Every inspiring story on addiction and recovery generally features some reference to hitting 'rock bottom'. But what constitutes rock bottom?
Might it be when your daughter leaves home aged 15 and refuses to come back unless you stop drinking?
Might it be when the police are called to your home over concerns for your mental health and you miss being sectioned by the skin of your teeth?
Might it be when you are caught popping open a bottle of wine at 8am?
Might it even be when your brother tells you to get help or he will make sure social services are called in to safeguard your youngest child?
Just how many 'rock bottoms' does one person need?
My name is Kathryn and I'm a recovering alcoholic, with over 14 months' sober time.
As of last Sunday, I am also a marathoner.
I never admitted to myself that I had hit rock bottom. I was dragged into sobriety kicking and screaming. Even after my brother's warning, I kept missing GP appointments for blood tests. I lied about my drinking right up to the moment I turned up for the first appointment with a detox worker on 12th February 2016, having taken my last drink two days previous.
I used to spend a lot of time drinking. I drank to medicate the emotional pain of a psychologically abusive relationship. On the inside, I was a broken, depressed person willing herself to die by the bottle. On the outside, I was just about functioning - I held down a part-time job, made sure the kids were fed and clothed, did the school run and all the housework.
'Functioning': that fine line between having it all - and it all falling apart.
I had flirted with fitness campaigns on and off for many years, even to the point of qualifying as an instructor, but each campaign failed when drinking got in the way. By February 2016, something deep down was screaming 'shit or bust, mate'.
And so I set out to fill my drinking time with something else. My eldest daughter had returned to university, my youngest daughter had left home yet again on the back of the impact of my drinking and my sobriety had bought me some time with my youngest son whilst my brother watched over me like a hawk.
Sometime in early March 2016 I started running - at first, the Couch to 5km on the treadmill. I downloaded the app and did what the lady’s voice told me to do week by week, minute by minute, easy mile by easy mile.
Given that a diet of wine and Haribo hadn't done much for my supermodel physique, I also started to watch what I was eating, but with the focus being on nourishing my broken body and soul rather than the numbers on the scale. Within six months I had dropped over 40 pounds. Some time around then, I ended up with a place to run the London Marathon.
It would be disingenuous of me to suggest I simply pulled a marathon out of the bag, because I didn't; I trained, and I trained hard. I overcame the challenges of single parenting and caring for my mum to fit as much training into school hours as possible. Whilst other marathon trainees suffered the slog of the long run on Sundays, I did mine on a Friday. I can't say my young son particularly enjoyed joining me on his bike whilst I ran, but he became a motivating influence that defied his young years.
Let's face it: I had done drinking incredibly well for many years, and so became quite determined to do marathoning equally well! But my race had become about so much more than running: this project had pretty much saved my life, put my family back together and fixed the pieces of a completely broken soul.
And so it came to pass that at about 9.45am last Sunday I found myself packed like a sardine into a red starting pen at the London Marathon. My youngest daughter posted on Facebook gushing with pride at how far her mum had come. My eldest daughter would be tracking me on the marathon app and periodically posting my progress to social media.
Never underestimate the capacity for forgiveness that is borne out of unconditional love. In the very same way we mums forgive our little darlings pretty much every error of their ways, those little darlings have the capacity to forgive back. This is something I'll never take for granted again.
(Oh, and I crossed the finish line a sober and very happy marathoner in 4 hours, 37 minutes and 12 seconds. Not bad!)