My alcoholism almost ruined our lives

CECILE WILLIAMS*, 46, is a civil servant, and her partner David*, 50, is a construction worker. Together for eight years, they live in Essex with Cecile’s nine-year-old daughter Jess*, and have worked through Cecile’s alcoholism.

The other night David and I went to a party. I sipped my non-alcoholic drink and watched as people became increasingly intoxicated. It was good to see our friends, but by midnight I was happy to drive us both home. I was up at 8am the next morning, feeling fresh as a daisy, and thought, ‘I’m so glad

I’m not that person any more.’ The life changes I’ve made by becoming teetotal have not just saved my relationship – they’ve transformed it.

Rewind to December 2019. I had just ruined the third Christmas in a row with my constant drinking. I’d had to drag myself out of bed on Christmas morning and was unable to eat the dinner that David had spent hours preparing. This behaviour had become the norm.

I’d always had issues with alcohol, but had felt they were under control. In my 20s and 30s, I led a hedonistic lifestyle, working in the City and stumbling home in the early hours. I didn’t think there was anything wrong, as all my friends did the same.

Things changed when, aged 35, I found out I was pregnant following a brief relationship. I stopped drinking immediately and concentrated on motherhood. A year after Jess was born, I was invited on a night out to a local pub and met David. We hit it off and six months later he moved in.

with alcohol quickly resurfaced. David frequently works away, so in the evenings after the bedtime routine, I’d open a bottle of wine. I told myself it

asleep. I was never an angry drunk, yet

I’d become impossible to live with. I was there, but not there. I developed chronic anxiety and depression. I had months off work, blaming the stress of my job and drinking more to cope. I told myself I wasn’t an alcoholic because I wasn’t pouring vodka over

family, but in fact everything in my life was hanging by a thread. David wanted to leave, but was worried about Jess.

On Boxing Day last year I woke feeling the usual combination of guilt, anxiety and the need for a drink. David told me he’d cried as he’d scraped the untouched Christmas dinner into the bin. David never cries. He said things had to change, that he and Jess needed me around. I realised I needed to take myself in hand for myself, my relationship and for Jess.

With David’s support, I went cold turkey on 1 January, but nearly broke on day three. Luckily I found a local AA meeting. As I sat surrounded by people who’d lost homes, jobs and relationships, I realised I was on the brink of doing the same. From there I signed up to online help groups and read ‘quit lit’, such as This Naked Mind. David helped me break the triggering patterns – he would run me a bath or

‘Throughout all the trauma, Greg had been unerringly supportive and kind’

‘I had months off work, blaming stress and drinking more to cope’

until the cravings waned.

I’m proud of how far I’ve come and so thankful to David for our second chance. Now I’m truly present for

Jess and David. We can go out for an evening meal, and David can have a pint and I’ll drive home. We enjoy walks in the country because I’m not too hung-over to join in. But the best thing is the communication. Before, we could never address anything serious, as I wouldn’t remember what we’d spoken about. Now we’re discussing David formally adopting Jess. We’re heading into 2021 as a proper family.

o be British in America is to be the subject of a mix of amusement and adoration, usually having something to do with the accent and air of civility. To be American in London is to be the object of a mix of scorn, wariness and, at times, reluctant admiration.

But to be a Black American woman in London is to be a curiosity. There simply aren’t many of us over here. And even fewer on British television screens and magazines. The lack of exposure can either create a general feeling of intrigue or suspicion.

Now, as I write, in an age in which identity politics continues to shape-shift,

Tthe idea of post-racialism is widely recognised as the myth it is. But in my own life – particularly my years living in the UK, a country seemingly determined not to see race – I’ve come to realise

abandoning entirely. Because growth isn’t in the denying of difference, but in the way we learn to discuss, embrace and live with it, together. Nowhere is this clearer than in the back seat of a London taxi, where I often end up seeing myself through the eyes of others.

My many chats, debates, arguments, recriminations and extended moments of bewildered silence in the backs of cars of British drivers of all races, from