‘I’m lying in bed in the spare room, on sheets soaked with my own urine.’

I’d make rules, drinking only on certain days, drinking only certain types of alcohol, mixing my drinks with soft drinks, water and ice to try and lessen my intake. None of it worked. When people would ask how much I’d had to drink, you could back it in that I’d halve the actual amount so they didn’t know the extent of the disaster that was my life.

During the pregnancies of each of my children (I remained sober for both), I swore things would change. I would be the mother I dreamed of, the mother my children deserved – a super woman with the will power and determination to conquer all my demons. How wrong I was. After the birth of each child, my drinking went back to the way it was before, if not worse. I was living with a man who loved me drunk – a fact that I didn’t realise until the end of my drinking—and enabled me to drink at every turn.

He didn’t seem phased that I couldn’t function like a normal woman and mother should. He excused my behaviour and made my drinking life easy to maintain. On my 100th sober day, he blatantly told me that I was boring and didn’t know how to have fun anymore. When I asked if it concerned him that I was so passed out that I was wetting the bed most nights, or that I couldn’t get up for our children, or that I was quite probably driving over the limit most mornings, he told me he thought I was making a big deal out of it. Two days later, I asked him to move out.

On January 1, 2015 at 3.16pm, I realised enough was enough. I was lying to myself and now other people were lying for me. I jumped out of bed and ran to my laptop and typed a note to myself. I reminded myself that my children didn’t ask to be here, nor did they ask for a mother who was too sick or drunk to be the mother they deserved.

I was an asshole. I was selfish and I was sick.