The disastrous decade of carnage; the turbulent twenties.
Where Impulsive and toxic behaviours were plenty.
Fleeing from relationships with women, overshadowed by greed and lust.
Avoiding career ladders and watching lines of opportunities all burning to dust.
Family photos all broken in pieces
A mind of trauma, anger and pain because I don’t know what peace is.
After six months of sobriety at the age of 29, one cold pint with friends and then I’ll be alright.
Maybe just have a couple and then call it a night.
But after one sip, I lose my fight.
I gulp inviting lagers while the jukebox plays Sinatra
Fly me to the moon, doing my best wedding two-step side to side like my father.
With a pool cue in hand, like a microphone stand,
I deliver my angelic singing voice like a lead singer of a jazz band.
After sinking a few, there’s no disputing, I’m the king of south London dance floors from Bermondsey to Tooting.
But lagers too weak, it’s becoming a chore to recapture that feeling, that buzz from the previous four.
Let’s get the shots in and then let’s order some more.
I’ll move on to craft beer cause it looks great on Insta, at 7.3% the effect is quite sinister.
No point in fosters or carling, I’ll have a pint of your localest craftiest triple hops pale hazy fruity ale, please darling.
Euphoria growing with conversations that are flowing.
Reminisce of the good old days and memories cause that’s all my life has become, it sinks in that I’m now 30 and this life is no longer fun.
Attempting to converse but my voice goes silent, my head starts to spin and my thoughts become violent.
The dark mood returns, this is where it’s bleak, time to go home, my demon starts to speak.
Fresh air attacks and I stagger towards home, I reach out to an old friend, but he’s not on the phone.
This friend in particular, he sits on a shelf, always assisting me with problems of mental health.
His name is Echo Falls; the sound tumbling down the stairs of your local spoons, like a potato sack. He turns my humble home into a winehouse where my days die slowly, back to black.
I block out the world, my curtains are closed
At home I can drink in secrecy, so that no one knows.
I lay whilst the vinyl records spin conveying words of love.
I reach the numbness I desire, my eyes dead, blank, staring to the white ceiling above.
Suddenly it’s 6 am, I’m awake with shakes as the sun’s heart beats, causing sweats to unleash on unwashed bed sheets.
Reach out in panic, I quietly cheer, I’ve found a cure to relieve this crushing fear.
Lying trapped inside these blue walls confined, I savour and sip a breakfast red wine, just to add some sophistication to my decline.
Stagger to the mirror to see pale, puffy cheeks and bloodshot, baggy eyes, grey circles on both sides; a face I fail to recognise.
In the darkest depths of addiction, this was the norm. I didn’t see a problem; I was just a binge drinker after all.
I tried time and time again to concede and surrender. Lo and behold, another three-day bender.
So came the day that I said no more.
Tired of living a life with nothing to show for.
How did I stop? Surrendering on my knees, looking up to the sky at a power greater than me.
The most difficult task for an atheist suffering with egotistical insecurity.
In a crowded room full of kind strangers with care.
I raised my hand up high towards the air
My name’s Dave, I’m an alcoholic
I’m seven days clean
I need your help, I’m desperately in need
I spent the next hour, week, month, gazing down at the floor and listened to strength, recovery and hope from voices.
That told me my story; a lifetime of regretful choices.
When the meetings ended, I wasn’t left alone.
Helping hands reached out across London, exchanging numbers to call or text on a phone.
I didn’t reach out to Echo Falls.
I took a deep breath with prayer and pause.
One by one I glued the pieces back together, rebuilding from the wreckage; a new life that I can choose to live forever.
Although the pink fluffy clouds of early recovery may have vanished.
Injecting alcohol into my soul is done and banished.
Cause I knew it was done, I knew it was over
When on April 14th, 2025,
I turned one year sober.
By Contributor: Dave Elson, follow on IG @daveelson_
SOBER POETRY: This is a space where recovery and creativity meet. It features heartfelt verses that capture the emotions of sobriety. Written by various Sober Curator Contributors and readers about their recovery journeys, these poems provide inspiration, healing, and reflection for readers seeking solace and connection.
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