I had my first drink of alcohol on a family holiday to Barcelona when I was 14. It was one of the most profound and glorious moments of my life. I was enveloped in a warm, protective glow, and all my fears and insecurities melted away. I hadn’t felt so safe and protected since I was a child. It felt spiritual and transcendent, and just as soon as I’d finished it, I wanted another one.
My whole life hinged on that moment. It changed everything. For an anxious and neurotic teenager, discovering alcohol felt as if I’d been handed a cheat code for life. It seemed like a solution to every anxiety, phobia, and neurosis I had. It was as if I’d found a loophole that would allow me to navigate my way through life, avoiding any fear or misery.
By the time I was in my late teens, I’d built a whole life on this flimsy premise. My entire existence was completely centred around drinking. It was the only way I was able to participate in life. I ticked every box to qualify as an alcoholic. I craved alcohol from the moment I woke up. My life was in constant chaos, but at least I had a coping strategy.
I quickly made a large group of equally fucked-up friends, and I discovered that with drugs, a drinking session could last for days. The arc of these binges was always the same. At first, I’d be funny, flirtatious, naughty, and mischievous, but as I continued to drink, I’d become louder and more obnoxious. Eventually, I’d drink myself into a state of chaotic oblivion, becoming volatile and even psychotic, often getting myself thrown out of whatever club or party I’d ended up at. I’d then wake up shivering under my duvet, hungover, pathetic, and full of shame and remorse.
Inevitably, things began to fall apart, and I made various attempts to quit. I spent months in rehab clinics and years in Alcoholics Anonymous, where I managed a miserable, resentful 18 months of sobriety. They told me their way was the only way to stop drinking, and if I left the program, I’d end up destroying my life.
Eventually, I’d drink myself into a state of chaotic oblivion, becoming volatile and even psychotic…
I chose to leave, and then spent the next 10 years proving them right. I became a fucking degenerate, fucking up every job, every relationship, and every opportunity I had.
During this time, I continued to see endless therapists, trying to unpick my neuroses—trying to find something to blame, some problem I could solve that would miraculously straighten me out.
In 2006, I turned 27. Twenty-seven is an interesting age. It’s the age when all our favorite rock stars drop dead. It seems to be an age when things climax. It certainly felt to me as if things had reached a peak—or perhaps, more accurately, a very low point indeed.
I was a pathetic, morally bankrupt, selfish, toxic piece of shit. I was physically fucked, mentally broken, and heading for collapse.
I would rather have died of liver failure than go back to Alcoholics Anonymous, so I realized if I was going to get sober, I’d have to do it alone. It started with brutal honesty: I scrutinized why I drank and challenged every belief I had about alcohol. I took short breaks—one day, then three—treating them like indulgent detoxes. I learned the science: alcohol’s endorphin spike comes with a dynorphin crash, a chemical con I’d mistaken for relief.
Gradually, I extended sober stretches, rode out cravings, and faced social situations without booze. Then something shocking happened. Happiness began to creep in. Relapses happened, but each one showed me how much I valued my sober life.
Eventually, I completely saw through alcohol’s illusion and walked away for good. My final decision to stop drinking wasn’t prompted by some cataclysmic rock bottom but by the simple realization that drugs and alcohol simply didn’t deliver what they promised.
