High Sobriety (34 page)

WHILE IT MAY
be seen as an aphrodisiac or an accompaniment to romance, there's no doubt that alcohol can also help to turn love sour, sometimes in the ugliest of circumstances. John Aiken tells me that, for some of the couples he counsels, problem drinking can ruin the relationship. The glass of wine after work to unwind becomes a bottle, which easily becomes two, morphing into a pattern of heavy drinking during the week, as well as on Friday and Saturday nights. ‘You get arguments, you start airing your dirty laundry in public. You can get to the point where you say things you really regret, like, “this isn't going to work out. We're going to get the lawyers in,”' john says. ‘Alcohol is a key factor which, if there are problems there already, can fuel the fire. It drops people's inhibitions, and it can lead to aggression and violence, and also just self-destructive behaviour, whether it be flirting outside the relationship, having an affair, engaging in risk-taking behaviour.'

I think about all of the arguments I've had in my relationships, and realise that many of them came during or after a boozy night, when one or both of us had drunk too much. The fights were always verbal, with the occasional slammed door, but for some couples it escalates into more than that. Earlier this year, a Turning Point Alcohol and Drug Centre report revealed that alcohol-related domestic violence in Victoria jumped 15 per cent between 2008 and 2009. In 31 per cent of all cases attended by police, alcohol was a definite factor in the family violence. That's more than 10,300 incidents. Drinking was a suspected cause in a further 5100 cases — a 12 per cent year-on-year increase. Eight out of ten victims were women. Perhaps not surprisingly, many of the incidents occurred during peak drinking times: between 8.00 p.m. Friday and 6.00 a.m. Sunday.

Geoff Munro, head of policy at the Australian Drug Foundation, blames the spike on aggressive supermarket discounting, which has made alcohol available much more cheaply. ‘Young people say they find drinks very expensive in nightclubs and bars, so they're often pre-loading with a lot of drinks before they go out. So that may be feeding into more violent and aggressive behaviour in domestic premises.'

Munro, like many of his colleagues in public health, says that the figures support increasing evidence of a correlation between liquor-licence density and alcohol-related incidents. A 2007 study from the National Drug Research Institute showed that every new bottle shop opened in a rural area would lead to 32 assaults, and each new pub in metropolitan locations would spark 17 domestic-violence cases. The study correlated assault figures with the number of ‘average-size' bottle shops and pubs to calculate additional annual assaults caused by a new outlet. Pub size was determined by beer sales at each venue. The findings were based on alcohol sales in Western Australia — one of only two states where licensees are legally required to report sales figures. Researchers said that the results were likely to be the tip of the iceberg, as only about one in ten cases of domestic violence is reported. They blamed the increase on the deregulation of the alcohol industry, which led to a proliferation of liquor licences and made alcohol more readily available than ever before. The social consequences of that were evident in increasing violence in the home.

I believe that the industry has an obligation to market and sell its products responsibly, and there's no doubt it should take its share of the blame for the rising social problems that stem from the consumption of those products, but when it comes to stamping out domestic violence, I'm not sure that the answer is simply to take alcohol out of the equation. It's a crime with complex factors at play. When sex, passion, and matters of the heart are involved, people can do dreadful things to one another — drunk or sober. Undoubtedly, throwing alcohol into a volatile relationship is only going to make that worse, but we can't always use drinking as a get-out-of-jail card for our offences, be they emotional or physical.

Research shows that sexual behaviour can be affected even when the drinker has been given a placebo, just as inhibitions and nervousness can be reduced by the mere expectation of alcohol. In a 2001 American study, a group of male undergraduates was played an audiotape of a sexual interaction between two students that resulted in a date rape. They were asked to indicate at four points during the vignette how sexually aroused they thought the woman was, and at what point the man should stop. The men were divided into three groups — those who knew they were drinking alcohol, those who thought it was alcohol but it was actually a placebo, and those who knew they were drinking a placebo. Those who knew or thought they were drinking alcohol took far longer to pinpoint the inappropriateness of the man's behaviour than those in the control group. They also grossly overestimated the woman's level of arousal. The results are alarming, suggesting that, for some people, the belief that they are drunk is enough to excuse the kind of inappropriate and, in some cases, illegal sexual behaviour they otherwise wouldn't engage in.

It makes me shudder, as I think about all the silly things I've done pissed and the dangerous situations I've put myself in. At 15, during a night drinking cider in Edinburgh's city centre, two friends and I got into a car with a group of guys we didn't know. We thought we were tough Scottish birds, and that it was all a bit of a lark. The blokes, who must have been in their late teens to early twenties, said they were taking us to a party. We ended up at a flat in Craigmillar, one of the most disadvantaged suburbs in Edinburgh. There was no party. One of the guys climbed in the front window to get into the ground-floor flat; I'm pretty sure it wasn't theirs. They separated us, one locking my friend in the car with him while his two mates took my other friend and me into the flat's communal stairwell. She stayed at ground level, and I was taken up two flights of stairs.

By then, we all knew we'd made a big mistake. The guy started kissing me, and I was too scared to resist. He held my wrist behind my head with one hand and, with the other, yanked down my underwear and began groping me roughly. His full weight was on me, pinning me to the concrete steps. I struggled, telling him to stop. I could hear my friend downstairs doing the same. I yelled out to her and somehow managed to push him off me. Crying, we ran into the street and found our friend in the car trying to fend off the third guy. He opened the door and let her out. They were angry, branding us ‘fucking prick-teasing slags'; yet somehow we ended up back in the car and they drove us to my neighbourhood, dropping us a few streets from my house — a perverse act of chivalry from would-be rapists. The three of us ran from the car sobbing. Miraculously, we all escaped relatively unscathed, but we were so freaked out and embarrassed that we never told anyone. We all know how differently things could have turned out.

Twenty years have passed since that night, but I'm still putting myself in harm's way. When I pick up that hot 20-something in a club, I see it as harmless fun, something to tell my mates about the next day: ‘The old bird's still got it.' But with the clarity of sobriety, I can see that taking home men you don't know when you're blind drunk and live alone is unwise, to say the least. I wonder how many Australian women are doing just that on an average weekend, and aren't lucky enough to escape serious consequences. Consent can become a very fluid concept at 5.00 a.m. after a bucketload of booze.

While figures are grey, given that it's hard to determine whether drinking was the direct cause, an estimated 1000 people are victims of drug- or alcohol-related sexual assaults each year. And that's just the ones who report it. Police believe that increasing numbers of women are having their drinks spiked — although, again, figures are hard to pinpoint, as women often don't report or remember the incident. What's more worrying, police say, is that young women are increasingly getting so drunk that it's hard for them to establish whether they've been the victim of a sexual predator or were so wasted that they blacked out through alcohol alone.

Suddenly, sober dating doesn't seem such a silly concept; if nothing else, it's safer. I vow never again to put myself in a situation where a boozy one-night stand could turn into a life-changing nightmare.

I'M OFF TO
celebrate a happier romantic union: my friend and former flatmate Lucy is getting married. She and fiancé Shanan are well matched, and deeply in love. I couldn't be happier for them. But it's my first sober wedding, and I'm nervous. I'm reminded of how Nick, my teetotaller friend, warned me that ‘weddings are the worst' when it comes to having to justify your sobriety.

When I arrive at the reception centre, there are people milling around on the lawn, where the ceremony will take place, but no sign yet of bride or groom. There are a few couples and groups chatting, but I head straight towards a guy who, like me, has arrived alone and looks awkward. I introduce myself, and he reciprocates warmly. He seems like a good guy — and cute, too. Somehow we get around to talking about his most recent holiday, a ten-day trip to Las Vegas. He gambled away $2000. My jaw drops. He says that this was less than what he'd budgeted to lose, and that he made up for it by drinking $200 of alcohol a day in the open-bar deal at the casinos. After so long without a drink, I can't begin to imagine how anyone could consume that much booze in one day.

The ceremony is beautiful, and Lucy, a former model, looks stunning. Afterwards, we head to the bar, and I find myself wondering how much I'd drink today under normal circumstances — a free bar and a room full of people I've never met before would probably merit at least a couple of drinks an hour. Instead, I order orange juice, which I ask to be served in a champagne glass. I'm sick of having to drink my soft drinks out of ugly plastic tumblers.

Apart from Lucy and Shanan, the only person I know today is my other former flatmate, Oliver. At dinner, I'm seated next to him, and he helpfully announces to the whole table that I'm not drinking. I'm asked if I'm pregnant. I say no. Oliver tells them that I'm writing a book about my booze-free year. There are a few astonished faces. A guy sitting opposite me pipes up, ‘That would be a really short book. Fucking boring. The end.' I laugh politely, but secretly I want to stab him in the eye with my entree fork. He says that stopping drinking would be easy in winter, but impossible during Melbourne's Spring Racing Carnival: ‘You can't not drink at the races. You just can't.' This, it seems, is an indisputable fact. He tells me how he stopped drinking for three months a few years ago, and every day of it was so boring that he'd never do it again. He doesn't appear to see the irony in the fact that with a beer in his hand, he's the most boring man alive.

There's a half-filled champagne flute in front of each of us for the toast. The racing fan tells me that I have to drink for the toast, even if it's just a sip. Across the table, another guy nods gravely, explaining, ‘It's the toast. You have to.' Again, I smile, and hope they'll stop staring soon. When Lucy's dad raises his champagne glass to the bride and groom, I raise my orange juice. It's not a popular move. They look at me as if I've cursed the marriage.

Later, when the DJ starts, I realise I'm much better at dancing sober than I was 11 months ago. Busting a move with strangers is a new one, but I get into it, remembering that weddings are the natural home of bad dancing. I am by no means the worst dancer here. It turns out to be a lovely evening, which — apart from the awkward toast situation — is far less uncomfortable than I expected. I flirt with the Las Vegas guy and he flirts back. We dance, and chat about our reading habits, our families, and our love of sport. It seems there's some mutual attraction. But after a lull in the conversation, he gets up abruptly and says he's going to ‘hang out with the boys' outside. He doesn't invite me. I laugh as he wanders off. If I'd been drinking, I might have pursued him; I'd have excused his rude behaviour and found a way to make him mine. Sober, I don't care enough to bother. Instead, I return to the dance floor with the bride and enjoy being with her, smiling as I share a moment in the best day of her life. I might be going home alone tonight, but I leave with happy memories, and my dignity intact.

December

THIS COULD BE
the toughest month so far. So many parties. I don't want to be a spectator this Christmas, but I wonder if it's possible to be full of festive cheer without the festive beer. It's hard to resist a drink when the weather's warming up — albeit sporadically, in that uniquely Melbourne fashion that sees you digging the electric blanket out of the back of the cupboard the day after you swapped it for a fan. When it's 28 degrees at 6.00 p.m., A knock-off drink in the sunshine seems wholly appropriate. But then I look back to last December, and my desire to crack open a cold one fades. I remember that New Year's Day hangover as if it were yesterday: I can still taste the foul blend of tequila, Baileys, and pale ale; the dull throb around my temples and the stabbing behind my eyes are as real now as they were then. Some memories are relived so large it feels as if they could swallow you whole.

I don't want to go back there. As nervous as I am about a sober party season, I'm more nervous about what will happen when it's over. This year has gone so fast. I worry that, come January, I'll have a sip of beer and before long I'll be back where I started — the health reporter writing about binge drinking and then writing herself off. Being drunk doesn't worry me; it's the fear that it could become a regular pattern again. Moderation is my holy grail, but I'm just not sure it's in me. When I gave up smoking, I learned that I'm not good at doing things by halves. One night in the pub, two years since I'd had my last cigarette, I gave myself permission to have a few puffs, and it tasted good. So I decided I'd be one of those annoying social smokers, who bums cigarettes from friends at parties but never gets hooked. A few months down the track, I was back to two packs a week. I had to quit all over again. I either smoke or I don't — they seem to be my choices. My chocolate habit's the same: once the packet's open, there's no stopping me. Why would drinking be any different?