Fetishisation, Fallacies, and Unattainable Fantasies: The World is Failing Female Addicts
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I'm an addict. And like Samirah Raheem, the SlutWalk Queen, I refuse to carry the shame of an intended slur. Language is powerful. We're 'junkies' and 'drunks' whose situations are amplified, demonised or glamorised. Portrayed as weak, our disease is spun into a reflection of the willpower we supposedly lack.
When paired with gender inequality, the flawed addiction narrative is fatal. We're flung between archetypes, branded as loose, damaged, fallen women who've failed to fulfil our purpose. On-screen, we're sexualised and objectified. Our appearances are mocked in the news, and ethics evaporate when tragedy occurs. But, excessive drinking and drugging remain normalised and promoted. Until a line we didn't draw gets crossed.
The sexist misrepresentation of addiction dehumanises women in extreme circumstances and leaves others to get worse, not yet meeting the criteria where judgment can ensue. At the age of 27, I found myself checking into rehab, which will be news to the people I told about my yoga retreat. Despite my best efforts, the "I'm fine" mask I'd attempted to superglue to my face fell off. Life lost colour, and my black-and-white thinking convinced me there was no way out.
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I looked at my friends, wondering how they did it. I was in a simulation, and they were in the real world. Even when problems arose, they dealt with them in a way that was alien to me - i.e. with grace, not by getting wasted and eating all of a Colin the Caterpillar. From therapy and self-help books, to acrylic nails and Tammy Fae-esque eyelashes, nothing helped. The more I tried to fill the rudely large hole in my soul, the bigger it got and the further the realisation that I was utterly fucked set in.
I went to rehab for an eating disorder, so when I got back from three months of not downward dogging, those closest to me thought my coming out as an alcoholic was a phase. Growing up in the UK, where if you aren't an alcoholic, you drink like one, and not fitting the cliche alcoholic cut contributed to "You'll be able to drink again" statements. While not maliciously intended, their words invalidated what I'd already minimised for so long.
“I went to rehab for an eating disorder, so when I got back from three months of not downward dogging, those closest to me thought my coming out as an alcoholic was a phase.”
I was embarrassed and having hidden everything so well, I felt like an imposter; over-explaining myself like a guilty defendant or self-deprecatingly lolling about it all. But it wasn't funny, it was painful. As shit as rehab was, it wasn't the reason I acquired a new label for snowflake-sayers to eye-roll at.
There's more to being an addict than having a toxic relationship with booze and publicly humiliating yourself. Albeit, I was fabulous at the latter and guilty of the former. It's not about the numbing agent but what's being numbed, and the unholy union of my cross-addictions was the beginning of the end. My eating disorder temporarily gave me the illusion of control. By focusing on my weight and my plate, I could pin my pain on what was overtly evident and tangible.
It meant I didn't drink for a few months. But that had everything to do with calories and nothing to do with not being a massive alchie. Shock horror, I started drinking again, but there was no vodka in the morning, and I wasn't a man in his 70s ruining another Christmas dinner. I was a young woman with a calendar full of desperately sought-after plans to allow for abnormal drinking in normal surroundings.
The unmanageability of life and unexplainable nature of my feelings caught up with me, and the lack of an Emmerdale-style rock bottom delayed my carving SOS into the sand. But the effort I put into presenting as perfect sucked the life out of me. My rock bottom took place behind closed doors. I was suicidal, and I now know voicing that shows my resilience and strength, not a "the world's a stage" attitude. "Girls will be girls" isn't a saying for a reason. I didn't spill anything, but I had a stain on me. I was terrified that onlookers wouldn't question how it got there and instead think, "What a mess she's made."
The first waves of my white flag dealt me the breaking news that I probably had depression. And thanks to a healthy dose of desperation and a non-existent verbal filter, I shared in detail. Nevertheless, addiction wasn't mentioned. Sensitivity was. The truth is, I've been an addict from the get-go. Drinking was the only thing that gave me a reprieve: I could never stop at one glass of anything, and I was young, surrounded by people whose drinking wasn't too dissimilar to mine, or so I thought.
I'm now recovered from my eating disorder and approaching two years of sobriety. I'm finally the person I was always meant to be, but I'm still an addict. There's no "Congratulations! You're recovered" ceremony. People assume all it takes is looking offended when someone asks if you want petrol-flavoured Pinot. Sure, I've put the drink down, love my bum and eat what I want, but I'll never graduate. It's a bummer, because getting the 1st my parents think I have would be nice. It takes obnoxious work to stay sober, but I got lucky, too. Only 3% of us make it into recovery, and over 80% relapse within the first year. Figures that aren't helped by the unpalatable misinformation we're force-fed.
I'm not a fuck up or a victim, and I won't be swimming alongside Diana Nyad anytime soon, either. I'm someone who had the gift of desperation and the understanding and support it takes to exit active addiction and enter self-love territory. Switching the Sangria for the Seedlip was no easy feat, and my sobriety is the thing I'm most proud of. So, the shame spillers can pay my laundry bill, and I'll go have my seventh Diet Coke of the day as I continue to laugh in the face of impulse control.
Words: Anna Wolfe