This week, I was reminded, in a way I hadn’t expected, of how powerless I still am when it comes to alcohol. We had planned a few days away in York to celebrate my wife’s birthday. She’s not part of AA and isn’t an alcoholic, so she doesn’t fully grasp the depth of my struggle. There are times when she expresses frustration about the time and energy I devote to my sobriety, saying things like, “I feel like I’ve lost you to AA, just like I lost you to drink.” I try my best to balance my commitment to sobriety with being present for her and our family, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. This trip was one of those times, so, in the spirit of celebrating her, I decided to let go of my full routine for a few days.
At first, things went okay. We travelled up to York during rush hour, had a less-than-ideal stop at a McDonald’s that cost twice as much as it should have, and then struggled to navigate York’s “one-way system,” turning what should have been a five-minute walk into a three-mile ordeal – yes you read that right “Walk”, turns out my wife also struggled to use her satnav, had entered our destination for a car and not on foot? As my routine slipped away and fatigue set in, frustration began to build, and I started resenting the whole situation. I wasn’t at my best, and it showed.
When we finally reached our travel lodge, tired and cold, I just wanted to sleep, so I did. The next morning, we were all a bit better, but sharing a room with four people meant little sleep for anyone. The lack of peaceful rest led to us blaming each other for the restless night, and by the time we were ready to explore York, I’d already missed a good chunk of my morning routine—the most important being my Step 11 sunrise meeting, which has become a grounding ritual for me. I also missed my 30-minute meditation practice. Without these key elements, I immediately felt a disconnect within myself.
The day itself was wonderful, though. I was present, engaged with my family, and enjoying the activities. But just after lunch, while wandering through some shops, we ended up in the York Chocolate Story shop. The sweet aroma of chocolate lured us in, and as I was walking through, I passed a shelf stacked with my favourite “Chocolate Stout.” Instantly, my mind was consumed with thoughts of tasting it—imagining the slow pour, the first sip, the creamy foam on my lip. The craving was so vivid, I could taste it. In that moment, I felt completely hypnotized by the thought. I was powerless.
Thankfully, my wife snapped me out of it. She said, “No, not anymore,” and pulled me away from the display. But even then, I was shaken. The thought of that drink had felt so real, so all-consuming, that it took me a while to get back to the present. I realized in that moment how easily I could fall into a trance-like state, consumed by a craving so intense it felt like I had actually drunk it. For the rest of the day, I stayed close to my family, immersing myself in the activities to distract from the haunting image of that drink. But by the time we went to bed, I felt mentally drained and, honestly, a bit defeated. That night, as I reviewed my day in writing, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, shame, and fear. The experience had shaken me deeply. It reminded me that, no matter how far I’ve come, I’m still vulnerable. But in the quiet of that reflection, I also realized something important. I may have felt powerless in that moment, but it also showed me exactly what I need to do to stay powerful: I must make sure that the first thing I do every morning is connect with my higher power. I can’t do this on my own. Sobriety isn’t a solo journey, and it’s only by staying grounded in that connection that I can face the challenges that still lie ahead.
A ghost in York
This week, a ghost in York,
a chocolate stout's siren song,
reminded me, a phantom limb,
how easily the past can grip.
Birthday trip, a fragile truce,
between celebration and the ever-present war.
My wife, a loving, baffled witness,
to battles fought in silence, on a far-off shore.
Routine, a lifeline frayed,
by rush hour's chaos, satnav's cruel jest,
a three-mile walk, a misplaced trust,
resentment's bitter, unwelcome guest.
Sleep's meagre offering, a shared room's unrest,
morning rituals, scattered like fallen leaves.
Sunrise meeting, meditation's peace,
missed, leaving a hollowness that grieves.
York's charm, a painted scene,
failed to mask the brewing storm within.
Chocolate Story's sweet, seductive call,
a stout's dark promise, threatening to win.
Hypnotized, a moth to a flickering flame,
powerless, I stood, a statue of desire.
"No, not anymore," her voice, a gentle rain,
pulling me back from the consuming fire.
Shaken, I clung to family's embrace,
a fragile shield against the haunting taste.
Drained, defeated, by day's end's grace,
the ghost of the stout, a memory I chased.
Guilt, shame, fear, a midnight confession,
vulnerability's stark, unwelcome lesson.
But in reflection's quiet, a new direction,
powerlessness a path to true connection.
Not solo this journey, but a whispered plea,
to a higher power, my guiding star.
For in that connection, I find my strength, you see,
to face the shadows, no matter how far.
