Bottle for the battle

As I sit here a couple days before embarking on a challenge to improve my health and well being through diet and exercise, I can feel a nervous energy that takes me back. About 8 and a half years back, to be exact. Boy, time flies. I've decided to tell the tale in the hopes of clearing up people's misconceptions and boosting my confidence - my bottle, if you will - for the battle ahead.

It's January 15th 2007. My years and years of heavy and consistent drinking have caught up on me big time and I have decided it is time to clean up my act. I am terrified that I won't be able to but excited about the possibility that I will. I started drinking alcohol at age 15. I can tell you the date and everything. February 25th, 2000. The wedding of my aunt/second mom Ingrid to her husband Tom. I blame them. Kidding! I had a few vodka and orange juices that night and I was enthralled by the effect. Soon enough it become an each weekend tradition. The naivety and innocence of it is still so fresh in my mind that even now I can understand why I fell for it so hard, so fast. Nights listening to Champagne Supernova and other Oasis classics with Paul Dalton in my Mum's living room, literally lying on the ground and watching the room spin. It was fun. But I don't do moderation, I only do excess. With that in mind, inside a year I was already hearing from people close to me - my Mum, Paul - that my drinking was problematic. I was undeterred though. There's little more stubborn headed in this world than a 16 year old when you're trying to tell him not to do something. 

June 29th 2001 my father took his last breath and passed into the next life. Truth be told it was a merciful end - his personality and his spirit left his body behind when he fell down that flight of stairs in 1998 - but I can't honestly tell you that it softened the blow. I was devastated. You know the feeling of sitting in the airport, at the gate, just twiddling your thumbs, waiting? That's kind of what those three years after Dessie's accident were like for me, in hindsight. I didn't want my Dad to die but he was gone once his head hit those marble steps and fractured his skull. I spent three years at the gate awaiting his funeral. Anyone who has lost someone after a long battle with ill health will speak of the trauma endured watching them suffer. I was left with almost no memories of my Dad before his accident, so powerful and traumatic were the images of who he became afterwards. 

So while there was never a conscious decision to start drinking like a fish upon his passing, it seems very clear to me that the discomfort and pain the alcohol masked was about him. And once I start down a road, it's very difficult to stop me. From the day of his funeral until the day I stopped drinking in January 2007, there were less than 10 days that I did not get drunk. It's not a statement I put out to be dramatic, it just is the truth and I think more than anything else, that bare fact highlights why I felt the need to take the drastic action I did. To give you the full context, that is 10 days out of 2,025 where I wasn't drunk. So I was drunk about 2,015 days over that period. That's a lot of days.

When I stopped drinking, I did so with the help of the AA. I was on the way to the pub and I blew a tyre, and they insisted on towing me home rather than the pub, you see. Ok, not that AA. Alcoholics Anonymous was a wonderful thing for me. I will be forever grateful for the positivity, the support, the love and above all else the understanding I got there. Those first 6 months when I got sober and my head got clear are genuinely the six best months of my entire life before I met my wife. I grew up more in that time than probably a decade prior. I purchased my first home, moved up the ladder in work, got in good physical shape and started meeting women, something I'd forever struggled to do. 

This is where the story gets complicated, and it's kind of why I decided to write this blog. I am nothing if not extroverted when it comes to expressing my personality. As such there was probably not a person I knew who didn't know I was an 'alcoholic'. The difficulty with that term and indeed the AA in general is that it allows your relationship with alcohol to define who you are. I found that after a certain period of time, living a life where my primary purpose was not to drink alcohol was almost as restrictive and problematic as living a life where my primary purpose was to drink alcohol. 

In 2007 I had started seeing a cognitive behavioural therapist, a wonderful woman named Tina who to this day probably doesn't fully understand how much she helped me get to grips with my life during a very, very foggy period. My thinking was cluttered and muddied, the work we did cleared it all up. In 2009, she was the person who broached the topic that had run through my mind for about the prior 6 months. What if I'm not an alcoholic? What if there's no such thing? What if excessive use of alcohol is a symptom of my personality, and it can be controlled? What if I don't have to define myself by what I do or don't do with this here liquid? I will say that when she mentioned it, I think the possibility of my drinking again was a distant possibility as opposed to something she thought I may do in the short term. But I had to know. I had to know can I drink alcohol and take it or leave it like some people, or do I have to drink every day of the week, once it starts?

I put six kopparberg mixed fruit down my gullet on May 24th 2009, celebrating my 25th birthday. 855 days had passed since I had last consumed alcohol. And guess what? The world kept spinning and my life kept going. Nothing really changed. Truth be told, the summer of 2009 is a terrific memory for me. It is the one and only period in my life where I drank pretty much like anyone else. I would go out on the weekend, get pissed, act silly, wake up feeling like garbage, but just crack on with my life. It was, after all that analysing, fretting, worrying and debating, really that simple. Once I stopped telling myself I was an alcoholic I was able to regain power over booze. And I had a blast that summer. Although at age 25 I think I was still the old man in Tamango most weekends.

Which brings me to now. I very, very, very rarely drink. I had half a kopparberg last night with dinner on our last night away. That's, I think, the only drink I've had since Lanzarote last October. I can tell people in my life often wonder why that is. I can also tell there are those who fear that maybe there's something dark behind it, related to the problems I had when I was younger. I'm here to tell you nothing could be further from the truth. When I met MT everything changed. First of all, it coincided with my hangovers getting substantially worse. I don't know if the fact I had so long on the dry impacted it or it was simply the aging process, but my ability to function the day after drinking just about evaporated over that 12 month period. MT didn't, and doesn't, drink alcohol - she just never has. When you're living with and married to someone who doesn't drink alcohol, and your hangovers are absolutely obscene, your motivation to get drunk is very, very low. I genuinely will get a hangover off a drink and a half. Bear in mind my well documented health problems of the past few years as well. The reality is I am a 31 year old man and my entire world revolves around the two beautiful girls who I live with. When I have a couple drinks I am no use to them the next day. I hate that. Really, genuinely loathe it. I feel like I've wasted a day of my life and there's too. I spent enough years of my life hammered and hungover. It just doesn't appeal to me that much anymore. I've nothing against it and definitely no problem with anyone else who loves it. But it's just not something I have much of an appetite for anymore.

The trouble with the curve(s)

There are few more universal struggles than the one about body shape. I use the term body shape because the word 'weight' doesn't really tell the story. People have insecurities about their bodies in every which way - too skinny, too fat, big hips, big thighs, small shoulders, small breasts, big tummy, soft tummy, big bum, small bum. A hairdresser once told me that everyone who came in and had naturally curly hair wished it was straight, while everyone with naturally straight hair wished they had curls. We are never happy. It's the human condition. It is armed with the knowledge that I, just like anyone else, am never going to be 100% happy with my appearance (I mean, have you seen my nose?) that I try and take a gentle approach to body shape and not obsess over it which is easy to do, particularly in modern society where Heat & Closer loom from magazine shelves telling women what to look like, and leading men have herculean physiques like that of Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson. The message is simple folks - if you don't look like them, you're not up to scratch. 

Well fuck that. Look, this is my blog so let me tell you one thing to start - I am never going to look like a movie star. James Corden maybe, I suppose. But not a leading man anyway. I'm fine with this. Truthfully it's not massively important to me. My body shape has yo yo'd a lot in the past decade but I feel at a crossroads right now. Food is a funny topic for me. It's never a problem until it is. Growing up, I remember comfort eating from a very very young age. Even at age ten I vividly remember stopping on my way home to pick up 2 packs of sherbert cola for 10p each. Note - 2 packs, not one. Nothing in moderation except moderation, that's me. I was heavy throughout my teens - I don't know a figure because I never stopped on a weighing scales until I was 18 - and I always remember my Dad telling me 'if you keep eating the way you are, you'll never meet a girl'. Put bluntly he was right! Ironically it was in the aftermath of his death, when I was 17, that I began to take control of my body shape. I joined the gym and launched myself into it, going multiple times a week. I got into really good shape. I think I was about 14 stone when I finished up there in the summer of 2002. Probably sounds heavy but to me it was a low figure. I'd been about 16 stone when I started. Shortly after finishing there I moved to England for 18 months in late 2002. Out went the gym and in came the heavy, heavy drinking. It is safe to say this was the first time I learned about just how quickly your body shape can change. I was there about 5 months when my friend Ian - who wasn't afraid to be blunt - told me I'd put on 'AT LEAST two stone since I moved over'. I wasn't having this. Still, I had no scales so who knew? I didn't weigh myself again until 4 or 5 months later. Safe to say I was shocked beyond belief when I saw the scales read 17 stone. Holy shit. 3 stone in 8 months. That was a shocker. And it got worse. I went as heavy as 17.5 stone before moving home from England. 

I hovered around that mark for a couple years before I got my job in Carole Nash in 2006. Having worked in petrol stations for the prior 3 years with food all around me all day, just being in an office environment and not having the easy access to heavy foods all day knocked a stone off me. When I gave up booze early in 2007, the weight came flying off and I got back down to 14 stone. It's crucial to note that I was not always working hard in these times, going to the gym or watching what I ate. It was partially diet and exercise, but partially circumstance. If I was busy, I tended to eat less and even minor exercise - football with the lads, for example - would keep the weight off. Over the next few years after getting into a toxic relationship all my comfort eating tendencies came back in droves. Before I knew it was was 16 and a half stone again. Then in 2010, I discovered subway. Never has something so random gotten me in such good shape. I would go to subway every day on my lunch in work. Because I was having an 'indulgent' meal for my lunch, I had no real desire to have other take aways. Suddenly the weight just started falling off me. And I was encouraged so I ran with it. I joined the gym and I played football with the lads and I went for sprints after Liverpool defeats, using the anger to fuel me. By the end of 2010 I was down to 13 stone 4 pounds. This was and is the lowest I've ever seen on a scales. 

I had been hovering around 13 - 14 stone for 3 years until Carra came along. After all the health issues I tackled in 2011 I had been unable to do regular exercise for a long time but I was diligent enough with my diet to keep in that ballpark. But the past 18 months, everything has just fallen apart. Going part time in work immensely helped my health - I feel much better these days - and crucially, most importantly, the time I spend with Carra is a truly wonderful thing, I have cherished every moment. But comfort eating be damned, I have gotten FAT! I am just north of the 15 and a half stone mark. In times gone by, this wouldn't really bother me, but I'm finding it really stressful. 

Firstly, since my health problems in 2011 I've experienced back problems on and off on a consistent basis. But in the past 6 months my lower back has been pretty constantly in agony. I find carrying Carra - I know she's only 35 pounds but she is awkward as all hell - puts immense pressure on it and it's in agony. Make no mistake though, that extra 25 pounds goes straight around my stomach which adds to the pressure on my back. This bothers me for four reasons. The first is the pain. As I said it's not constant, but it's consistent and it's worsening. I can't carry her for 5 minutes without feeling it. That's a very challenging thing when you're the father of a 2 year old who wants her Dad to hold her. Secondly, I'm fucking horrendously unfit. I have always been unfit to an extent, even when I was playing football every week and going to the gym regularly. But I mean it's embarrassing. This week we have been partaking in many activities - cycling, walking, climbing, football etc. I get blown up in SECONDS. I cannot overstate this. I have the fitness of an 80 year old! Thirdly, it's embarrassing and hurts my pride that sometimes when I'll be playing with Carra, I have to tap out because I'm too tired or my back is hurting. I am 31. I am not an old man. I have no reason not to be in substantially better physical condition. And lastly - my father died aged 45 and grandfather aged 66, both of massive heart attacks. I know I am not at the stage where that is a concern, but it's not responsible for me to have all this added pressure on my heart. 

The reason I decided to write all this was to lay it all out in cold hard facts and make it real, understand it, see it in black and white. And I figured sharing it with all of you may take some of the shame out of your own 'battle of the bulge' - I think it's something we all go through - but I also thought it might shame me into action. I really genuinely do want to make changes. 

Doing so is hard, but truthfully, if it's important to me I can do it. Any young parent will tell you it's not as easy to get time to go to the gym as it is when you're single. It's hard for me when MT gets in the door at 7:30 to say 'dinner is in the microwave, I'll be back at 9:30'. It kind of feels like a mean spirited thing to do. But I know I need to. Improving my physical health is paramount to my quality of life, my mood, and the impact I have on my family. 

So it's going to be a multi pronged attack. Exercise is most important to me. If I want to get in better shape it's not going to happen by sitting on the couch starving myself. I need to get to the gym. I need to move. I need to walk, to lift, to cycle. Gym it is. When it comes to food, I need routine. When I don't have that. I snack. When I snack, it's an ugly scene. The odd cheeky burger when I drive past McD's, a sneaky ice cream at bedtime, a pack of jellies on my lunch etc etc. I have never been good with moderation so the only way I know to achieve this is just to not have things around. 

I'm not setting weight targets because really and truthfully, this isn't about how I look. It's about how I feel. But I will be blogging and updating on my progress. So watch this space!