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.

I would easily have a bottle of wine to myself every night

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. 

Rather than drinking less, and realising I had a problem, I decided to turn to drugs

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.

Cocaine had always been around and I started to take it regularly

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 felt like a heart-attack. The pain was real. The panic was palpable

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. 

I was sexually assaulted during a blackout. I was raped at 19

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.

Motherhood was a big part of my story, too. When I became a mum, I found it so hard and I battled postnatal depression.

I felt like a failure, and that sense of failure was isolating.

My husband was working away a lot, and alcohol became my coping mechanism.

I wouldn’t drink on the school run, but I couldn’t wait to crack out the wine while the kids were getting to go to bed.

I grew up in a family where drinking was normalised. We drank to get drunk.

It was how we celebrated, how we dealt with stress - so, it wasn’t surprising that I turned to alcohol during difficult moments. 

Add to that my undiagnosed ADHD which I eventually discovered at the age of 41, which has such a strong link to addiction.

Drinking silenced the noise in my head. It made overwhelming situations manageable.

But the truth is, I drank because I didn’t want to feel my feelings.

I went into recovery, at the age of 40 - having spent most of my teenage and adult life heavily drinking.

I grew up in a family where drinking was normalised. We drank to get drunk

Now, nearly half of young people and one in every three middle-aged Britons no longer drink alcohol because of health concerns, according to a study by the Office for National Statistics.

When you’re an alcoholic, you feel like your emotions are so uncomfortable or so painful that they might kill you. 

You realise you learned loads of ways to stop feeling those feelings. 

Drinking, for me, was the most effective way of doing that. 

In sobriety, they say that the good news is you get your feelings back, but the bad news is, you get your feelings back. I’ve learnt they won’t kill me and that I can't hide from them.

When I gave up alcohol, I realised drinking wasn’t the problem - it was my brain.

Recovery isn’t about learning how to stop drinking; it’s about figuring out why you drank and addressing those triggers.

Sobriety has given me my life back. The time I’ve got back - both physical time and mental space - is the most precious gift.

I’ve written books, strengthened my relationships, and been present for my two girls, now aged 11 and eight.

I don’t miss their swimming lessons because I’m hungover (to be honest, any parent who's done the dreaded swimming lessons on a Saturday morning will know that's a blessing and a curse).

My social circle is smaller now, but the friendships I have are deeper and more meaningful.

I used to think I couldn’t have fun without alcohol, but now, three and half years down the line, I know that’s not true.

One of the things that blew my mind was the amount of time I got back.

Yes, physically but emotionally and mentally, too - I’m not thinking about booze and when I’ll have my next drink.

My life is peaceful now - not boring, but peaceful. And that’s something I never knew before sobriety.

For anyone questioning their relationship with alcohol, I always say: if it’s costing you more than money, it’s worth looking at.

Getting sober isn’t easy, but I’ve never met anyone who’s regretted it.

I’m 43 now, and I’ve been sober since 26 November 2021.

Sobriety doesn’t give you a perfect life, but it gives you a clear head to deal with what comes your way.

Head to Cat Sims Instagram for more about her journey in recovery and her book is currently on sale at Amazon