The Daily Happy. . .

As I'm often as miserable as sin, I thought I'd start to stick up a daily video; yes indeedy, those two comments on J Mascis and co shellacking Just Like Heaven were grist to my groovy grinders...

I love music - indeed I write and record it occasionally - and it makes me happy; in fact I think my mental health would be enormously improved if I stopped listening to the bloody news all day (particularly evil Radio Five Live) and listened to more music.

Here then is track two of the Daily Happy collection...

It's by Looper (Belle and Sebastian fella) and it's called Up a Tree and is...

Silly boy. Not so bad though.

Well, I don't feel too bad after yesterday's escapades.

First to shine a sunny sunbeam on my mood is the fact that I'm getting on top of my eczema (if eczema it really be). I say I, but in accepting this My Skin Is Slightly Better Than It Was Award I would like to thank Mrs Cardiff Drunk, without whom etc.

I'm not hungover either and feel a certain strength from my success in stopping drinking yesterday. I'd always heard rumours and myths about this thing called will-power, but I never really believed in it.

Possibly, things are just getting better for me. Atypical! As Bill and Ted would have it.

I'm not abstinent yet, but my drinking is massively reduced from what it was in November. I'm working: no, I don't always enjoy it, I'm nervous about what will happen when the training ends and the actual work starts and I'd be lying if I said I skipped into work with rubber heels; but it's given me some routine, some non-pub social interaction and maybe even a bit of pride. I'm also getting more on top of other things in my life - I'm better around the house, I'm eating more regularly and healthily and I do get more exercise.

Oh yes, there are long miles yet to be covered and I don't know where they will lead me but I do not feel as if I have plummeted down to the bottom of the chasm again.

The silly part is that I've had a spliff this morning. I picked up a very small amount yesterday and my first act of the day was to smoke a one-skinner. It's not the end of the world but I'm going to try very hard not to get into that habit again.

I went through a phase - when I was last sober particularly - when I smoked an absolutely enormous amount of high-potency weed. It's something I used to enjoy when I was a student but it became part of the problem in the end. There was no real joy in it and paranoia wasn't ever very far away, it increased my isolation and removed my wish to do anything. I don't want to go back there again.

It also makes me lie. I haven't told Mrs CD what I've done and one of the reasons I do it so early in the morning when I do is that I want to be completely cleared up by the time she returns - of course, this evening I have to work so that's another need for a clear head.

So, I really ought to be doing stuff and that's not going to be helpful is it?

Cheers,

CD

On the seventh day God created Brain's bitter.

My six day sober ended today. I am determined not to allow wailing and gnashing of teeth to rule the day however.

I have been to The C, to see D, and once there partook of four pints of Brains Bitter. This started at around 1pm, it is now 8.41pm and I'm pleased to report that's where that particular bout of drinking ended. I'm rather astounded to be honest and, to a degree, proud of what I see as an achievement.

This despite the reflex action that pushed me into the shop to buy four cans of Guinness on the way home. They sit downstairs now, unloved and unquaffed.

I'd be a fool to myself (and when am I not), to see this as much of a good thing however. I really should have stayed off the pop. And, stopping is a chore - at least it feels like it now; and the day is not yet done and those cans are still there.

Nevertheless, I've still drunk substantially less than I have done on previous 'relapses' - less than half the usual in fact, so we'll look at positives here for once.

My skin continues to cause me great concern. I'm using a steroid cream and a simple moisturiser. The steroid thins the skin and, I'm sorry to say, I must have been over applying it to my hands, which are the worst victims of this bloody awful rash/eczema/whatever. They're permanently red and irritated in a self-consciousness inducing way. But last night I could see the blood through the skin, which is not good.

So, with the help of Mrs Cardiff Drunk, I gave myself a damn good moisturising, which calmed down the irritation after an initial bout of horrible stinging pain.

I think I'm going to have to go back to the doctor about this. If it's the Trazodone I'm going to have to stop taking the tablets because this is starting to get me down in quite a serious way.

The sleep too is odd. I've never dreamed much, or, rather as I gather we all dream, I've rarely remembered my dreams. This is something else though. It's out like a light into total darkness, Mrs CD calls it a coma, and I'm undisturbable, unshakable. Then, around eight hours later, pop! I'm awake, straight up and out of utter darkness. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it just seems a bit odd.

Well, I shall report how the rest of the day passes tomorrow. I'm nicely tired, but craving oblivion from the black stuff too - perhaps the best plan is to go to bed and take the blackout pills. I won't drink tomorrow because of work and the same on Tuesday and Wednesday.

Oh yeah. And the reason I HAD to go out today was to pick up some dope. Another piece of foolishness arranged in my cups.

Could be worse.

How be you?

If you spent it, thank you for your time.

CD.

So this is Sa'rday and what have you done?

For me, it's more a case of what haven't you done, which is drink.

That's six days sober, which is good going for me, and to make it to the end of Sa'day without chugging is good work for a Cardiff Drunk - all those football matches, all those pubs on the way home from work and that's what people do after work isn't it? Going for a pint? I never go for a pint though, maybe a gallon, usually substantially more.

But not today.

I'm in sobriety and I'm not sure what to do with it. I'm glad to be at work and not suffering withdrawals, but I think I'm still in the addicted phase - I feel uncomfortable without my beer; I'm not sure what to do with myself and even Dusty and the White Stripes can't save us now.

My mind's racing all the time. Spin, drizzle, crunch, grind, extrapolate, speculate, down and down, down and around then back to the top and off again. It's exhausting.

I can sleep though. I might take my new high dose of Trazodone tonight and that's going to be a big sleep (not The Big Sleep of course, which means death - I wonder if the owners of the Big Sleep hotels were aware of that when they so cheekily appropriated the great Raymond Chandler's words for their poxy executive hutches.)

I've done work, I've done cooking the dinner and now I'm petrified of boredom - there's a DVD to watch but I don't know if I can concentrate for that long; we shall see I suppose.

I have managed to finish a novel though (no, not writing one, reading.) That's a step in the right direction, a move up the long hill of, erm, happiness.

I've got this and this helps. But I dance around doing it. Think and think and think and think and prevaricate. I log on and check my emails and open up the dashboard, but then I'm off. The emails always include something from Brighteye, telling me the SOS forum has been updated, so off I go there. It's been a great help in fact to have Brighteye - what use it does I don't know, but being able to offer advice does give something of a sense of worth, however unjustified.

Then there's The Guardian to scoot through - usually in search of somewhere to chuck my tuppence in. Partly in promotion of this blog, to which I always leave a link (oh, such delusions I have of this blog.) Still, it's something I DO, and do (nearly) every day... As well as being the corner stone of my attempt on the world parenthesis record.

It's my spastic mind you see. I've been looking up Post Alcohol Withdrawal Syndrome and there may be an element of that to my meandering, but, although I don't really have the evidence of long-term sobriety to back it up I believe it's always there.

See it off sherbet, belt it one booze, piss on it the pop....

Every day in every way I'm getting hetter and hetter.

But, at least I'm not drunk.

I may be tomorrow, but I'm not today. Tomorrow, I'm due to go to The C to see someone, dangerously early, around noon - I maaaaaay try and negotiate the whole pub/social interaction thing without drinking, but we shall see, that's tomorrow and today I'm not drunk.

If you were listening, thank you.

CD.

A big week - hospitals, volunteering, work

I'm working tomorrow; a long day for me, 9am till 3.30pm. But, the prospect of the early start has helped me stay sober today and do some busy round the house stuff.

I've got a couple of big days this week. Wednesday I work in the evening, but also have to get myself to a hospital in north Cardiff for an assessment prior to entering the therapy programme there. This would normally follow an in-patient detox, but the doctor from the Community Addiction Unit (CAU) after hearing of my relatively successful self-detox has sent me along early doors.

I don't know quite what to expect from such an appointment but I'm not hugely keen on the idea of group therapy - one of the reasons I still kick against Alcoholics Anonymous (suggested by both my GP and the CAU doctor - the organisation's much mulled over religious aspects also give me pause for thought). I've been in group therapy before and lasted one session.

Oh, I was but a youngster then, and drunk in North London. I'd done my detox and went along to the group therapy with, I think, a pretty open mind about what was going to happen.

It was, to my mind, a disaster.

You'll have gathered that without six pints in me I'm pretty chary of talking to anyone I don't already know. I did manage to speak up given the opportunity but there were stronger personalities there who took over and, sad to recount, it became an alcoholic misery competition straight out of Monty Python's Four Yorkshiremen sketch.

"Well, I was drinking a bottle of whisky a day."

"A day! I'd got through that by lunch, then I was off to the pub till closing time."

"I didn't mention the vodka yet. And, the pubs never closed for me, I was king of the lock-in and a mate and me always used to buy four pints at last orders if they were shutting on time."

And so on and so on.

There's a serious point to this I think. I have (and I know this is pretty stupid) felt something of a lightweight and therefor, less deserving of serious help. Since my early 20s I haven't drunk spirits and even when I've realised I'm addicted and reached out for help I am drinking a relatively small amount - I know 8 - 10 pints a day is not inconsiderable, but I would guess of those who reach out for help it's probably nothing much to write home about.

I've also never reached that magical place for drinkers - rock bottom (Carreg Cennen is top rock, this is different).

This is usually due to the efforts of others. My parents have constantly come to my rescue and bailed me out like a drunken investment bank. Girlfriends too have cushioned my fall.

I'm not beyond attempting to manufacture super lows, but rather in relation to depression and other problems than the drinking (to which, of course, I always cling to and distance it from blame in my problems: "It was something else, not my mate booze, he's here to help.")

I've spoken to counsellors about this. I'm so keen that everyone should think I am OK, so insistent that nothing is wrong, so desperate to avoid causing upset that I wait until I'm close to disaster and suicide before I ask for help.

Anyhow. That's all by-the-by.

The day after the assessment, I'm due to start my volunteering with Journeys, which is a good and positive thing. I'm hoping the work will be challenging and allow me to write - they're keen on the fact that I used to be a journalist - but I'm happy to stuff envelopes, type and make the tea to be honest.

Well, I shall no doubt let you know how it all goes.

Take it easy out there and be sure to wrap up warm now.

Diolch yn fawr, the CD.

A man walks into a bar... And out again and into a car!

Mrs Cardiff Drunk and I went out yesterday. Off in the car to West Wales to see a friend of hers - beyond Swansea! There be dragons.

We did a lovely walk around Careg Cennen. If you ever find yourself in the farlands, yes, even beyond Swansea, then do go and have a look, it's a real spectacular and in yesterday's sunny mistiness looked straight out of a fairy tale as the sun started to set behind it.

I worry. That's my job. And I am not a very sociable fellow (although I can't say that I like my own company either, although I hope this will improve). So, I worried about travelling, I worried about the country lanes freezing, I worried about being in company, I worried about going to the pub for a meal, I worried about the dragons.

And, guess what?

Nothing went wrong. Nothing happened. No dragons fell from the sky, no-one acted the loon and disturbed my hair-trigger equilibrium. A splendid time was had by all.

And, I didn't drink. I didn't make a big deal of it, just decided I wasn't going to drink and said I'd do the driving. I'm greatly assisted in this traditional aid to sobriety by my worrying - I'm an awful passenger and fuss awfully over Mrs CD when she drives.

I must admit it was tough to stay sober in company, but that means today is the fifth day since I had a drink.

And, was it so hard? No, not so bad. A little physical discomfort but nothing I couldn't handle and with my faithful friend Trazodone guaranteeing sleepy-bye-bye time once I got home.

I like driving. I like anything that can completely fill my brain and stop it wandering and with The White Album to speed us on our way it was all rather jolly.

Toodle pip.

Cardiff Drunk.

D'OH!

Among those silly resolutions was, write blog every day.

What did I not do on January 1?

Write blog.

D'oh!

First the sports then more from Cardiff Drunk...