by Marian Keyes
My depression got blacker and bleaker, my suicidal thoughts got more and more graphic. I used to pray to a God that I didn't believe in that I wouldn't wake up in the morning. And when I did wake, it was as though the jaws of hell had opened.
Throughout this time, I was desperately grateful for alcohol. It seemed like the only good thing in my life, all that stood between me and total misery. I never made the connection that I was miserable because of alcohol.
Then one afternoon, in September 1993, two weeks after I'd turned thirty, when I should have been at work, but instead was at home waiting out the aftermath of yet another binge, killing time until the shaking, nausea and terror had passed, I read a short story in a magazine. It was funny and quirky and something in me responded, "I'd like to do that." (People often ask me who wrote the short story, but I don't know, I didn't keep it. I had no clue that a life-altering shift was taking place.)
It was very out-of-character for me to feel like doing anything other than drinking, but I hunted around my bare little flat, found an A4 notepad and a pen, then sat down and without stopping from start to finish, wrote a short story. (A sweet little piece about an angel who loses a bet and comes to Earth. I was ridiculously proud of it.)
I'd had no idea that I wanted to write, but in retrospect, the timing made sense: my life had become reduced to almost nothing, it was as if I was standing on a piece of land that was getting smaller and smaller, eroded by alcohol, and the crisis had cracked open something buried deep inside me in a last-ditch attempt to stop me disappearing entirely. (Not a route I would recommend for any aspiring writers, but we get what we get.)
Over the next four months I wrote four more short stories, all of them a reflection of my state of mind at the time. One was about a woman who has died and hasn't yet realized; she wanders around in her own life wondering why no one can see her. Another was about a credit card who falls in love with his owner.
I was thrilled with them. I wasn't one of those secretive writers who would die if anyone stumbled across their work—I was practically stopping strangers in the street and pressing my pages on them.
But even the writing wasn't enough to stop the drinking, and in January 1994, I crashed and burned quite spectacularly. After a suicide attempt I ended up in a rehabilitation center in Ireland, being treated for chronic alcoholism.
A case of mistaken identity, I thought. No way was I an alcoholic. Although appalled at the turn my "life" had taken, I must admit I was almost excited at the thought of seeing lots of alcoholics up close in captivity. And there was always the chance there might be a famous face or two.
But rehab was nothing like I expected; after being there for about ten days, the cogs suddenly clicked into place and I was nearly blinded by what I saw. Looking back over my life, it was clear that every bad thing in it had been a result of alcohol abuse, and every time I had had a drink it had lit an inferno which had annihilated all in its path. The game was up and the only way forward was a life without alcohol. How had this happened? To me? How would I survive? The grief was intense. It was like the end of a huge passionate love affair and I raged against it.
And then, six weeks later, I was out. The sun was too bright, noises were too loud, even getting on a bus was frightening. It was as if I was doing everything for the first time and I felt as vulnerable and as raw as a newborn.
But, amazingly I didn't want to drink. The appalling compulsion
which used to sweep over me and frogmarch me into the off-license had gone. And there was something else—a tiny glimmer of pride (a first-time visitor in my life). I'd had enough of being other people 's unpaid floor show.
I returned to London, where thanks to the extreme generosity of my boss and my colleagues, I still had a job. I also had my flat, and being able to slot back into those familiar things was a big help. All my energy was needed to get through a normal day. I was told in the treatment center that when I had bonded with alcohol in my teens, my emotional development had stopped. It meant that every time I had a disappointment or a row with someone, I didn't live through it and mature from the experience; instead I sidestepped it, either by drinking immediately or reminding myself that I'd be able to drink at some later stage.
Now there was no escape, for the first time ever I was having to live life on life 's terms. I went to twelve-step meetings, I ate a lot of chocolate, I disappeared into shopping and sleep and Jacqueline Susann novels, but I didn't drink.
And I began writing again. I'd been terrified that I wouldn't be able to write if I wasn't drinking. (That whole tormented artist thing, I'd really liked that version of myself.) But no alcohol was required. (Someone at a meeting promised me it was perfectly possible to still be a tormented artist without the drink.)
Full of positivity I decided I'd send my short stories off to a small Irish publisher, accompanied by a letter saying I'd started work on a novel. However, there was no novel—they took way too long to write, I'd decided. The instant gratification of short stories was far more me. But the publishers wrote back; they wanted to see my alleged novel.
I was mortified. In a blind panic, I started to write. I had no plot or character, all I had was the desire to avoid being caught out in a lie. In under a week, I managed four chapters, and still trying to catch my breath, posted them off. A couple of weeks later they replied—they were offering me a three-book deal.
Six months earlier I'd tried to kill myself; now I had a publishing deal. How weird was that? For the first time ever I had to celebrate without alcohol. (I bought a pair of shoes instead. Nearly as enjoyable.)
But fantasies of being able to waltz out of my day job and into a life of glamour were unfounded—my advance was an un-lifealtering six hundred quid a book, so I fitted my writing around work, writing morning and evening.
In September 1995 my first novel (Watermelon) was published in Ireland and did very well. People talked about how funny it was. Even about sad things. In fact, especially about the sad things.
But I also got a couple of bad reviews, which totally knocked me off balance. I had no coping mechanisms for such public humiliation and immediately—like every time I got upset—I was desperate to drink. But I didn't. Instead I went to bed with two slices of Marks & Spencer's chocolate cheesecake and waited for the shame to pass. (A solution which works well to this day.)
In the meantime I'd started work on my second novel, a cheery little comedy about depression.
And I'd met a man. A very different kind of man from the ones I'd pursued while I was drinking. Even now I'm afraid to talk about how great he is in case I get nobbled by The Curse of the Smug Girl.
Then in September 1996, things moved up several gears. One af ternoon I was at work, trying to balance the sales ledger, when a fax whined out of the machine beside me. It was for me, but it wasn't a copy of an invoice or some other work thing; it was from my agent, saying that a big UK publishing house had just offered lots of money (ten times my annual salary, as it transpired) to publish me. I sat at my desk, my hands shaking, hitting the wrong buttons on my calculator—I still had to balance the sales ledger—wondering if it could be true.
It was and shortly afterwards foreign rights were sold to Germany, Holland, Sweden and the U.S. Suddenly I could afford to give up my day job and—above and beyond my wildest dreams— become a full-time writer.
I'd been given a charmed life. But while the outside of my life had been transformed, it was taking a lot longer for my feelings to catch up with the facts. The insecurity and immaturity which had characterized my drinking were still alive and kicking and I felt confused and unworthy.
Like every other time when I'd been knocked off balance, a drink seemed deliciously attractive, but I resisted. At some very deep level I understood that my sobriety was the foundation stone for every other part of my life and if I protected it by going to meetings and sticking close to recovering alcoholics, I'd be okay.
Time passed and my third novel got published, then my f
ourth, all comedies about dark issues, and their reception humbled me deeply. Paradoxically, writing about feeling disconnected has connected me: I got hundreds of letters, the gist of which was, "Your books describe exactly how I feel." This, to the person who once felt she barely belonged to the human race.
Readers told me how well I'd captured their bleakest feelings— and how I'd made them howl with laughter. And for the first time I saw that all those horrible years, mired in alcoholism, hadn't been a complete waste.
And still I didn't drink. I had thought that my sober life would be akin to crawling through a desert for the next forty years or however long I lived, fixated on alcohol. I thought that I would devote every day to Not Drinking, that it would be a full-time job. But, oddly, it 's not an issue. I've disassociated from it entirely—knowing that I can't have any, not a single drop, makes it easier.
Mind you, it 's very interesting being sober in a world sodden with alcohol. In my early days of recovery I went to the cinema a lot and for the first time noticed that nearly all the ads were for alcohol.
Not everyone understands why I don't drink. After I stopped, I was visiting a friend who hadn't seen me at my worst and she was baffled that I didn't drink anymore. Carefully I explained that my body was so sensitized to alcohol that I couldn't even take one mouthful without triggering a blazing desire, that it made me crazy and sick and that I was much better off without it. She listened, nodding carefully, and when I finished she said, "Of course, of course. But you'll have a glass of wine with dinner, won't you?"
There are other people who don't want to understand—people who probably suspect they might have a problem themselves; fighting off their offers of drink is the hardest.
But in so many ways, life is normal. I had thought I wouldn't be able to be around drinkers, that, green with envy, I'd be watching every mouthful of alcohol that they took and wondering how it was for them. But actually I enjoy it—at least, up until the point when people are telling me the same story for the third time or when they have me hemmed into a corner, telling me glassily that I'm their best friend and that they love me.
Because alcohol was the center of my life for so long, I couldn't imagine ever having such freedom.
It doesn't mean that I don't crave escape. There are times when I'm upset or angry or simply I'd like a night off from myself, and half a bottle of wine would unwind me nicely—and it's simply not possible. I'm also sorry that there 're all these newfangled drinks for sale now that I never got to try, like Bacardi Breezers. (I'm told they're not so great, but nevertheless . . .)
And I seem to need more sleep than nonalcoholics. I think I must find full-on reality exhausting because at a certain point every evening I kind of hit a wall and think, "That 's enough life for one day, now, thanks."
But it 's a small price to pay.
Over ten years later, I still haven't had a drink.
It 's been an incredible journey. More than ten million copies of my books have been sold worldwide, they're published in thirtytwo different languages, I've traveled the globe in the course of my work—but my sobriety is still the most important thing in my life. I know that if I drink again, I might never be able to stop. I got one chance and I treasure it. It 's the greatest gift I've ever been given.
A version of this was first published in Marie Claire, November 2004
Concerned
After I expressed interest in their work, the Irish charity Concern, who work in the developing world, invited me to see some of the projects they're carrying out in Ethiopia. I visited with Himself in September 2002.
Thursday, September 5
Myself and Himself visit Concern's Dublin office for final briefing. Suddenly I realize how tough this trip is going to be, wish I wasn't going and curse myself for ever saying I would. Despite their assurances that we 'll have a great time, and that there 's a lovely market just outside Concern's Addis compound, I'm not convinced. Himself also has the fear.
Monday, September 9
9A.M. Leave for airport, to fly to London, then to Alexandria, then on to Addis Ababa. Delays in London, more delays in Egypt.
Tuesday, September 10
3:30 A.M. (two and a half hours late) We land at Addis Ababa airport, then hang around the carousel for a very long time until it becomes clear that our suitcase hasn't made the journey with us. But it 'll be on the next flight, the nice man tells us. Which is on Friday. But today is Monday, I protest. Tuesday actually, he says.
All we have are the clothes we stand up in, a copy of Vanity Fair (read) and a selection of snacks purloined from an airport lounge. Nothing for it but to go and meet our poor driver who has been waiting outside since one-thirty.
4:45 A.M. Arrive at the Concern compound.
5A.M. Head hits pillow.
5:01 A.M. Cock crows.
5:02 A.M. Another cock crows. Then four hundred of his closest friends get in on the act. A sound system kicks into life blasting Ethiopian pop. Ah yes, the market just beyond the wall.
9:30 A.M. Wake up, put on our dirty clothes and go to introduce ourselves to the Concern staff. It 's a gorgeous morning, with blue, blue skies. In the distance I see lush green hills—surely some mistake? Where are the sun-bleached deserts?
Concern staff are very nice, offer to loan us clothes and suggest the market beyond the wall would be a good place to buy underwear, etc. A mixture of fear and curiosity propels myself and Himself through the gates and into downtown Addis and I swear to God, it was like going back to biblical times. A dusty red-earth road teeming with life—tall, elegant men in robes and Wellingtons, women with babies tied to their backs, a man wearing a sheep around his neck like a scarf, donkeys laden with enormous bundles of firewood, mad quavery music coming from somewhere. The only nonbiblical note was the mini-buses, beeping like mad as they struggled through the packed street, trying to disperse the herds of goats who were loitering in their path. Blankets spread on the road side were offering all kinds of things for sale: onions, tomatoes, batteries, lengths of twine, chickens (live and unplucked), firewood and—oh great!—socks and knickers. The socks were fine, the knickers less so—baggy and funny-looking. But what the hell! When in Rome. The price for two pairs of socks and two pairs of funny pink knickers? Twenty birr—about two euros. Excellent value. We 'd been told to haggle but how could you? Onto the next stall where we purchased two pairs of underpants for Himself, a T-shirt for fifty birr and a pair of plastic sandals for me for eighty birr.
12:30 P.M. Decked out in our new and borrowed finery, we set off to see some of the Concern projects. Addis is a city at first sight constructed almost entirely of corrugated iron; miles and miles of shanty town, holes in the rotting iron patched pitifully with rush matting and polythene bags. Almost all roads are untarmaced: just bare lumpy earth like boreens, which I've never before seen in a city. And everywhere there are people—it 's incredibly densely populated. An estimated five million people live in Addis.
Our first stop was at a community-based urban development program, where Concern are working with the poorest of the poor—women-headed households and households with more than ten members—to construct houses, communal kitchens, water points, latrines and roadways. Concern provide most of the funding but the community provide the labor and become responsible for maintaining the common areas.
One of the many people I met was a beautiful woman called Darma—by and large the Ethiopians are extremely good-looking. Darma has nine children, her husband is "gone" and she 's younger than me. With great pride she ushered us into her new house—a ten by ten room with a packed-earth floor, no electricity and no running water. With a smile she indicated the roof—"no holes so no rain gets in." Which would turn the mud floor into a quagmire. I was beginning to understand. The sturdy walls provoked another smile—"secure against rats." Gotcha.
Darma's day begins at six when she prepares breakfast for herself and her children. This is harder than it sounds. The staple diet is injera: a bread that 's made
from a grass called teff, which has to be pounded into a paste—which takes up to two hours—and then cooked. Before Concern funded the communal kitchens—one between three households—Darma had to light a fire in her chimneyless home, filling it with choking smoke and upsetting her children.
After breakfast, Darma walks half an hour to the wholesale market, buys potatoes and onions, then returns and sells them in her own neighborhood. At six she comes home and once again pounds teff until her hands blister. She goes to bed at about midnight.
But life is so much better, she says. She has the kitchen, the communal water point—which saves an hour a day walking to buy water—and most of all, her house. I was humbled by her positivity and I hoped I'd think twice the next time I wanted to say, "I've had a hard day."
Before I left I was invited to admire the latrines, which I did as best I could—I mean, what do you say—and then it was on to a clinic which feeds and treats thirty-six malnourished children. By the time we arrived, they'd left, which I was shamefully glad about. I didn't think I was able to bear the sight of three dozen malnourished babas.
