As told to Polly Taylor
I open my eyes.
My five-year-old daughter is beside the bed, her face etched with concern.
"Mummy, what happened to your face?" she asks.
Fully awake now, I raise a hand to my cheek and wince. Then I see the blood streaked across the bedsheets. I feel the excruciating pain across the bridge of my nose, the throbbing in my skull.
I scream internally as I start to remember.
The night before it had been a friend's 40th birthday party. I'd sunk a bottle of champagne before I even got there. To loosen up, I told myself. Get in the party mood!
At the party, the drinks were flowing. The host was topping up glasses before they even got as far as half empty and I certainly wasn't complaining.
I could feel myself getting drunk, which was exactly where I wanted to be.
Later in the evening, I stumbled outside for a cigarette (I only smoked when I was drinking.)
After finishing my cigarette, I crouched down in my high heels to stub out the butt, but I lost my balance. As alcohol had robbed me of my reflexes, I toppled forward, landing squarely on the concrete, face first.
My lip split open, my nose smashed on the concrete, my eyes were blackening by the second.
Mortified, I went home. I vomited violently before passing out in bed.
Watch: Your body after one year without alcohol. Post continues below.
Now all I felt was shame. And an overwhelming feeling that there had to be another way of living.
Since my teens I'd been a heavy drinker. Unlike most of my friends, I never seemed to have an off switch. I'd always be the one wanting to stay out the latest, ordering shots for the group, not wanting the party to end. And the next day, I was the first to suggest the pub for lunch and 'hair of the dog'.