I’ll never forget the horrifying moment I realised my in-laws weren’t big drinkers. It was the first time we were meeting back in 2020 so, as we took our seats for dinner, I scanned the neatly laid table nervously for a wine glass, a surefire way to steady my nerves.
Then, a jolt of panic hit. Although there were several bottles positioned amid the spread, they were filled with still and sparkling water.
That knot of fear intensified – but I should have guessed it would be a dry night. After all, Julius, then my boyfriend and now my husband of three years, rarely drinks. A natural extrovert, he is in his element performing in a room full of people without a jot of Dutch courage. I, on the other hand, am autistic, and have spent most of my adult life relying on alcohol to smooth the wrinkles of social anxiety.
We have what many people now refer to as a ‘drinking gap’ relationship, characterised by the gulf between our booze habits. Mostly, I am thrilled he drinks so little, but every now and then it has caused conflict, and the occasional wistful longing for a partner in crime I’ll never have.
I was in my teens when I first discovered alcohol could be a powerful ally to silence my chaotic inner voice and allow me to make easy conversation. Every friendship, fling and romantic relationship I entered into at university and beyond was forged in its presence. In fact, Julius was the first partner I’d ever had who was pretty much teetotal.
Julius, my husband of three years, rarely drinks. A natural extrovert, he is in his element in a room full of people without a jot of Dutch courage, writes Annabel Fenwick Elliott
We have what many people now refer to as a ‘drinking gap’ relationship, characterised by the gulf between our booze habits (Annabel and Julius with their children)
And on that occasion at his family dinner table, I was forced to confront the fact I relied too heavily on alcohol. My fear and anger at the absence of wine wasn’t normal. That night, I felt like I’d been tricked, as though I’d turned up at the dentist for a tooth extraction and been informed they wouldn’t be using anaesthetic. How could I possibly be expected to cope without the social lubricant of booze?
The problem is that, like Julius, his family has the sort of attitude towards alcohol that I envy. To them, it’s an occasional treat, certainly not crucial for the survival of a dinner party.
My husband and I met in Santorini six years ago. Our first date was at a smart restaurant with a generous sommelier. Julius later confessed that he drank far more than usual to keep up with me, as he didn’t want to seem prudish.
Our relationship blossomed in the early days of the pandemic, and like many of my peers, I drank every night at home – easily a bottle of wine a night. I noticed he did not, but didn’t think it was a problem. Initially, I was successful at hiding my dependence on booze from him, thanks to my high tolerance. I’m generally quite a subtle drunk; never one to wobble or slur my words.
Still, alcohol does make me bolder and more argumentative – debate becomes a sport when I’m drunk. I once dragged an unwilling Julius into a heated discussion on the history of human posture, but he just accepted that as part of my personality, not a side-effect of the alcohol.
It wasn’t until I stopped drinking, when pregnant with our first child, that we bickered less, and even then he didn’t realise the cause. I certainly wasn’t going to point it out, either.
After our son Jasper was born four years ago, my consumption crept back up. This time I couldn’t sweep it under the carpet. I had got away, just about, with being a hard-drinking girlfriend, but I knew I didn’t want to be a sloshed mother. So I’ve been mostly sober since Jasper was a baby, thanks to medication.
Feeling that Alcoholics Anonymous wasn’t for me, I sought help from a clinic called The Sinclair Method UK instead, and they prescribed me naltrexone.
Known as the Ozempic for drinkers, and used according to a programme developed in the 1990s by a Finnish addiction scientist, it’s a £3 pill that essentially blocks the ‘high’ that makes booze so moreish. Over time, this severs the reward loop and stops you craving alcohol.
Our relationship blossomed in the early days of the pandemic, and like many of my peers, I drank every night at home. I noticed he did not, but didn’t think it was a problem
Very recently, I fell off the wagon due to a family reunion. For the first time, Julius noticed. Not just the staggering number of empty bottles that were piling up, but a shift in my character
It worked for me, and I began to drink only a single glass of wine socially, like my husband. But very recently, I fell off the wagon due to a family reunion. Various relatives of mine – all wine and whisky aficionados – came to visit us from abroad for three weeks. It was our first get-together in nearly a decade, and we’ve always bonded over long boozy meals. So I ditched the naltrexone and let loose.
At first, I actually found it irritating that Julius was nursing alcohol-free beers on the sidelines, while the rest of us were draining expensive bottles of red and comparing notes on Scotch. I wanted him to join us. I also wanted him to drink more so he would notice less when things started sliding downhill.
Soon, the lively conversations morphed into ferocious debates. Two relatives in particular were getting into nightly battles over politics that became nasty, and I sporadically joined in. For the first time, Julius noticed. Not just the staggering number of empty bottles that were piling up, but a shift in my character.
The more I drank, the more volatile my mood became. The hangovers – which I could just sleep off before we had children – left me irritable every morning, and soon after our visitors had left, Julius told me: ‘Your eyes go dead when you’re drunk and I don’t recognise you.’ It was a passing comment from him, but I was mortified.
His words felt like a momentous wake-up call. I wanted us to be a team, but the gap between our alcohol consumption made that impossible.
In the immediate aftermath, it seemed apt to take on the Sober October challenge (something I would have rolled my eyes at back in the day) but I only made it halfway through the month without drinking before I hit another obstacle.
We’ve just made new friends: a couple with a child at our son’s new school, and two weeks ago we ended up in the pub. For the first time in years, I felt a strong desire to form a new social connection with this mum, who I adore. I knew I needed my trusty elixir to make the best impression, so I simply couldn’t resist knocking back a few glasses of wine with her to let my guard down. Julius even had two beers himself and the shared experience was joyous. Or it would have been, if I’d left it at that.
Instead, Julius came home and switched to water, while I, not wanting the euphoria to fade, surreptitiously polished off the last of the whisky my relatives had left behind while I made dinner and he played with our children. By the time they were in bed and we settled down on the sofa, Julius noticed. I was dead-eyed again, and being strange and evasive in conversation, he informed me.
A part of me wishes, in moments like that, that he’d be my accomplice in the boozy fun. Mostly though, I’m relieved to have ended up with a husband who hardly drinks. I’ve had past relationships where we both used alcohol to blur the edges of prickly problems we couldn’t be bothered to address. I don’t want that for Julius and me.
Given naltrexone was so effective for me in the past, I called my doctor at the clinic last week and we’ve developed a plan to get me back on the medication.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t enjoyed my brief rekindled affair with alcohol. But it’s time to join my husband again, and his boring – but ultimately happier – low-booze existence.