Doing pilates in Sweaty Betty does not imply you are not an alcoholic

 When I was 37, and the mother of an adorable four year old whose life revolved around Peppa Pig, pesto pasta and soft play, a psychologist told me I had ‘alcohol use disorder’.

I liked the sound of this, because it seemed medical and treatable and not my fault, like some sort of virus I had picked up by accident. Most of all, I liked the term because it didn’t sound as shameful as the word ‘alcoholic’.

In contrast, ‘alcohol use disorder’ was a diagnosis I could get behind. With a couple of weeks off the grog, and a few intensive therapy sessions thrown in for good measure, I would almost certainly become the kind of person who could have just one glass of red wine with dinner. Or maybe two. Instead of three or four or 15 and actually, forget about dinner, I’d rather just crack on and open another bottle.

That was the kind of person I was when I found myself opening up to this psychologist at a rehab in central London — a sober friend had taken me there after it became clear my attempts to ‘cut down on my drinking’ were turning out to be about as successful as a Rishi Sunak election campaign.

I nodded tearfully at the diagnosis and imagined a life where I drank normally like other mums I knew, as opposed to like Keith Richards in 1979. Then the psychologist said something that left me wanting to reach for a nice chilled glass of rose. Or maybe even a bottle of it.

‘With situations like yours,’ he said, softly, ‘there are really only two options available: you can either stay in active addiction, or go into recovery from it.’

My mouth dropped to the floor. Me, an addict? But I did reformer pilates twice a week!

He nodded along, and explained to me that ‘alcohol use disorder’ was really just the medical term for alcoholism. I stormed off in fury, but a dreadful night of ‘binge drinking’ a few months later led me back to the rehab, where I decided to dump the denial and try to get better.

That was almost seven years ago, and taking it one day at a time, I haven’t had a drink since.

I was reminded of that awful moment in my life when I read reports about the 57 per cent rise in women ‘binge drinking’ over the last three years. While it has stayed steady in men, the number of women admitting periods of ‘heavy episodic drinking’ has gone from 13.8 per cent to 21.7 per cent.

A spokesman for Alcohol Change UK described the results of the World Health Organization survey as ‘heartbreaking’. But it is the lily-livered language used to describe problem drinking that I find most troubling.

‘Heavy episodic drinking’ is a new euphemism for unhealthy boozing, and it’s exactly the kind of phrase I would have used to try to justify my behaviour back when I would routinely drink two bottles of wine a night (or six or seven pints of beer if I fancied a break).

‘I’m not an alcoholic,’ I would have told myself, as I found my arm opening the fridge and reaching for another bottle. ‘I just have a tendency to go through periods of heavy episodic drinking when I’m stressed.’

Back then, I described myself as a ‘binge drinker’ and, by all definitions, that was exactly what I was — I would drink large volumes of booze over a short space of time, with the sole intention of reaching oblivion. But I didn’t wake up and crave a drink. In fact, I often woke up feeling intense shame and vowing never to drink again. So I couldn’t be an alcoholic, right?

‘I don’t drink during the day!’ I pleaded to the psychologist in rehab.

‘Not yet,’ he replied, before explaining that alcoholism was a lift going down — you could choose to get off at any floor you liked, but if you got back on, you would go lower.

In the end, I realised that I might as well be drinking all day, given that I was thinking about drinking all day — either obsessing about what I might have done in blackout the night before, or planning the moment I put my daughter to bed and could have my next cold glass of wine. I thought all the rules I had about alcohol — never before 7pm, not in front of my child, no spirits — meant that I was in control.

But actually, they were proof that alcohol was controlling me. I had taken those two words — ‘binge drinker’ — and I had worn them like armour to protect myself from the horrifying, judgemental thought that I could have anything in common with an old man on a park bench drinking out of a paper bag.

But after just a few days in rehab, I realised that a lot of us focus on this stereotype in an effort to avoid the fact that alcoholism has many different looks. Contrary to popular belief, it wears Sweaty Betty leggings, and does reformer pilates, too.

And this is why my heart sinks when I read phrases such as ‘binge drinking’. Because while there are undoubtedly plenty of people who can indulge in a spot of ‘heavy episodic drinking’ from time to time without it damaging their bodies or minds, there are also plenty who will use these phrases as an excuse to delay the inevitable: accepting that, for them, it is far easier not to drink than to ‘just’ have one or two.

In the end, ‘alcoholism’ is only a word, and I am so lucky I refused to die on a hill over it.

But people do, they really do, and in very large numbers. They go to their graves trying to prove that they aren’t an alcoholic. They spend their entire lives in fear of the judgement of others, never realising that the worst judgement of all is the one your own head creates when you repeatedly find you are unable to drink ‘normally’.

So call it binge drinking if you want. Call it alcohol use disorder if that works for you. Just know that a life without booze is possible — and, even better than that, it’s unspeakably beautiful.

If Sir Keir Starmer wins next week, we will enter a new era. That of the ‘First Lady’ who refuses to define herself as a First Lady. So far, Lady Starmer — or Victoria, as she is known to her friends — has done a stellar job of declining to be arm candy during this election campaign. 

Indeed, if her rare public appearances are anything to go by, then we should only expect Victoria to come out for the King (as she did on Tuesday night, at a state banquet for the Emperor and Empress of Japan), and the Queen (aka Taylor Swift, who she went to see at Wembley).

‘Tis the season to indulge in a spot of FOMO. After watching everyone at Royal Ascot and Taylor Swift last week, the next obstacle for my Instagram envy is Wimbledon, which begins on Monday. 

The one thing I don’t feel I’m missing out on? Glastonbury, given that the only time I went, way back in 2009 when I was 28, I stayed awake for three days and ended up with viral conjunctivitis. Now that’s one event I’m more than happy to watch on the telly, from the comfort of my own home.

Quite a few people are worried about J Lo, and the state of her relationship with Ben Affleck. I’m more worried that she’s taken to flying economy, as witnessed this week when she travelled through Europe without her private jet. 

According to those in the know, she is trying to give off a more ‘down-to-earth’ image, but as someone who can only afford to fly cramped in cattle class, I’m not fooled. The most grounded thing to do at 35,000 feet? Whoop in delight at the prospect of being able to turn left!

Ever wondered how to get a bikini body almost instantly? Well never fear, because I have the answer. First, get a bikini. Secondly, put it on your body. And that’s it: instant bikini body!

Will Victoria be the first invisible First Lady?

If Sir Keir Starmer wins next week, we will enter a new era. That of the ‘First Lady’ who refuses to define herself as a First Lady. So far, Lady Starmer — or Victoria, as she is known to her friends — has done a stellar job of declining to be arm candy during this election campaign. 

Indeed, if her rare public appearances are anything to go by, then we should only expect Victoria to come out for the King — as she did on Tuesday night, at a state banquet for the Emperor and Empress of Japan — and the Queen, aka Taylor Swift, who she went to see at Wembley.

Quite a few people are worried about J Lo, and the state of her relationship with Ben Affleck. I’m more worried that she’s taken to flying economy, as witnessed this week when she travelled through Europe without her private jet. 

According to those in the know, she is trying to give off a more ‘down-to-earth’ image, but as someone who can only afford to fly cramped in cattle class, I’m not fooled. The most grounded thing to do at 35,000ft? Whoop in delight at the prospect of being able to turn left! 

No FOMO over Glasto 

‘Tis the season to indulge in a spot of FOMO. After watching everyone at Royal Ascot and Taylor Swift last week, the next obstacle for my Instagram envy is Wimbledon, which begins on Monday. 

The one thing I don’t feel I’m missing out on? Glastonbury, given that the only time I went, way back in 2009 when I was 28, I stayed awake for three days and ended up with viral conjunctivitis. Now that’s one event I’m more than happy to watch on the telly, from the comfort of my own home.

Confidence clinic 

Ever wondered how to get a bikini body almost instantly? Well never fear, because I have the answer. First, get a bikini. Secondly, put it on your body. And that’s it: instant bikini body!