit to that restrictive diet that makes your sugar levels plummet and miserable how about you just don’t?

I mean, what’s the worst that can happen here?
Chances are you’ve spent the last month being indulgent with eating and drinking and you’re ready to juice everything in your cupboard in the hope of dropping a dress size before trying to fit into your work trousers in coming days.

Sorry, kid, it’s not happening – but so what?
Did you enjoy yourself? Did you make memories with your family and friends? I hope so.

I keep seeing posts about the New Year being the chance to write a whole new book, so why waste the first chapter being hungry and miserable just so you can give up a few weeks later?

Instead of re-evaluating your major life decisions, stripping your diet down to 500 calories a day or running a 10K just to pull a muscle four minutes into it, why don’t you spend the next few days eating some veggies, drinking some water and continue being the badass you were at 11:59pm?

I’m all for self-improvement and I’m constantly on the search for ways to do so but not at the cost of my happiness.

Let today be what it be: just another day.

Relax, you’re still awesome.

Happy New Year 💕

posted on September 16, 2018 by elizabeth

Finding my tribe

Being an adult is shite. One of the worst things is trying to make friends at my age. I’m rubbish at it. Seriously, as an introverted extrovert (it’s a thing, I promise) I genuinely break into a cold sweat at the thought of having to speak to new people or generally go anywhere that I’ve never been before. Music makes up a huge part of my life. I sing around the house to the point where my children ask me to ‘just stop that’ on regular points throughout the day. It’s easy to gauge my mood depending on what I’m listening to. If it’s Queen, you’re safe; if it’s Kanye West just run and hide.

Fun fact: WHEN I win the lottery my first splurge will be to put on my own production of Jesus Christ Superstar and cast myself as Judas just so I can sing ‘Heaven on their mind’ and people won’t be able to stop me. He gets the best songs and there’s no way I’d ever be able to reach *that* note in ‘Gethsemane’ – I don’t have the gravitas for Pilate. Yes, I’ve thought about this A LOT.

This paints me as someone who can actually sing – I can’t. I can hold a note, but anyone that’s heard me attempt karaoke can attest to the fact that I should probably just sit the hell down. I make up my own words and a key is really something to dabble in more than a necessity to the process. I’m currently in my office wailing along to ‘Eleanor Rigby’ as I type. You can’t stop me, family, my chair is against the door and my headphones are in so I can’t hear you shout. Suckas!

I’m getting off point: making friends.

I’ve always held the belief that I pretty much peaked at primary school and one of my favourite things to do there was sing in the choir. I got to sing and I also got to hide behind much better singers in the process (hooray!)

In my attempt to actually get out of the house and meet people – the worst – my mother suggested I join a local choir. I hadn’t sang publicly since primary school but I knew a few people that had already joined which made the whole process a lot easier.

It was easily the best decision I’ve made this year. For two hours a week I get to be no one else but me. It’s so much fun. It’s such a huge release to just sit and sing and laugh with a group of women who all just sing for the fun of it. It also helps that Kathy, who runs The Choir Studio, is basically the nicest human you’ll ever meet. It’s like Snow White runs a choir – seriously. She’s the only person who gets away with calling me ‘Lizzy’ simply because I don’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. It would be like hitting a puppy to disappoint this woman.

I’ve met so many lovely people through this and it’s such a huge lift to my mood each and every week. I wish I was one of those people who feel the fear and do it anyway, (there’s basically a list of things I’ve always wanted to do, and for one reason or another, I don’t) I doubt I ever will be BUT I’m very proud and relieved that I took the leap and went that first week.

The whole point of this post is to emphasise the fact that there’s no age limit on trying something new, especially if it’s something you previously loved.

You want to sing? Sing.

You want to learn how to kick someone’s ass and defend yourself? Right on.

You want to burlesque like a boss? Fucking do it.

You want to ride a unicycle without a seat? Phone a healthcare professional and take a long hard look at yourself.

Can you imagine what you could achieve if you weren’t afraid? I think Monday would be a pretty spectacular thing if that was the case.

I’m not there yet but I’m working on it and that’s wholeheartedly down to a bunch of women who like singing for the sake of it and I’m forever grateful.

posted on September 5, 2018 by elizabeth

Ready for the next stage

In a couple of weeks my youngest child starts nursery. This looming change hasn’t been bothering me much up until now. He’s more than ready for it and massively excited about being able to head off to school just like his big brother.

With this move into the next stage of his life, it also brings change for me too. I’ve been a stay-at-home mum for over two years and although I do love to complain about how much my kids wind me up I’m genuinely going to be a bit lost when he goes. Of course this completely kills all excuses not to be finishing the second book or working on my Masters, but I’m sure I will be able to think up other pitiful reasons to avoid my office – I am, after all, an expert procrastinator.

Ozzy gets a bit of a bad reputation on the blog, mostly because he’s just not as sensitive as Oliver was at his age, but this doesn’t make him the ‘bad’ one. He’s his own person.

He’s a mirror image of my husband (which can be irritating, especially when he and I are fighting) and although he’s not as gentle as Oliver, he’s much more affectionate. He’s got a laugh that resonates from a place of pure mischief, he’s strong-willed, he’s energetic, he’s chaos personified and he’s the reason I laugh throughout the day. He gets away with so much more than Oliver ever did because he’s the baby and because of his countless admissions to hospital due to f**king croup, every winter.

Within minutes of meeting him, his teacher – who taught Oliver before him – remarked: “Well, we’re dealing with a whole different character.” A summary I couldn’t have put better myself.

I love that they’re so different from each other; it’s what keeps things interesting around here.

There’s something else about Oscar that always makes him a little bit special to me. He has a sense of when I may be in need of a hug or just for someone to sit beside, something that no one else in the house picks up on (even my stalker dog). When he does find me I’m usually in the hallway, perched on the second last step of my stairs.

This is my spot.

It’s where I take a breather from the house and from life. I make telephone calls here, I have arguments here, I’ve cried here, laughed here and had kisses that make the world melt away. I’ve had the worst news of my life here and the best. I’ve fallen apart and put myself back together all whilst sitting on this step so it’s not hard to find me when I’ve slipped away from the chaos of playtime.

Ozzy, without fail, will simply sit beside me on this spot and give me a hug. But there’s sometimes, when he thinks I might need it, he’ll give my arm an extra squeeze and say: “There, that will fix your heart.” And then he runs off back to being a destructive three-year-old. For those few seconds he can read me better than someone ten times his age and I love him for it.

Now, if that’s not a pretty special kid then I don’t know what is.

He’s going to be fine and I’m going to be fine but I will miss this chapter of my life. Those few hours when it was just the two of us drove me crazy at times but I wouldn’t have missed them for the world.

He was my wild child and now I have to share him with the world.

Amy Cole has lost her mind is out now, get your copy today!

posted on June 21, 2018 by elizabeth

Surviving Imposter Syndrome

It’s been almost a month since the official launch date of Amy Cole has lost her mind. In this time I’ve had newspaper coverage, I’ve recorded a television interview on Novel Ideas and I’m set to appear on Radio Ulster at the end of the month. The launch night went better than I could have hoped, the reviews have been overwhelmingly positive and sales since then have been ticking along nicely.

I should be over the moon, right? Let’s face it, this is me we’re talking about – when am I ever happy?

Instead of just feeling warm in the glow of this accomplishment (one that I never thought I’d actually go through with) I can feel myself getting overwhelmed by fear of being found out as a total fraud.

Bye-bye depression, hello Imposter Syndrome! Never a dull moment in this brain.

If you Google this term it will come back with: Impostor syndrome (also known as impostor phenomenon, fraud syndrome or the impostor experience) is a psychological pattern in which people doubt their accomplishments and have a persistent, often internalized fear of being exposed as a “fraud”.

This was never more evident than when the producer at Novel Ideas asked me to say my name and my title. I could not think of the words, I had to ask her what she meant. The word she was looking for was ‘author’ but even as I sat there with an actual hardcopy of the book in my lap I ended up saying: “Eh author, I guess?”

What the hell is that about?

This isn’t a new thing. In everyday things I was always minimising who I was, what I did or tried to play things down. In jobs and my personal life I had this little niggling voice in my brain saying: “They’re going to find out you’re not who they think you are.”

There was a constant underlying fight or flight scenario in my head in case I was actually ‘found out’.

When Health Visitors called for the routine check-ups there was a ridiculous notion in my head that they would ask a question I couldn’t answer and this whole motherhood charade would come crashing down around me and my kids would be taken away. Now, if they called I would handily have their bags packed (I kid, calm down).

However, this pattern of thinking hit a road block after I went to get some photos taken for PR purposes. I had followed Jess Lowe’s work on weddings for years and when I saw she was branching out into business headshots I was delighted. I swooned over these lovely relaxed looking individuals with incredible, unique looking shots and it was a no-brainer to go with her.

This was late last year and I was pretty much a mess at this time so I wasn’t expecting a miracle. I was hideously anxious and never felt more ridiculous than when I was going to meet her and actually go through with this. I felt like I was wasting this woman’s time and she was going to figure out exactly that within about three minutes of meeting me.

Instead I spent over an hour with a genuinely nice person, who was kind to me. She put me at ease and gave me some advice that I repeated from that day right up until the launch. I mean, she put on Arcade Fire in the background while we worked so of course she’s awesome.

A simple sentence that she, no doubt, didn’t think of after she said it but it really changed things for me. And that magical advice was, I hear you ask?

“So what? Fake it till you make it.”

Nothing earth shattering, nothing I haven’t heard before but for some reason that sentence, on that day made me think: I can make a plan, figure out the rest as I go along and get this book done.

So I did.

I plodded along the next day, the day after that and so on until 25^th May where I stood in front of a room of people and thanked them for being at the launch of this book.

I faked it until I made it come true.

There may be a part of me that will panic at the thought of doing more promotion on Amy Cole but it certainly won’t stop me. I spent years letting fear stop me from doing so many things and I swore that would stop, it’s the only New Year’s resolution I hope to keep.

The point is: I hope that there’s someone reading this who can relate to this imposter syndrome but now you know that doesn’t have to stop you from doing each and every thing you want to with your life.

Take if from Jess: fake it till you make it and see what amazing things you’re capable of.

Photo Credit: Eric Cheung

posted on March 24, 2018 by elizabeth

Coping with an early miscarriage

In December 2013 I had a miscarriage. It wasn’t my only miscarriage, but it’s the one that really screwed me up. I was six weeks pregnant and I had her whole life planned out.
One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage, yet, I still don’t feel entitled to grieve for my child properly because it ended so early. It had been ingrained in me that because it was so early on it should be treated as ‘just one of those things’. It’s because of this mind-set that I tried to bounce back to normality and get on with things. That plan didn’t work out so well and I ended up taking a nosedive into depression.
I know I’m not alone in this.
Women are meant to be stoic and get on with their lives and pretend that it’s silly to grieve for something that was barely there. There’s a time limit that you can be upset for (usually until you stop bleeding) and then anything more than that you’re just being dramatic.
Don’t get me wrong, my family never made me feel like that – I did. I pushed myself to forget that it even happened and concentrate on my son that was here, or even just try again. Simple, right?
The problem was I had already fallen in love with my baby that was the size of an orange, decided her name and was already mentally redecorating the nursery for her. I couldn’t just switch it off and I resented the fact that I ‘had’ to.
It didn’t go away when I fell pregnant with Oscar and it hasn’t gone away nearly five years later.
I’m still angry.
I’m angry that I have nothing to remember this little life by. I don’t have a grave to visit, a scan photo to look at or even the positive pregnancy test as proof she existed, even for those six short weeks.
All I have is the dull ache in my heart that comes back when I remember sitting in the A&E department, bleeding, waiting to see a doctor.
If I don’t think about her, then it really would be like she never existed and I refuse to do that. It’s bad enough that I felt ashamed to grieve for something that was never meant to be, I won’t let the memory of those few weeks be forgotten.
I don’t want to be embarrassed about still thinking about her, I want to acknowledge that this shitty, shitty thing happened and remember that for those six weeks she existed. I won’t let myself forget the little life I had forged for her and I’ll listen to P!nk! ‘Beam me up’ and remember that grief is brutal but there’s no time limit or right way to do it.
I wish there had been words of comfort from a doctor, when it happened, or any type of counselling that could have helped me feel justified in my upset, but there was neither. I guess the point of this post is: miscarriage is horrible at any stage; if you’ve gone through it I’m sorry for your loss. You are not alone and it’s ok to remember your baby. Even if you’re lucky enough to go on and have a healthy pregnancy and give birth, it still doesn’t make your loss disappear or any less relevant. It happened, feel it.
Her name was Lily, she was my daughter and she always will be.

posted on March 13, 2018 by elizabeth

The Joys of Potty Training

This evening, my eldest son came into the kitchen looking forlorn. I asked him what was wrong and he said:

“Oscar threw a poo at me.”

And with that, I decided it was time to talk about potty training.

It should come as no surprise, to those who read this blog regularly, that this next parenting milestone has turned into a complete farce.

Some people reading this may feel that I should reconsider sharing the poo-flinging incident on the blog for fear it will come back to haunt him when he’s older. However, I feel that this could be a teachable moment. For example: should he irritate me in his teenage years I will be able to teach him that is not advisable by printing out this post and handing it out to his classmates.

I have spent months trying to convince him to start potty training, explaining that he needs to learn for when he starts nursery.

He didn’t care.

I’ve told him that he gets to wear super-cool pants.

He didn’t care.

I’ve told him he’ll get a treat, every time he uses the potty.

He thought about this for a little while and ultimately decided: he didn’t care.

The only person he will remotely be convinced by is his older brother. He wants to be just like him – to the point where he repeats his sentences straight after Oliver says them and pines after him at the window when he leaves for school.

Oliver has had some success with the treat angle (mostly because every time Oscar gets a treat I relent and give him one too). I have a feeling, by the end of this, I will have a kid out of nappies but two children bordering on the verge of Type-2 diabetes.

Back to this evening…

I went to check on the poopetrator and found him innocently sat on the potty, whilst the offending turd was sat on the living room floor. I asked him what happened and all I could gather from the guilty party was that: ‘Offer did it’.

‘Offer’ (Oliver) denies this and I’m inclined to believe the good one. Yes, I said it.

He didn’t even try to keep the pretence up for long, for fear of losing favour with his hero. Instead he cut his losses gave me a ‘sowee’ and went back to basically not giving a f**k about being in my good graces.

This child will be the death of me.

I was going to attempt to put together a handy guide on how to deal with potty training but, as you’ve probably gathered by now, I haven’t a damn clue.

If you want advice, ask Oliver – he seems to have life figured out at four-years-old.

Categories

Social

Tags