The truth about my relapse A legal threat, a mortifying date… Before the story gets out, AMANDA GOFF reveals the shocking reality of what happened when she ordered a glass of wine after six years sober
Six years. That’s how long I’d been sober.
Six years of water, mocktails – which are just expensive cordial, if you ask me – and mastering the art of saying, ‘No, thanks.’
Six years of ducking out of parties by 11pm, trading steak and red wine for steak and sparkling water at restaurants (that, honestly, was the hardest part).
And no more ‘white wine goggles’, drunken fumbles, and walks of shame in the cruel light of day.
It sounds awfully dull, doesn’t it?
But here’s the truth: those six years were the calmest of my life. Six years of no drama (well, no alcohol-induced drama, anyway), six years of waking up clear-headed, free of guilt and shame.
And no more ‘morning after‘ wreckages to clean up, cringing about what I said or to whom.
When I was a few years into my sobriety journey, I was diagnosed with bipolar II – a form of bipolar disorder marked by long spells of depression and sudden bursts of hypomania. It finally explained everything: the chaos, the risky decisions, the impulsivity, the manic ideas that felt genius one minute, and catastrophic the next.
‘I started to move the goalposts. Soon I was allowing myself two glasses each time I decided to drink, then, before long, it was three,’ Amanda Goff writes
I started taking my medication religiously every night and, gradually, my world became a lot calmer. My past, my questionable behaviour, and the dark thoughts I’d once battled began to make sense.
I started to look and feel better, too.
And I owe it all to the recovery rooms, 12-step meetings and sobriety. Every single part of it. If I hadn’t got sober, my bipolar wouldn’t have been diagnosed and my life would still be a mess.
In fact, I have a feeling that if I hadn’t got sober, I might well be dead.
I’m not being over-dramatic here – there was a dark fog in my head that wouldn’t leave. Combine that with the life-threatening heart condition I live with and, frankly, I feel lucky to still be here.
After getting sober, I resumed my career in journalism, moved back to my beloved Melbourne and qualified as a Pilates teacher. My personal relationships were thriving.
For the first time in my adult life – I’m 51 – I felt grounded, level-headed, reliable, calm and genuinely happy.
But, if I’m honest, once the initial shine of sobriety wore off and the ‘pink clouds’ faded, boredom crept in. I took my recovery – and all the positive changes it had brought into my life – for granted.
After six years of sobriety, I started to take my recovery for granted (Amanda is pictured before she quit drinking six years ago)
I stopped going to meetings and neglected my supportive, sober friends. I felt like I had the booze-free life down pat. I was, quite simply, a non-drinker and I no longer had to ‘work at it’.
But there’s a saying in recovery: a relapse happens months before you pick up a drink. And my complacency, arrogance and smugness – my belief that I was ‘cured’ – that was the beginning of mine.
I was five years sober when I stopped going to meetings. I was six years sober when I picked up a drink.
It was 4pm on a relaxing Sunday afternoon. I’d just finished my weekly grocery shop and, on my way home, I walked past a bar.
Without blinking, I went in. I ordered a glass of sparkling wine. I sipped it slowly in the sunshine, enjoyed it, and went home.
That was it.
I didn’t actively plan it; there was no drama that followed. Afterwards, I made dinner, had a cup of tea and went to bed. I didn’t even feel guilty.
I was actually excited – I was cured! After years of problematic drinking, of binges and blackouts, I’d just done that elusive thing most people in recovery wish they could do but can’t: enjoyed a single drink.
I hadn’t contemplated a second. I hadn’t got a taste for it and grabbed a bottle on the way home. It felt like, in my six years of sobriety, I’d somehow acquired the ability to moderate.
But as anyone who has ever battled any kind of dependency will know, the most dangerous lie an addict can tell themselves is ‘I’m fine’.
Because within weeks, I found myself having another drink. And another. Always under the illusion of control – a glass of wine at dinner, one at a party. I made a rule to never drink at home and I stuck to it to begin with.
I had all sorts of justifications for what I was doing. I’d just moved interstate. It had been stressful. I wanted to be sociable and make friends in my new neighbourhood.
For four months, I went on like this. I didn’t black out. I didn’t dance on tables and I didn’t send regretful texts.
But I also didn’t feel calm, grounded or at peace any more.
One night, I awoke with an anxiety attack so severe that I almost ran out the front door to scream at my neighbours to help me.
I started to move the goalposts. Soon I was allowing myself two glasses each time I decided to drink. Then, before long, it was three. I started drinking whenever I’d go out for dinner, which was at least once a week.
One night, after two large glasses of red wine, I got home and made the mistake of jumping on social media.
The details of what I did next are far too cringeworthy to write – but they resulted in me being sent a legal letter. Yes, really.
Another time, I went on a first date with a man I’d met online.
It started off innocently enough. We went for a walk, to an art exhibition and then to lunch. I was a bit nervous as we sat down at the table opposite each other, and my three-drink rule quickly went out the window.
A bottle of wine became two, then tequila… and then blackout.
I ended up getting an Uber home and throwing up all night. My date was the perfect gentleman, but it was hardly the impression I’d wanted to make.
The next morning, I woke up filled with shame. It’s safe to say I hadn’t missed that feeling. But I’d invited it back into my life – at the same time farewelling peace, clarity and glowing skin.
I was hungover again. Six years down the drain.
But, of course, that didn’t stop me.
Soon after, I bought a bottle of wine. I took it home – another promise broken – and I drank a glass alone – something else I’d vowed not to do.
How were things unravelling so quickly? What was I thinking?
In despair, I poured the rest of the bottle into the sink. I watched it go down the drain – just like everything I’d fought for over the past six years.
It struck me that while nothing terrible had happened since I’d picked up a drink – no handcuffs, rehab or hospitals – nothing good had happened either.
I wasn’t funnier, sexier or more relaxed. If anything, I was rigid and tense. I’d forgotten how hard addicts work to appear in control, when underneath they’re anything but. During my relapse, the mental gymnastics were exhausting – bending my own rules until I’d break them.
It’s soul-destroying, constantly burying pain and shame.
My anxiety came hurtling back, morning jitters not far behind. My skin grew dull, my eyes hollow and jaded.
I was only having a few drinks a week and yet I felt mentally and physically wrecked.
But more than that, I was scared.
Scared by how quickly things had unravelled in just a few months – how easily I’d slipped into old habits and how that vice-like grip of addiction tightened with every glass of wine.
What was this going to look like in a year? I decided that I didn’t want to find out.
Returning to 12-step meetings was excruciating. I felt like a fraud, a failure. Six years of sobriety and I had thrown it all away.
But the first thing someone said to me was: ‘You didn’t lose your six years, Amanda. You had six years of proof that sobriety works. You have the tools in your toolbelt.’
So here I am, back to counting days, back to self-consciously ordering soda water and avoiding social occasions altogether if necessary.
But I’m also sleeping better. I’m less anxious. My eyes are bright and I am fiercely resolute. Drinking again was never worth it. I just needed a little reminder of that.
If you’re reading this, and you’ve slipped up too, please know this: you haven’t failed. As they say in recovery, it’s progress, not perfection.
Take it from me: I didn’t destroy my life by drinking alcohol again – but I was heading that way, no question.
No sparkling sip in the Sunday sun is worth risking everything for.
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Published on: 2025-10-14 15:39:00
Source: www.dailymail.co.uk
