How do you navigate a marriage after one partner quits drinking? Photo / Getty Images
My husband couldn’t understand why I wanted to go sober, but it ultimately improved our relationship and my overall health.
When we both ordered Old Fashioneds on our first date in 2012, I thought my husband might be the one. Dale told me that, when it came to cocktails, he had a sweet tooth, and he couldn’t resist a maraschino cherry or a tiny umbrella. I felt exactly the same way. I was smitten.
Cocktails defined our courtship. We went to the Ivy, the Connaught, the American Bar at the Savoy. Not long after we met, he whisked me away to Paris, then Venice, and we attempted to drink in every bar Hemingway hung out in – quite quickly, we discovered this was pretty much every bar we passed. We went to New York and stayed at the Algonquin – and stayed up at the bar. Dale was happy to indulge my Dorothy Parker fixation. I started to wonder exactly what Parker’s problem was. I couldn’t channel her cynicism, any more. I was drunk, in love.
Eventually, we settled into a real-life rhythm. We moved in together and ticked every box on the newly cohabiting couple bingo card. We’d cook, we’d buy nice wine, we’d host and attend boozy dinner parties. We’d make noises about taking a week off drinking, then we’d meet in the pub after a particularly tricky day at work, drink more than we meant to, and buy chips on the way home. We’d attempt dry January or Sober October, with varying levels of success. We’d have a drink when we went to the cinema, or the theatre. We became engaged in the summer of 2014, and we married in the autumn of 2015 – I reckon I was drunk on champagne for the best part of 18 months.
However, as my 30s progressed, I started to question my relationship with alcohol. I was struggling to manage my anxiety, and drinking exacerbated it. My hangovers got worse – I’d wake up feeling afraid – it was as though my bones knew something dreadful was going to happen, even though my brain could find no evidence to back this up.
I became hyper-vigilant about work, worrying obsessively about making a mistake and failing, checking my emails constantly and obsessively. My alcohol-related anxiety shrank my ambition. I turned down exciting assignments, because I convinced myself that I wouldn’t be able to do a good job. I never did anything dreadful – my worst drunken stunt was usually ordering a large Dominos pizza and then trying to beat it home. The binge eating was another issue: I was gaining weight and always trying a new diet. I’d drink on an empty stomach, then eat the contents of the kitchen cupboards for dinner.
Dale was patient and kind, but baffled. He’d always been better than I was at knowing his limits and calling it a night. Yet, the more unhappy and anxious I became, the more I drank. Sometimes I’d go out without him and come home hopelessly drunk. We’d argue in the morning, because he’d been worried about my safety. I’d feel terrible about what I’d put him through and promise myself that I’d never do it again. Until the next time.
For years, I wrestled with alcohol and my mental health, in secret. I thought that if I could get my anxiety under control, I’d be able to drink happily, in moderation, like everyone else. I still loved drinking with Dale. We moved to the Kent coast – we’d walk off our hangovers beside the sea, and he’d tell me everything was going to be okay. But mentally, I was going to some shockingly dark places. I was scared to tell Dale just how low I felt, because I was scared to express my thoughts out loud.
I started reading memoirs about sobriety and addiction. At first, I was trying to reassure myself that I was fine and I didn’t have a real problem. Maybe I was going through a phase, but I was startled to discover how much I had in common with the people I was reading about. The books made me feel less alone and less ashamed, but I couldn’t ignore the facts that were in front of me. I couldn’t drink like other people – not even my husband. We’d fallen in love under the spell of a magic potion. Now it was poisoning me.
Every day, I went back and forth. I couldn’t quit. I had to quit. I just needed a month off. We were going on holiday, then to a festival, then to a fortieth birthday party... As soon as the calendar was calmer, I’d take a break.
The holiday was our first post-Covid trip – starting in Copenhagen, then on to Malmö and Stockholm. I’d been looking forward to it for a long time. On our first night we went out for gin cocktails, before dinner with a wine flight. And on our second day, I started crying, and I couldn’t stop. I cried all the way to Malmö. I was in the dark and I couldn’t get out. I realised I had to try sobriety, because nothing else was working.
For Dale, a lot of this seemed to come out of nowhere. It was hard for both of us. He was sympathetic, but frustrated. He knew people who had problems with addiction, and I didn’t fit the profile. For him, the trip marked the end of a big work project – he wanted to celebrate and have fun. “At the time, I thought ‘Can’t she just wait until we’re back from our holiday?’” he told me, later.
But he knew that I was desperate and frightened. Together, we took it one day at a time – some occasions were more challenging than others. At first, I struggled when I was socialising, and we’d bicker about when we could go home – if I had my way, we’d leave 20 minutes after arriving. We tried to go to bars together, and I turned into a whiny fun sponge, complaining that everywhere was too loud, too crowded and too hot. I suspect that we came quite close to divorce when I was about three months in sobriety, and I’d wake up every morning and give Dale a TED talk on how well I’d slept.
We missed our favourite drinking rituals, but we found new ones. When I finished a novel, Dale bought me a bottle of Wild Idol non-alcoholic champagne to celebrate. Instead of seeking out new cocktail bars, we went on missions to discover the best gelato. And I started to realise that without booze, I was, on balance, a better partner. I still had dark days, but they didn’t become dark weeks or months. I had more energy and enthusiasm for trying new things, from exhibitions to cinema trips. We went out for dinner less, but we went out for breakfast more. I often thought it was a shame that neither of us could drive – poor Dale missed out on the biggest potential benefit of a newly sober spouse, a late-night chauffeur.
I asked Shahroo Izadi, a psychologist, addiction specialist and behavioural change expert, about the challenges that a couple in our situation might face and how you can both support each other when one of you goes sober.
She told me: “What often creates tension is the assumption that one partner’s choice to stop drinking is a silent judgment on the other – or on drinking itself. In truth, it’s usually about recognising the personal impact alcohol has on them – not alcohol itself being ‘bad.’ The key is to communicate your needs without moralising: ‘This is something I’m working on, and here’s how you can support me,’ rather than implying anyone else needs to change.”
Her words strike a chord: if I’ve learnt anything since I stopped drinking, it’s that alcohol affects everyone differently. I feel as though I’m “emotionally allergic” to booze – I wouldn’t necessarily expect Dale, or anyone else to respond to alcohol in the way that I did.
It’s coming up to three years since I stopped drinking. I believe it’s one of the best things I’ve ever done – I think I’m happier, and I think our marriage is stronger. But in the interests of accuracy, I had to ask Dale what he thought. “It’s been much easier than I thought it would be. Drinking together was always fun, and I never thought you had a problem, so I was a bit shocked and sad when you stopped. Maybe the hardest part was not knowing how much you were struggling in silence. But three years on, you seem calmer and happier and our life and our routine hasn’t changed that much. We still go out and have fun together. I drink a bit less, and I feel better for it. For me, the biggest benefit is probably that I don’t worry as much when you’re out late without me.”
Quitting drinking was hard. Having a supportive partner made it much easier. I don’t know that I’d still be sober if I was with someone who pressured me to come to the pub, for “just the one”. I know that this has been challenging for both of us, in different ways. I worried that without booze, I wouldn’t be any fun. But before I quit, I wasn’t fun at all. Just anxious and unhappy. Now I’m calmer, more confident and more energetic – and hopefully, nicer to be married to. Sometimes sobriety seems bittersweet. I miss getting tipsy with Dale, and I’m sad that there aren’t any more shared Old Fashioneds in our future. But we can still toast each other if I’m holding a mocktail. And there’s always gelato.
Where to get help:
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