Part of a healthy recovery from addiction is saying out loud: I miss it.

Addiction was shit. Lipstick, bars and high heels were nice. Brainfog was useful. If you are a friend of mine reading this, don't worry, I am fine. Better than ever. Kisses.

Christmas is at the door. My second Christmas in addiction treatment, my second Christmas without alcohol, the first with so much to be grateful for. It is my daughter’s third Christmas, but it feels like her first; only now is she old enough to understand that these days are special. This afternoon she sat on the kitchen countertop as I washed dishes and told her that tomorrow night, while we are all asleep, Papá Noel is going to come into our apartment and leave presents under the Christmas tree. I told her how lucky we are to be together at Christmas, that yes we can go to the playground for a little while tomorrow, and that I love her very much.

Imagine being the person who tells a beautiful child about Papa Noel for the very first time. What a privilege that is! Her eyes locked with mine as she nodded and said

Sí Mamá, Papá Noel. Ebajo el ábol, un regalo. Sí.

I got to do this with my daughter today, and I will be able to remember it, because I am sober, because I am recovering from addiction, because I am taking this time in my life to understand what happened to me when I was a child myself, because I am not running from the pain anymore, because I want to free myself from the past and enjoy what’s left.

***

In the last few days, I have been thinking about all I have gained since starting treatment, but I’ve also been mourning the things I’ve had to give up. Taking stock, I suppose. To a certain extent, addicts in recovery are doing this all the time; weighing everything up and asking ourselves if it’s worth it, if it’s going to be worth it in the end.

Ufff… treatment is so fucking hard and therapy hurts. But it doesn’t hurt as much as drunk-crying on the floor for days and days. I guess I also feel stronger and am so proud of myself. But can I really never get dressed up, go to a bar and flirt with a stranger again? Never???

If you are reading this and you are not an addict, you may not understand what there is to weigh up.

How could getting drunk in a bar ever compete with teaching your adorable little girl to sing Jingle Bells?!

I really wish it didn’t, but I need to be honest and say that it does. I miss drinking and all the chaos that went with it. I spent three decades of my life using lipstick, wine and bar-talk to numb the pain, forget the past, and pretend that I’m alright. It’s going to take a few more years for that to lose its power over me. In a bar I could turn on the charm, make people laugh, see myself for a few hours through the eyes of my drinking buddies. This was especially helpful at Christmas – as long as I was drinking I could hush the sadness. Even the hangovers were useful – the tension in my home wasn’t as sharp when I had a thick blanket of fog around me.

Christmas is perhaps the hardest time of year for an addict; the parties, the nostalgia, the loneliness, the regret. But let’s be real, Christmas is tough for most people. We suffer at Christmas because we allow ourselves to be sold a perfect ideal of the family Christmas and we are, inevitably, disappointed. Life is still life at Christmas. People die, families argue, the food gets burnt, money runs out. If I were the Minister for Culture, I swear that my top priority would be to pass a bill abolishing TV ads that depict the perfect family Christmas. You know the ones: four generations of a family sit around a gorgeous fireplace, parents beam at their children as they sing a Christmas carol, Mom and Dad sneak a kiss, Granny is so youthful in a sequined dress, new toys strewn across the floor, and not a cuñado in sight. Ads like these are a public hazard and we would all be better off without them.

***

One of my partner’s best friends, José, is going to be in Madrid for the next few days. He will be spending Christmas Eve alone in an Airbnb. I want so much to invite him to ours for dinner. But I can’t, because he’s an alcoholic. It’s early days in my treatment, and I have to be very, very careful. I can’t have someone in the house who has been drinking or is hungover. It’s too risky because, as much as I pity him, I am also envious. He can sink into the oblivion of a wine bottle and I no longer can. It is difficult to admit this, but it is a reality that addicts in recovery envy those who still drink, even when they are sick and lonely.

Tomorrow morning my partner and daughter will pick José up at the airport and drive him to his Airbnb. They’ll probably have breakfast together while I stay at home and do some food prep for Christmas. I know I will be thinking about him alone in his Airbnb a lot tomorrow. He’s such a good person, he deserves better than the life he has, and I wish I could help him. I want for him all the wonderful things that I have now, because I am in treatment. Maybe one day, in a few years, I will be able to sit down with him and tell him about Fundación Hay Salida and how they saved my life and gave my daughter a mother. Maybe he will listen and something inside him will say ‘I want that too’.

***

Around this time two years ago was when I first came across the Fundación’s website. I had been desperately searching for answers, crying over my keyboard as I scrolled through results for ‘addicciones madrid ayuda’. Halfway down the list I saw www.fundaciónhaysalida.com, I clicked on it, and boom!, my life changed forever.

If anyone reading this is in the same situation as I was then, know this: you can do it, but you can’t do it alone. Reach out. Let yourself be helped. Everything starts to get better after that.