I’m hiding in a toilet cubicle in a popular St Kilda establishment, taking deep breaths to calm my anxiety and trying to stop the tears.
I can hear girls with perfect hair, laughing as they swap lip glosses and film Instagram stories.
I am wearing an old maternity dress because it’s the only decent item of clothing that fits my bloated body. I look down at my fingernails, chewed to the quick, and realise I have never felt this out of place before. What happened to me?
Watch: Your body, one year without alcohol. Post continues.
I had been sober for three days after finally hitting my rock bottom and deciding to quit booze.
I was stuck between knowing that alcohol was destroying my life, and not feeling ready to say goodbye to the false sense of security it gave me.
My mind was racing: “How the hell am I supposed to navigate being sober? How will I ever fit in or socialise again? What will people think, knowing I had a drinking problem?”.
The internal voice of my Wine Witch was so loud as she tried to persuade me: “Just have one drink to calm these nerves; one isn't going to hurt!”. But I knew it was never one drink.