Before reading this, consider reading part one and two which are below.
Alcohol ruins relationships. I know this painfully well from my own experience. Even casual drinking buddies gradually drift away, which stings less, but there have also been painful breakups within the family because of my drinking that have left deep, lasting scars. Not every relationship has been completely severed, yet people now tend to treat me differently. Guests hesitate and ask if it’s all right to have a drink in my presence, and that uncertainty really bothers me. My father and my brother have stopped keeping beers in the fridge, even though I haven’t taken one of theirs in years. They believe they’re doing the right thing, but what they don’t realise is that I no longer have any desire to drink. There isn’t even a choice anymore — it’s doctor’s orders.
One of the biggest losses was my cousin T and her family. I won’t use her real name, but family who read this blog will know exactly who I mean. We’re the same age and grew up together; she, and later her husband, were once among my closest friends. As usual, though, I messed things up because of my drinking. T drank too, though not to the same extreme, so we often drank together and enabled each other more than we realised. They lived just five minutes away, and I fell into the damaging habit of treating their house like a drinking den — a refuge and a secret safe space away from my parents. For a while I even lived there before becoming very unwell and ending up in hospital, after which I eventually had to move back into my folks’ house.
I think they’d finally had enough of my antics, which is understandable, and gave me the flick. There was one particular occasion that caused the most damage, and that would be the last time I saw T. I had just come out of a month-long stint in rehab and arranged for T to take me home. She was working her usual shift at the Wednesday market in Mornington, where she grew mushrooms and sold them to the market-goers. True to form, I bought and drank beer while I waited for T to pack up her stall and give me a lift. How pathetic — I’d been out of rehab for less than an hour and I was already drinking. I told myself I deserved it. I got absolutely wasted. When we arrived at my folks’ place, where I was staying at the time, my dad could tell immediately that I was intoxicated. Rather than direct his frustration at me, he turned on T. Harsh words were exchanged, and T left. She later messaged me to say she would never set foot in that house again and that she didn’t want to see me until I got my life together: Move out of my parents, stop drinking and start selling my art. I did all three things, but far too much time had passed. It’s been about five years, maybe more. I saw her once at my nan’s funeral, but we didn’t speak, and that brief, silent encounter felt like the final punctuation on everything we had and lost.
Let’s talk about rehab. I did two and a half stints, spread over a few years. This was some time ago. The first visit was in 2013. I felt strangely safe in that atmosphere because there was practically no opportunity to drink — we were constantly breath-tested, and a positive reading meant immediate eviction from the program. It was pretty full-on. There were structured groups during the day at a beautiful homestead where we spent most of our time, learning, talking and doing practical exercises. The rehab is recognised as one of the best in the country. On most nights we would usually attend AA meetings; people travelled from all over to attend. A lot were there for legal issues, some had simply had enough of drinking, and then there was me, who signed up largely because everyone else pushed me into it — and, privately, because I needed to prove something to myself.
Same old story, but then I got out and I drank. I never really took the whole rehab business seriously at the time. If I had to do another stint now, I think I would actually put in the effort and try to take what I could from the classes. When I say two and a half, the half was me getting fed up with the program and all the repetitive lessons. I had heard it all before; it felt like more of the same, just reinforcement. I drank beer on the way home.
Something else alcohol would do is cause “hangxiety,” a term used to describe the anxiety you suffer the day after heavy drinking. I’m fortunate to have a range of psychiatric medications that help blunt the worst of it, but there is nothing pleasant about those episodes. For me it was a toxic mixture of anxiety and paranoia that pushed me to the edge of a full panic attack and left me with a pervasive sense of impending doom. It would make me obsess over my health — convinced I was dying — and turn minor worries into overwhelming problems where I didn’t know what to do next. I watch a lot of podcasts about alcohol and sobriety, and hangxiety turns out to be very common; for a long time I thought I was alone. The symptoms usually hit in the afternoon and persist until my meds start working; a healthy dose of Seroquel reliably calms it down. Thank God for medication — I can’t imagine managing those episodes without it. This used to happen most days after drinking; since I became sober I only get the occasional attack, and at least now I recognize it and know how to fight it.
Before I tie things up I want to share something out of character. I’ve found this to be true for most alcoholics: we lie and we become sneaky. I’d like to think of myself as an honest person, but when I drank a tonne… not so much. When asked, I would always play down how much I had consumed. I’d hide empty beer cans, invent excuses for going to the shops — not really for pizza or pharmacy supplies, but as cover to visit the bottle shop. The parents I’m living with at the moment aren’t that gullible; they knew I was going out to drink even if it wasn’t openly discussed. The whole alcohol thing became a full‑time job: sneaking out, making the purchase, driving home and wondering if there’d be a chance to shift the beers from my car to my room, drinking in secret while trying to appear sober, hiding the evidence. Sometimes in the early hours I’d take the empties and hunt for a recycling skip or find half‑full bins down the street to deposit bottles and cans. Along with the secrecy, the role came with hangovers and ongoing financial problems. Honestly, it’s a pretty shitty job.
I think I’ll end these blogs now. I feel I’ve shared enough for the moment. These series of posts aren’t very tightly structured and I often go off on tangents — that’s just how I write. Obviously there is a great deal I haven’t covered. Far too many alcohol-fuelled events have taken place over the years to list or even fully recall. I used to drink until I blacked out, so much of those years are a blur. What happened over the past twenty-five years? I don’t remember large parts of my twenties and thirties. Even though I always knew alcohol wasn’t very health-friendly, I never believed I’d fall victim to the illnesses that can come with it. Getting kidney disease feels unfair for someone as young as me. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I will never rekindle my crappy friendship with beer. In a strange way that removes a lot of pressure and temptation — instead of trying to quit for sport, I now have no option to continue the party. It’s hard to stop when alcohol is everywhere. It’s so commonplace in our society; it seems the whole world drinks and I can’t join in. Advertising, sporting event sponsors, weddings, births, funerals, weekends, after work drinks, that glass of red while making dinner, boredom, celebrations and consolations, and sometimes just for the hell of it — it’s hard to escape. I suspect it won’t be as prevalent in the years to come. More cannabis is smoked in the UK than grog is consumed, and non-alcoholic beer sales are rising and becoming more popular. I personally haven’t tried one; I’m afraid that having one might trigger me into wanting the real thing. I didn’t drink for the taste so much as for the effects. These days I’m content with a can of Pepsi Max.
Drinking will send you to one of three places: in hospital, in jail or in the ground. I don’t want any of those destinations. I’ve already had my fair share of alcohol-fuelled hospital visits, I spent a night behind bars after my DUI, and I don’t think I’m ready to be dead yet. When I listen to alcohol and sobriety podcasts there’s one glaring absence: elderly drinkers — and there’s a reason for that… they’re not around anymore. I do have willpower. Over the years I’ve heard again and again that quitting can’t be done without help, especially AA, but I’ve proven before that I can do this without a middleman. I recently stayed sober for seven months and found it relatively easy. Unfortunately, I fell off that bloody pink cloud.
It’s now time to say goodbye to my crappy friend. I never want to see your ugly face again. If you made it through to this point, thank you for reading and bearing with me. Wishing you a pleasant remainder of your day.