I endured blackouts and sexual assault but nothing was as sobering as the moment I realised I was an alcoholic

I DIDN’T fit the stereotypical image of an alcoholic. I wasn’t sleeping on a park bench, I hadn’t been arrested and I hadn’t lost my family. On the surface, I looked happy and successful. I was a social media influencer with over half a million followers, and a successful author, and podcaster. My husband Jimmy, 45, worked in the music business as a touring session musician for artists like George Ezra, Dido and Bryan Ferry.

We lived in a lovely four-bedroom house in North West London, both my kids were doing well at a wonderful primary school. We were your archetypal middle-class family. And, I think there’s a lot of privilege tied up in that. I was able to hide behind it for a long time. So, when I finally admitted I had a problem, it was a shock, even to me. I would easily have a bottle of wine to myself every night. And, when it got to the weekends, I would have a considerable amount more.

I lived for the moment I could leave the house to meet someone for lunch, telling my husband I'd be home by 6pm but knowing it would probably end up being more like 6am. Once I had that first glass of wine, all bets were off. I almost wouldn’t stop drinking. I could always be the one to be relied on for ‘a good time.’. But then came the blackouts. I suppose I'd always had a habit of drinking to blackout, but in my late twenties, I realised those blackouts were becoming more and more frequent.

There were countless times that I had passed out on the train on the way back home from parties, and I missed my stop. I’d laugh it off, but if I found out my daughters Billie, 11, and Bo, eight, did this I would be horrified. More often than not, I would never remember huge chunks of my night. I’d then spend the next day phoning around apologising for my ‘potentially bad’ behaviour. I used to pass it off as a joke and say everything was ‘fine,’ but really my brain was filled with anxiety.

Rather than drinking less, and realising I had a problem, I decided to turn to drugs. The problem wasn't alcohol, I reasoned to myself. It was the blackouts. Cocaine had always been around and I started to take it regularly, realising that I could drink as much - more even - and the cocaine would stop me from getting sloppy and, more importantly, from blacking out. Cocaine meant that my drinking didn't have to stop when my body shut down. I could drink more and for longer. Win win, I thought at the time.

Deep down, though I didn’t admit it, I knew it wasn’t normal and I had a problem. I don’t like the term “functioning alcoholic,” but I suppose it’s what most people would understand. I hid it, disguised it, justified it, denied it. It was this insidious, slippery slope. I never drank in the morning, I never hid vodka around the house, and I wasn’t drunk around my kids. So, it didn’t look like what most people imagine alcoholism to look like.

For me, it wasn’t about a dramatic rock bottom. There wasn’t one catastrophic event. But there was a moment I knew I needed help. It was just after the COVID-19 lockdown in 2021. I was sleeping on my parent’s sofa, looking after her and my dad as he had a knee replacement, and my mum had Parkinsons, and I woke up at 4 a.m. with a panic attack, and this wasn’t the first time. I would wake up clutching my chest, sweating, barely able to breathe. It felt like a heart-attack. The pain was real. The panic was palpable.

I just knew it was the alcohol. My life had become unmanageable. There were horrific things that happened before that moment, though. I was sexually assaulted during a blackout. I was raped at 19. I didn't know it was rape then. I said no over and over again and tried to wriggle out from underneath him but he held me down. It wasn't particularly violent but I was drunk and thought I'd brought it on myself by flirting and kissing him.

Later, when I was in my mid-thirties, I was sexually assaulted in a blackout by a man with whom I had a professional relationship. A few of us had gone out for a work lunch and it had turned into a big party. I don't know a lot of what happened, but when I came out of the blackout, I was in an unfamiliar hotel room and the man was assaulting me. I fought my way out of that room. I grabbed my things and was found in the lift of a posh London hotel hysterical and in the foetal position.

The police came and did a rape kit but I didn’t press charges, because I didn't want to lose my job. Ironically, I ended up losing my job when I told my boss what had happened and she called me a 'silly little girl who got drunk and found herself in a situation she regretted.'. I didn't press charges and I know being assaulted wasn’t my fault, but I’ve come to understand it’s now my responsibility to keep myself safe - and I do that through maintaining my sobriety.