From Whiskey to Water. Sam Cowen

could organise a dinner party for 10 gluten-intolerant vegetarians who were allergic to lactose and pull it off effortlessly. And she started each day with a shot of vodka. Just to get the wheels turning. She had managed to hang on to a luxury German car, but not her children or her home. She was staying with an aunt while her husband took care of the kids and they desperately tried to save a marriage built on years of half-truths.

      And, of course, there was me.

      “I used to take a case of wine to dinner parties in case there wasn’t enough when I got there,” Boet told us, nursing a cappuccino in his huge hands, “but I got away with it because I was the guy who knew his stuff from Wine of the Month club … But you can’t drink more than half a case yourself every time and not get noticed. One of my mate’s wives said something. That was blind.”

      Yes, it would have been. Of course, he could have done what I did: finish a bottle and throw it away while helping to clear the table. No one would have known it was him, and he could have carried on the charade for much longer. Years longer maybe. But he didn’t.

      “Eventually I thought, nooit, I’ll stick to beer. Cos, you know … Beer.”

      Yes, we knew. Beer. Half the liquor content and lots of sugar and yeast to fill you up fast. The faster you fill up, the less you can consume. Well, that’s the theory. But, for an alcoholic, those limits turn quickly into targets.

      “And that was okay during rugby season, but you can’t dop the same during cricket. Except at home. And who dops beer by themselves at home?’

      Who indeed? Beer is a social drink. A few after work with the boys is okay. A few by yourself in front of the TV is just sad. And when you’re sad, you start making the connection between what you’re drinking and what you’re feeling. And that’s the most uncomfortable place in the world. That’s when denial takes over like a headmaster who’s just caught you cheating. Once it’s caught you, you can never escape it.

      “So then I thought I’ll just drink coolers. Cos that’s not really drinking. It’s like Coke with a bit of a kick.”

      Boet drained his mug.

      “But I knew when I came downstairs one morning feeling like shit and found 32 empty Hooch bottles on the kitchen table … That’s when I knew I had a problem.”

      And that is when he knew he was an alcoholic.

      And the next day he went to AA.

      I know I’m an alcoholic because the abnormal became normal. It became normal to drink a bottle of wine a night by myself. I was living alone at the time and I would drink alone. And that was normal, because who doesn’t have a glass of wine when they get home at night? Maybe two? In my case, maybe six.

      It became normal to throw the empty bottle in the bin outside so I didn’t have to be reminded of it the next morning. I mean, who wants to dwell on that, right? Although at the time, of course, I didn’t think of it as ‘dwelling on that’. At the time, I thought of it as ‘not wanting to clear up in the morning’. And yet … the dishes would always be there waiting in the sink the next day.

      After I got married it became normal to buy a case of wine and drink it all over the house. That way, my husband Martin wouldn’t think I had had more than a glass or two of wine by the time he got home. He’d be right, in a way. I wouldn’t ever have more than a glass or two from the bottle in the kitchen cupboard. I’d have had a glass or two of wine from at least three bottles: the one in the kitchen, the other in the living room, another in the bedroom. He didn’t know about those though. It became normal not to mention it. Why would he need to know, anyway?

      I know I am an alcoholic because my need for a drink sneaks up like a mosquito in the dark. It’s not attached to a situation or a person. It’s a dull, annoying buzz that I cannot ignore or tune out. Sometimes I will be sitting in a nice restaurant, having a lovely time with good friends, under no stress whatsoever, with no underlying worries, where all is good with the world, and then someone will open a bottle at a nearby table and I’ll catch a whiff. And the world will slow down and the conversation will dull and every sense will hone in on that lovely, intoxicating, delicious, dangerous smell and my whole body will hunger for it. And in that moment I will resent everyone and everything keeping me from it. Including myself. Especially myself. There’s no rhyme or reason for it. I. Just. Want. It.

      I know I am an alcoholic because the strangest things can trigger that hunger. Once, about six years ago, a friend who’s a bit of a foodie bought me a bottle of alcohol-free wine. I hated alcohol-free wine. It tasted of fizzy apple or grape juice.

      “Sam, this is new. It’s made in the style of Cabernet and Merlot, so you get the taste without getting drunk.”

      I was sceptical. Highly sceptical. That rubbish fake champagne you get at supermarkets had made me suspicious of such lofty claims of paradise. But I agreed to try it.

      I managed two mouthfuls of fake Merlot and had to pour the entire bottle down the drain. The taste was so close. Whoever had made it had done a dangerously good job. Memories came flooding back, memories of afternoons in the sunshine with friends feeling nothing but happy, and evenings on the couch with my cat feeling peaceful and numb, and dinner parties with people I didn’t know feeling confident and funny – and I wanted it all back. I felt the loss so keenly in that moment. It was like I’d lost a part of myself. A best friend who protected me and improved me and comforted me. And I wanted her back so much. And I wanted the me that I was when I was with her. And I wanted a glass of real wine more than anything.

      Almost more than anything. I wanted to be sober slightly more. But only slightly. And so, before anything could go wrong, before I accidently revved through an amber traffic light that turned red while I was in the intersection, I got rid of all that fake wine. And tried not to think about the real alternative. Not because I was relieved, but because I was afraid. I was eight years sober and I was as terrified of a relapse as I was when I was eight days sober.

      There are many more ways I know I am an alcoholic, but I think the best way to describe my utter certainty is this: I still want a drink. Not all the time and not every day. Sometimes there will be a long time between those short scary bursts of desire. Sometimes there will be a few in a week. One year, I remember only one instance. I have nothing to drink away. I have a good job, a happy family and a lovely home. If I had continued to drink the way I used to, I wouldn’t have any of that. I’d probably be jobless, homeless and loveless. And I know this. And I know how lucky I am to have the love and support that I have. And yet, knowing all that, I still want a drink. And that is how I know that, 14 years down the line, I am, at DNA base level, a proper alcoholic.