My husband has a glass of wine, occasionally two, once or twice a week. And that’s it.
So on my previous attempts to stop drinking for a while, or moderate, he would quite happily agree to help me by stopping drinking as well. However invariably sooner or (occasionally) later he would arrive home from work, usually on Day 1, and find me already started on the wine. Any attempts on his part to remind me of my resolve would be met with very bad temper and grumpiness from me, basically telling him that anyone who had had to deal with the sort of day I had just had would need a drink to help them cope. So, for the sake of marital harmony, he learned that it was better not to say anything about it, as it didn’t make any difference to my drinking behaviour anyway. And I learned sneaky and devious behaviours to ensure that he never knew how much I was really drinking. And every single evening I was utterly, completely, 100% convinced that the very next day I was going to cut back/stop/drink responsibly/whatever.
And all my underhand drinking behaviours and hiding how much I was drinking and almost but not quite lying about it had meant I had a really low opinion of myself and I couldn’t bring myself to tell my husband that I’d actually been pretty deceitful about the whole drinking business for years.
I was sort of hoping that I could become a non-drinker under the radar, without anyone really noticing, without having to admit that my drinking was, or ever had been, out of my control.
Which is kind of ridiculous really, to think that I went from hiding how much I was drinking, to hiding the fact that I’d stopped. And I was hiding that I was antsy, restless, scared, headachey, but all the while excited and knowing, just knowing, that stopping for ever was definitely the right thing to do.