The Story of Oct Sober
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Which is not to say it was not a good idea, but it is notable that at the time in question I was drunk. It is also worth mentioning that it was not my idea, but merely one I to some extent hijacked and gave a catchy name to.
The plan was simple; not to drink during October, or, more appropriately, until the 28th, the Saturday upon which Halloween festivities were likely to occur.
For many, a month without alcohol would seem to be a trifling task and realistically I might well be one of them. It is not something I’ve struggled with in the past but it was always made much easier by a combination of poverty and social isolation. Living in London as I now do, I have the slender vestige of a social life and a world of decadent opportunities upon my doorstep. Additionally I have a miserable job to anaesthetise myself to. I reasoned however that if it were an easy task then I would simply be confirming a lack of problem with my drinking habits, while if it proved remotely difficult then there was all the more reason to be taking a break to reassess them.
“But why?” I hear you ask, as indeed I heard countless others ask during the period itself. Well it is perhaps best to start with why my friend chose to do so, as it was his idea and my involvement was at least in part an act of solidarity, albeit largely unwanted/unwarranted. As a successful artist, his own boss and someone who is socially in demand, his drinking was decidedly more frequent and involved than mine. Having been afforded the means and opportunity for a lengthy spell decadent indulgence, he had taken full advantage, as I have little doubt would I. His plan was to prove to himself he could actually go without drinking for the period in question and ultimately have a better relationship with alcohol.
My reasons were a little less noble. I was simply finding that getting drunk had become a largely unsatisfying practice and one that was costing me a lot of money. While in the past I could indulge largely without concern, my piffling wages mean that I can no longer engage my most familiar vice freely. As well as the funds that could be used more fruitfully there are the days lost to hangovers, not to mention nights lost to clichéed experience. While there is a good deal of magic to gleaned from a night spent in the pub talking with friends, it is most often a spark that lives and dies in that moment. It is rare that any great good comes of such discussion. Progressive thoughts or revelations are scarce and frequently forgotten and it’s more likely that you’ll experience a retread of familiar territory. Plus, as I approach 33 and having been shadowed with a recurring inebriate reputation for, realistically, over half that time, I think perhaps I’ve been drunk enough, that enough time has been invested in this manner. And so having been considering it perhaps wise to quit with a greater frequency of late, I was keen indeed when the opportunity for a trial run came along.
Day 1
Day one started a little later that it was officially supposed to. September 30th fell on a Friday and more specifically one upon which I had chosen to take a much needed mental health day. The weather was beautiful and I had no specific plans other than a lazy morning in bed and a languid stroll to sample the wares of a pseudo-artisanal hotdog vendor who, only being open weekdays until 6, was usually beyond my reach. During my stroll I discovered that not only was London Oktoberfest on that evening, my last day of inebriate freedom, but it was in fact being held in the park at the bottom of my road. Inevitably I found myself indulging in a couple of steins with a couple of friends and dancing to the amazingly and absurdly eclectic range of music, none of which had a remotely Bavarian flavour. The fun continued with drinks at home and being embroiled in the atmosphere I didn’t keep a suitably watchful eye on the clock to keep to a midnight deadline and in a further compromise afforded myself enough flexibility to finish my last beer before switching to water at around 1am. A couple of (slightly) more sober hours later I went to bed. I don’t recall the day itself being eventful but it did have the additional encouragement of a mild hangover.
Days 2-28
The urge to consume arrived quickly but not in the manner you might expect. I felt no great desire to drink but I was allured by a good many supermarket deals and the desire to purchase alcohol for later consumption at a bargainous price. This felt very much like cheating though and also an act of sabotage should I wish to consider an extended period of temperance later. I’m not sure if it was a simple act of psychological rebellion that led to this desire or if I was simply more alert generally and so more likely to notice. We’ll never know. Or care.
While I could recount the events of the month in more specific detail, this would then cease to be the story of OctSober and become instead “Some things Mike did in October” which, let’s be honest, would be no fun for anyone. OctSober was moreso about a network of broader experiences and acute social discoveries a few of which were made very early on. One such revelation was just how great a chasm of tolerance a couple of drinks can cause when engaging in conversation. While I was already fully aware of the frustration and discursive difficulty when encountering someone who is already pissed and you are sober, it was surprising to discovery that the same mechanism that lubricates conversation so magically if it’s engaged in with mutual enthusiasm can easily make the same experience a mildly irksome encounter with a perfectly nice person who doesn’t realize that their enthusiastic discussion, to stone cold sober ears, can sound a lot like self-absorbed yammering. (Thankfully this isn’t universal and I should reassure any among my known readership that you are delightful company regardless of your intake.)
Once again I am unsure if this is an issue arising from a state of acute clarity, or irritation arising from placing myself unnecessarily in a state of acute clarity. Also I am unaware if this knowledge has any real value. I’m renowned for being pretty socially awkward myself; one particular friend has put forward the, hopefully comedic, hypothesis that I am socially autistic so I am really in no position to judge the conversatory capacity of others and given that I would have previously posited that I am a more charming, fluid and engaging character after a few drinks myself, the realisation that there’s a fair chance I am in fact a delusional blabbering asshole is a little disheartening.
Another discovery is that pubs and bars have pretty much no value or appeal unless you are drinking alcohol. (Or if you’re having a meal, but ignore that for now.) While this may not be the case worldwide, I assume LA with it’s rehab culture has a more vibrant selection of entertaining establishments, but in the UK you are simply likely to encounter the surly disdain, ridicule or flat-out confusion of a bartender you’d have no desire to spend time with in any other situation, while ordering something you don’t actually want.
Every now and then, I like a Coke. It has it’s place in moderation, if you’re prepared to momentarily put aside it’s many heinous corporate activities. In a bar though after say, two, I’ve pretty much had enough. Most bloating sugar-waters have a similar saturation point whereby the satisfaction they provide is inversely proportional to the quantity consumed. This category of beverage forms the majority of your options as a non-drinker. Alternatively you can opt for a cordial/soda water mix or really push the boat out and go with water. The process of repeatedly ordering any of these drinks, often at prices you resent, leads one to question “What the fuck am I doing here? Why am I choosing to spend time and money doing this?” At least if you were drunk you’d have an excuse for such clouded judgement.
As you may have gathered from the tone thus far OctSober was not an overtly positive experience for me. I didn’t wake up one morning feeling healthier, I did not feel more cheerful or capable. I still felt tired most of the time which annoyed me. I would occasionally get headaches, which I resented, having not taking the time to cause them. I had forgotten that they were just something that happens, that they don’t have to be earned and so their resurfacing naturally I found unsettling. I did not find myself with more money come the end of the month and in fact spent about half the month broke, scuppering any delusion I may have had about not drinking being especially fiscally beneficial. While it was easier getting up in the morning and getting to work on time my tedious job was if anything more of a depressing chore with the full gamut of my faculties. I have stated elsewhere previously that if your job is unchallenging, poorly paid and you are forced to work with overpaid incompetents you can easily find yourself provided with 8 hours a day to mull over where your life went wrong or to ponder all the other things you could be doing or are better suited for. In such a situation a hangover can be a useful coping mechanism. The debilitation makes those little tasks that much harder that you think less and the residual blunting of your senses makes the day go quicker. Additionally you feel the value ratio between your effort and aptitudes and your salary is better balanced, your shitty wage matches up with your apathetic trudge toward 5 o’clock. And on top of all this, and perhaps worst of all, I cannot comfortably dance when sober. I don’t have to wasted to get the movement going but I need a little something.
Under such circumstances the question of why I had chosen to stop drinking for a month (Which was asked pretty relentlessly, because the UK is a largely alcoholic country, where drinking accompanies pretty much all events and past-times. Same goes for the London art world) became harder to answer. My initial intentions began to fade in the face of the increasing encroachment of a different answer; “Because I’m a fucking idiot” Having said that, I didn’t really miss it all that much. I was annoyed when the thought of a nice Vietnamese meal strayed into how nice a beer would go with it and at that moment was ruined. I was sorely tempted on the payday Friday, the day before the end, to treat myself to a couple of beers after a particularly shitty week. I certainly missed dancing and small indulgences with good whiskey, but I didn’t really miss getting or being drunk. This certainly did not mean I was relishing sobriety though.
So, what did I get out of it, aside from a sensation of foolish masochism. Well I did feel a greater clarity, a more acute awareness. Sadly this meant primarily that I became more acutely aware of a myriad of dissatisfactions and subsequently that I might have a half-decent reason to spend my free-time ingesting intoxicating poisons. However I have long held the belief that dissatisfaction can be useful, that it is the driving force of change and as such the painful proximity to cold reality is one of the few positive things I am taking away from the experience. Another was the conviction that I would avoid Friday night drinking as there came a Saturday after a party where ordinarily I might have struggled to emerge from my bed where I instead got my shit together and went to the last day of an excellent Mike Kelley show at Gagosian. Actually the Friday night in question was a party related to the Frieze Art Fair which I had chosen not to attended after seeing the huge queue to get in and deciding that I had no desire to stand in line for an hour, just to squeeze into a grossly overcrowded pool hall and drink Coke, while feeling like an idiot for denying myself my due of debauchery. I went for a quiet dinner round the corner instead. Anyway, it has since struck me that if I spend all week at a job I hate, cut loose on Friday night and spend my Saturday languishing in a dark room, I am an idiot who is wasting what little time he can call his own.
(Incidentally, speaking of hangovers, the first couple after my hiatus where grotesquely cumbersome. Obviously I’m a little bit more in the swing of things again now, but they were a reminder of the time when hangovers were a form of deterrent and made me wonder if that’s how normal, sensible people feel after over-indulging and why they complain so much.)
I am still uncertain as to how I feel about the whole business. I certainly feel there is room enough in my life to accommodate a few beers or glasses of wine here and there and the occasional heavy night, but it’s hard to put the prospect out of your mind that your life is stagnating, regardless of your inebriation. Part of me feels like I should be worrying less and doing what I can to make my life enjoyable/tolerable while another is suggesting I need to get my act together and enact some positive changes. Neither part however really seems to know what the fuck I should be doing. Nor do I. Suggestions welcome.
