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I drank alcohol every day for as long as I can remember – it was a love affair that lasted the best part of 30 years. My habit started when I was around 14 years old and started to notice how my dad would drink red wine at home; I’d look up to him with admiration, thinking how cool, mature, and sophisticated it seemed. I remember he drank a posh French red wine called Beaujolais Nouveau. Like most teenagers, I thought the world of my dad and wanted to emulate him; to me, that meant drinking grown-up wine, just like he did.
I was an only child and we lived in a small, semi-detached house in a military town called Aldershot, around 20 miles south of London, England. My dad used to run his own courier business, but he never really made it big and always seemed to fall short of achieving his dreams. He had an amazing ability when it came to attracting bad luck, and we never had much money (although now I’m older and wiser, I realise he actually brought a lot of that misfortune on himself through the impulsive decisions he made).
But it didn’t make me love him any less – in fact, I admired the way he never gave up. I thought it was amazing that he had his own business, no matter how up and down it was. He was a solid rock for me, especially during my turbulent teenage years, which were one swirling mass (or should I say mess) of hormones, girls, school, and worries about what people thought of me.
My mum was, and still is, wonderful and supportive of everything I do. But she’s always been a natural-born worrier, and from an early age, I can remember her convincing me that danger and death awaited this little boy around every corner. I firmly believe that the ‘worry’ elements of the anxiety that would go on to affect me, were a direct result of her over-protective nature. However, she was only looking out for me and I haven’t run into any danger or death yet, so thanks mum, you did a good job.
As an only child, mum and dad were huge influences on my life. We had family meals almost every day and when I was around 14, after badgering my dad for weeks and weeks, he started to let me have a glass of red wine with my dinner. At first, I thought it tasted awful (of course it did, it was poison and my body was sending me a message not to put it inside myself, just as if I’d eaten food that had gone off), but I ignored the warnings and soon developed a taste for the wine. This evolved into me being allowed to take the remains of the bottle up to my bedroom. Before long, I was getting my hands on my own alcohol and starting to rely on it to numb feelings of sadness, loneliness, and of course, the dreaded dark clouds of anxiety that were starting to take over my life.
Around the same time, my small group of friends and I decided to see if we could get served in the local pub called The Beehive. With Aldershot being an army town, they were used to fresh-faced boys coming in so we used the cover story of being new army recruits. I remember how nervous I was as we approached the door, as well as the smell of stale beer and smoke hanging in the air outside. I had visions of us being turned away and laughed out of the bar, but we walked in and tried to look like confident lads who were simply out for a few beers. To my amazement, we were served without any question. I’d never had a ‘proper’ pint before and was surprised at how big it was in my hand, but I gulped it down like it was water and was soon back at the bar ordering my next. We ended up visiting The Beehive a few nights a week for years, and it became our drinking haunt. I wonder if the landlord ever wondered why we didn’t get posted away with our military unit?
At every pub visit, one pint always quickly became more, and I would feel myself relaxing as the alcohol took effect. It was almost a euphoric experience, and my anxiety and worries faded into the background. I was laughing and having so much fun with my friends – clearly this was what being grown up was all about. Maybe I’d found the answer to my problems after all. I only ever drank beer in pubs, probably because I thought it was macho. I would usually work my way through four to six pints in an evening (often with some shots of straight whisky or vodka to wash it down) and then stagger my way home and start on the wine. I always had to have the wine, no matter what. Looking back, I was on a slippery slope even in my mid to late teens.
When I reached 17, I left school and landed a job as an office junior in town. I couldn’t wait to move into the big wide world, and I loved putting on my business suit and feeling like I was on the path to making it big. My mum and I worked for different businesses that were close to each other, and we would walk to our respective offices together each morning. Our strolls were a lovely opportunity to talk one-on-one and enjoy each other’s company. One day, however, mum received terrible news out of the blue; the insurance company where she’d worked as a typist for years was closing and she would be made redundant. This hit her hard, and knowing how much she habitually worried about things, I can only imagine the turmoil it caused her. She ended up sinking into depression and suffering a nervous breakdown, which put a huge strain on our family.
Fast-forward to the age of 25. I had two failed relationships behind me and was still working in the same insurance job that I’d been in since I left school, which had long since lost its shine. I’d met the girl of my dreams (Michelle, who I’m proud to say is now my wife) and we decided to move into our first home together. When I announced this to my parents, they told me the very next day they were getting divorced and they’d been living separate lives for years but hadn’t wanted to break up for my sake (I often wondered why dad slept in the spare bedroom, and now it was clear). They’d waited all this time and put on a show just for my benefit, but why hadn’t they just parted company when they wanted to and been happy instead?
This was heartbreaking for me, and I spent days crying like a baby. So what did I do? I drank more to blot it out and numb the pain. This was the point at which my drinking became even heavier, and I struggle to remember a single day between then and when I was 44 years old when I didn’t have at least a bottle of red wine a night. In fact, just about the only times I can remember not drinking was when I was sick with the flu and when I was forced to spend the night in hospital after an operation. It says a lot about the level of power that alcohol had over me that before the procedure, I was more apprehensive about not having any wine than I was about going through the ordeal of surgery.
Unless I was physically unable to lay my hands on my wine, I would drink. It was always there for me, like a faithful friend, never leaving my side. It was the true constant in my life, and I was now deep into an unhealthy relationship with alcohol and totally unaware I was heading down a dark and dangerous rabbit hole. In 2004, Michelle and I had a daughter, but I was never truly happy. I loved them both but there was a void in my life that I couldn’t put my finger on or explain. I felt like I was evolving into a sad, grumpy old man, but I assumed that was just who I was. Maybe I should accept it.
My anxiety also became worse. Michelle and I had started our own business, a marketing company which we still run today, and the anxiety had grown so bad that I could no longer bear to go into the office. The slightest issue with a staff member, or a client making a complaint would result in me having a meltdown. I’d wind myself into a complete state with irrational worries about the slightest little thing. This led me to visit doctors, counsellors, and even a hypnotherapist. None of them helped me much, nor did they explore my drinking habits or suggest cutting alcohol out of my life. One doctor asked how much I drank as a routine question, but of course I lied (don’t we all? I’ve since learned that doctors routinely double the figure they’re told by their patients to gain a true picture of their drinking habits – we heavy drinkers are excellent liars).
Sadly, I also fell out with my dad over a petty argument, and we haven’t spoken or seen each other for over five years. I often wonder what part my state of mind due to alcohol had to play in that. I would dearly love to heal the past and share my story with him as I think he would be incredibly proud of what I’ve achieved, so if you ever read this book dad, take these words as the olive branch of peace.
The result was that I took the decision to step away and take some much-needed time out, which I felt awful about as we had over 20 staff and hundreds of clients who required constant managing. Michelle had to run things on her own, but she was supportive of me and knew I needed space to deal with my anxiety issues. It was during this break that I started looking more closely at my relationship with alcohol, and became curious about what my life might look like if I could ever stop drinking. Whenever I started to consider the vision of an alcohol-free life the thought of not being able to drink, even for just one day, put a knot in my stomach. It seemed ridiculous and unachievable, but my mind kept nudging away at me and saying, ‘something needs to change’.
And then it did...