I’m doing my best!

Despite many indications to the contrary.

Ten years ago, I lost my little brother. Funny old term that. I didn’t actually lose him. He died. He went to work one morning and never came home.

When I took that call from my sister to say that he had been in an accident, the only thing I heard was, he’s gone. I knew with that one sentence that life would never be the same again.

The rest of the night was a blur. In fact, so were the next six years. What I couldn’t have known then, is that the path I was about to embark on, would almost end up killing me as well.

At first, it was harmless of course. My brother loved a pint after work. So, I began to visit all of his favourite haunts and hang out with people that knew him. It was comforting to me. No big deal. Until of course, it was.

The two-cycle following a blackout would generally, revert to the same routine. Day one would be spent feeling ashamed whilst my loved ones showed their anger and disappointment by leaving me to wallow in my own self-pity. On day two, the anger would diminish and only the disappointment would remain. They would try to appear receptive to my hollow apologies and empty promises to seek help but that’s all they were. Empty promises. On the third day, I would fall straight back into the arms of what was quickly becoming, my only friend. I would wait for everybody to leave in the morning, before leaving myself to find a shop that I hadn’t used for a while and get my fix. The same routine. Over and over again. Round and round in circles. More and more frequently.

A full five years into this endless, vulgar cycle came the morning after what I can only assume to be a particularly bad night. Not for the first time, I woke up in a police cell covered in bruises and what smelt suspiciously like urine, and through the stinking fog of hangovers to end all hangovers came the moment of clarity. ‘I cant do this anymore’.

I would love to say that admitting I couldn’t control my drinking was the easy part. It wasn’t. It was the first step in another cycle of decreasing periods of sobriety and increasing lapses and, a year later, I gave up proper. I fully relapsed and was straight back to square one. I stopped trying. I was totally exhausted.

Several months later, I became ill and the doctor told me what everybody else already knew. If I didn’t stop drinking, it was going to kill me. Soon.

Several sweaty sickly days later whilst simultaneously trying to detox by myself and experiencing Alcohol Withdrawal Delirium — apparently, having in-depth conversations with your deceased brother qualifies as hallucinations — I was rushed to hospital, where I undertook an intensive detox. I don’t know when it clicked during those ten days that I didn’t want to die — I clearly remember, shortly after arriving, whether to go AWOL for a quick pint — but it did. It was time to get better.

It’s now four years after my first AA meeting and it still isn’t easy. It took a full two years of regular meetings and the most incredible willpower to overcome the feeling of wanting to pick up a drink. Learning to cope with the stresses of everyday life without turning to that familiar comfort is the most difficult part of recovery. It’s a daily struggle.

The last two years have been easier. Not easy by any means. For a recovering alcoholic in a world where alcohol is everywhere, it’s never easy as such. But I no longer think about turning to drink when the shit hits the fan and my life has turned around. I’m debt free, I’m studying for my degree, I have friends that I can turn to, and I have earned the respect of my family. I still miss my brother of course, sometimes so much it physically hurts, and I still have periods of depression, but at the end of the day, I’m doing my best.