The other day I was out for a meal with my husband and some of his friends. As the drinks flowed, the men chatted and the women separated off into their own group.

As more and more bottles were ordered, I noticed their cackling laughter getting louder, their remarks bitchier – and all of a sudden, I had a ‘headache’.

It was early and, really, I was feeling fine. But I couldn’t bear a moment more in their company.

The reason? I cannot endure drunk women.

Don’t get me wrong. Drunk men are awful, too; they fight, fall over and get lairy. But they don’t draw my ire because I can’t recognise myself in those men. In drunk women, I see a mirror of a past I’d rather forget.

You see, I was once one of them.

I stopped drinking in 2019 after a lifetime of binging. I’d been hooked since my first sip of my dad’s home brew aged 13.

I stopped drinking in 2019 after a lifetime of binging, writes Julie Cook

I stopped drinking in 2019 after a lifetime of binging, writes Julie Cook

Most people I knew were aware of their limits, but through my teens and 20s, I consistently took it too far. At my worst, I could drink a bottle of wine by myself. In my 30s I just about managed to keep it to weekends, but found myself longing for Friday from Tuesday afternoon.

Finally, at 42, I stopped. It was the best decision I ever made and I have felt healthier and happier ever since. I’m a better wife to my husband Cornel and mother to our children Alex, 16, and Adriana, 11.

But there is a downside. Along with the clear head, lack of anxiety and better skin comes the fact you are now a social pariah. While sobriety may be trendy among Gen Z, among my fortysomething peers not drinking sees you labelled a puritanical old bore.

And it’s women who heckle you the most furiously for shunning alcohol – usually with a glass of wine in hand, swaying across a dance floor. Maybe that’s another reason I loathe them so much; I feel they judge me back.

Coming of age in the late 1990s, my female friends and I were taught that heavy boozing was a way of achieving parity with men. I’d spend every Thursday to Sunday competitively drinking with colleagues and friends.

I genuinely believed that alcohol made me more interesting, funnier, more attractive. And, yes, friends thought I was funny, but I¿d always take it too far

I genuinely believed that alcohol made me more interesting, funnier, more attractive. And, yes, friends thought I was funny, but I’d always take it too far

I loved the ceremony of wine, in particular. The pop of the cork, the delicate glug-glug as it entered the glass, that first fuzzy embrace as the alcohol kicked in.

In my 20s, I regularly drank till I blacked out, landing me with hideous hangovers that would prevent me working.

Yet I genuinely believed that alcohol made me more interesting, funnier, more attractive. Crippled with social anxiety without it, I’d often have to neck a few glasses at home before an event to ‘get in the zone’.

And, yes, friends thought I was funny, but I’d always take it too far. Soon I’d be slurring, falling about, saying embarrassing things. My then-husband (we’ve since divorced and I’ve remarried) was often mortified by my antics.

It got me in trouble, too. I was once carried off a train, unconscious, by emergency services, after drinking for seven hours straight with colleagues and passing out.

After I met Cornel and had my children in my 30s, I did rein in my drinking. It became ‘my treat’ on a Saturday night once the kids were in bed – but I could still get through a bottle of wine in one sitting. The next day I’d struggle through with a banging head and nausea.

My mum friends were the same, though. We’d send each other texts like: ‘Kids in bed, wine time!’

Encouragement to binge, after all, is everywhere, under the excuse of ‘girls’ night’ or ‘gin o’clock’. A glass of champagne in your hand is the key to elegance in an Instagram picture.

None of us saw a problem. But somewhere, deep down, I knew it was. I hated the self-loathing, the waking at 3am with guilt and existential dread. And was I really giving my best to my kids if I was exhausted and ratty the next day?

I see now how others once viewed me ¿ with pity and concern. I wish I could tell these women how dangerous it is, both for their health and their personal safety

I see now how others once viewed me – with pity and concern. I wish I could tell these women how dangerous it is, both for their health and their personal safety

The decision to quit happened overnight. I was at a bar in Paris with Cornel in 2019, and I didn’t want to have a hangover the next day. So I pushed my glass towards him and ordered a soft drink; it was the last alcoholic drink I ever had. Frankly, I was amazed at how easy it was to go cold turkey.

Now that I’m sober, I can always spot drunk women in the wild. Cheeks ruddy from prosecco, swaying on their high heels, cackling loudly.

And I realise that I hate them because they remind me of who I used to be. I see now how others once viewed me – with pity and concern.

I wish I could tell these women how dangerous it is, both for their health and their personal safety. I wish I could tell them how much they will regret their behaviour. Yet only the drinker can decide when to quit.

But I think another reason I cannot stomach these women is envy; envy that they have the ‘freedom’ to drink, a privilege I deny myself after so many years of over-indulgence.

I envy the fact they can have ‘just the one or two’. I envy that they haven’t faced the existential dread I did every time I had a hangover. Maybe a psychologist would tell me I actually envy the oblivion they get from alcohol that I can no longer resign myself to.

I’d like to hope that’s not the case. Because, as smug as it may sound, I wouldn’t trade my sobriety and peace for a night on the tiles ever again.

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