10,080 Minutes

7am

Thursday morning. The incessant beeping of my alarm clock pulls me out of a deep slumber. I roll over in bed and press snooze. I need those precious extra five minutes to compose myself enough to get up, ready to face the big, scary world outside of the safety of my apartment.

A dull ache throbs beneath my temples, a sensation which checked itself in a week ago and has long outstayed its welcome. The headache is accompanied by a mild yet constant feeling of nausea. I can feel my heartbeat reverberating through my eardrums, an uncomfortable whooshing sound which only makes me feel more sick. From the slight gap in between my bedroom curtains, I see dark grey clouds floating across the sky.

I do not want to get up. I do not want to go to work. I do not want to face reality.

8am

Radio 1 blares out of my car speakers as I sit in traffic, sipping on coffee in a travel mug. Cheap instant coffee, strong, with two sugars. I’m not a breakfast person, finding it difficult to eat before noon, but the sugar perks me up a little, eases the pain in my head somewhat. The skies opened as I walked from my apartment building to my car earlier, my body being pelted with heavy, ice cold raindrops.

I don’t recognise the song playing on the radio - it is a mess of brash synths and lyrics that make no sense. My Dad always said that you become old when you start disliking the current popular music.

Guess I’m old now, I think, as I switch the radio off and instead listen to the sound of idling engines interspersed with the occasional beeping of a horn by a frustrated commuter.

9am

How can I help you today? The AI assistant on my work computer asks. How can you help me? Well, I feel like shit. Could you help me with that?

If we could build an AI that gets rid of headaches and nausea with a few clicks, that would be great. Instead, we get these irritatingly enthusiastic little bots that take over the internet and drain our water resources. Such is life.

I click the X to remove it from my screen and open up my emails. I respond to a few which look the most important, and then decide I need another hit of caffeine. In the staff room, I pour coffee into a blue mug that says “World’s Okayest Employee”, which is probably a generous statement, considering my performance over the past year. It was my office Secret Santa gift from last year.

My hands are shaking. I spill coffee on the counter and quickly clean it up, thankful no-one was around to witness it.

10am

Team meeting. I hide my hands under the desk to stop people seeing the trembling. Our team lead asks me a question. I swallow down my nausea and string together a few sentences that I hope make sense. Seemingly satisfied, he moves on to another topic.

My stomach begins to bubble and groan, making me break out in a cold sweat which trickles down the back of my neck. A colleague makes a joke about me being hungry, which I laugh at, grateful that they think I’m simply ready for my lunch.

I’m the first out of the meeting room, my feet hurriedly walking towards the men’s toilets. Thankfully, they are empty, and I dive into the end cubicle. After emptying my stomach, I sit for a few minutes, my head leaning against the wall, hating everything, regretting the pain I’ve caused myself.

11am

More coffee. More emails. Spreadsheets. Staring at the clock ticking away, begging time to speed up.

12pm

I’m not sure if I can do this. There’s got to be an easier way. I head to the toilets again, back to the comfort and safety of that end cubicle. I open the web browser on my phone and type in the address for the support forum I lurk on silently, never feeling brave enough to post anything. It should comfort me, but it makes me feel more alone than ever. All those success stories. I could never be that strong.

1pm

Finally, time for lunch. I’m not hungry, but it breaks up the day, signaling that I’m halfway there. I leave the office and buy a BLT and a Coke from the shop across the road. It's still raining. I only manage to choke down half the sandwich, the sugar in the Coke sticking to my teeth and making them feel fuzzy.

2pm

Another meeting, a company-wide one this time. Easier to blend in, because there’s more people. Most people are in a post-lunch slump, not really paying attention to one of the directors reading figures out from the projector in a monotone voice. When the meeting ends, I overhear a woman whisper to another:

“I’m desperate for a glass of wine after that!”

Her friend giggles. I return to the bathroom for a third time, standing over the toilet and heaving, but nothing comes up.

3pm

Back to my desk. More spreadsheets. Clicking my mouse aimlessly. Water with ice, and two paracetamol for my headache.

4pm

The low-level nausea is still hanging around, like an annoying guest who doesn’t realise the party is over. I get a Mars Bar from the vending machine, hoping the sugar hit will make me feel better. It perks me up for around half an hour, and then I feel worse than I did before. I put my head down on my desk, the laminate wood pleasantly cool on my forehead.

“Heavy night?” My desk neighbour asks. I laugh in response. If only.

5pm

Thirty minutes until quitting time. As it’s Thursday, people have pretty much given up trying to look like they’re working, hanging around each other’s desks and chatting, making plans. I am playing solitaire on my computer.

“Coming out for a drink?” A colleague asks me. Thursday is the new Friday: the motto of every contemporary office drone who has little joy in their life except for their weekly work drinks in which they can let their hair down and talk shit about their boss.

“Can’t tonight,” I reply. “Sorry.”

My colleague looks surprised. It’s the first time I’ve turned down work drinks in the four years I’ve worked here. I turn back to my computer, making a to-do list for tomorrow.

I’m not in any rush to return to my empty apartment. Being at work makes it easier - I have to at least attempt to keep up appearances here. At home on my own, I don’t have to pretend.

6pm

Traffic on the way home is worse than it was this morning, but I don’t mind. Like I said, I’m not in any rush.

I pull into a supermarket car park and turn my engine off, but I don’t get out of the car yet, needing a moment. I breathe deeply, in through the nose, out from the mouth. Supermarkets are one of the most difficult places for me to be in, a place where the temptation becomes unbearable.

I grab a basket and fill it with eggs, bread, cereal, bananas, tea bags. I treat myself to a steak for dinner. Then, as I’m searching for where the toilet roll has been moved to, I take a wrong turn and end up in aisle 14. I used to spend a lot of time in this aisle.

Glass bottles lined up neatly on the shelves, filled with liquids in shades of deep red, pale yellow, and salmon pink. Labels below them feature flags from Italy, New Zealand, South Africa. They hold the promise of increased confidence, a chance to wind down and relax, a warmth that will spread through my body like a comforting hug. Maybe I could just…

Play the tape forward. I see myself curled around the toilet, vomit spattered across the bowl. I see myself texting people from my past, creating an embarrassing and awkward situation for us both. I see myself, a grown adult, wetting my bed and sleeping in it, because I’m too messed up to change the sheets. Nope. Not tonight.

7pm

Time to eat. I’m used to quick microwave meals, fast food, or just skipping dinner entirely, but I’ve made an effort tonight - steak, cooked medium rare, with homemade potato wedges and roasted broccoli. I eat slowly, my stomach still unsettled, but it’s surprisingly good. I enjoyed cooking it, having something to keep me occupied, to take my mind off things.

It’s still early. I scroll through my phone for a while, not really taking anything in. One of the hardest parts of this is trying to pass the time.

8pm

Twenty-four hour news. A Europa League match I’m not interested in. A re-run of Agatha Christie’s Poirot.

I flick through the TV channels listlessly, unable to focus. I try Netflix instead, choosing a horror film I’ve been meaning to watch. Twenty minutes in, I’ve lost track of the plot already. The pain in my head is getting worse, radiating out from my temples and spreading down to my cheeks and jaw. I make myself a cup of tea and put the football match on for background noise.

9pm

A deep fatigue sits in my bones, despite barely doing anything all day. I also find myself feeling strangely emotional, tears welling up in my eyes for no apparent reason. The low drone of sports commentators and crowd noise from the TV fills the room, but my mind is elsewhere, being bombarded with intrusive memories from my childhood, my young adulthood. Bits and pieces of past relationships and past jobs, as well as countless nights out which all blur into one endless memory of strong drinks and loud music and regrets. I lie back on the sofa and turn the TV volume up, trying to drown it all out.

10pm

I admit defeat, brush my teeth, and go to bed. I’m still exhausted, but I can’t sleep, my mind is too full. My head still throbs uncomfortably. I so want to give up. I’m lonely. I’m depressed. I’m struggling.

But... I did it. One week, no alcohol. The longest I’ve ever gone without drinking since I started. I don’t have anyone to tell - when you’re an addict, you don’t exactly tend to have good relationships with people. Anyone I ever cared about has long since been pushed away by my poor choices, my outbursts, my rock bottom moments. I’m not looking for sympathy, and I don’t blame anyone who’s left my life because of my actions. It’d just be nice to have someone to share this with.

I close my eyes and try to drift off. I hope it’s sunnier tomorrow.