I want to make it clear from the outset, I am not and never have been that stereotypical alcoholic. I never reached a stage where I'd wake up in the morning and need vodka for breakfast. I never went through a day needing to take a sneaky gulp from a hip flask without anyone noticing. I was never that TV soap alcoholic that drank all day every day. But I did have a problem.
My story begins three days before my 18th birthday. 17th May 2009 at Vesuvio's restaurant in a nice village called Sharnbrook was the scene of my first legal pint. More than that, it was my first ever pint. Even more than that, it was my first ever alcoholic drink. I am possibly one of the only people of my age to not have touched a drop of alcohol under the age of 18 (I'm sure you'll let me off 3 days!) Before that, the concept of being drunk was not one that interested me. The smell of lager was enough to put me off alcohol at all in all honesty. With that rooted deeply in the innermost workings of my brain, I genuinely believe that fact played a small part in what was to follow. I threw myself at the clubbing lifestyle when my body didn't know alcohol existed. Three days later, on my actual 18th birthday and coincedently slap bang in the middle of my A-Levels, my mates took me out for my first ever night on the town. I drank a lot, including the initiation shot of Wray and Nephews and proceeded to get absolutely wrecked. So much so, that I ended up arriving to the third day of a five-day IT exam the following morning still heavily intoxicated.
I was predicted a 'B' for that exam. I got an 'E'.
Three days later and I was on my first ever Saturday night out in Bedford town. I barely remember any of it, as it included me being banned from a fast food establishment for throwing up over the staff and ending in the back of an ambulance attached to a drip. My first week of drinking really should have been enough to put me off alcohol forever. It didn't.
I proceeded to screw up my exams to such a degree, (or not), that my predicted grades of BBB ended in DEE. Was I fussed? Honestly, I wasn't. My brain was already on a journey to hell and school exams were the last thing on my mind. My need to go out and party, to pull girls on a weekend, (I was still fighting that battle), and to get drunk and forget who I was was number one on the list. At that time, I used alcohol to escape my sexuality.
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| For those who know me at all, you'll know whiskey was my choice of drink. I even had my own personalised glass! |
I jumped from job to job, completely oblivious to the link between my excessive drinking and the medication I had started to take for depression. Citalopram, albeit a small dose, was completely cancelled out by vodka and JD. I know now that the link does exist, but my reluctance or stupidity in not allowing the medication to work led to deeper problems and the depression getting worse. It was getting to a stage where I was addicted to the party lifestyle. Playing up to the tag of 'Party Animal' that I had unsurprisingly received, leading to me being the joker in the pack and doing stupid things. My need to be popular amongst my peers, (as I feared they would soon hate me for being gay), was overriding and my priorities were completely out of sync. My job, (I was now working weekend night shifts in a petrol station - it didn't change my drinking habits) was just a necessity to fund the midweek jaunts into town for student nights and the occasional weekend blow-out in a different city around the country. I knew there was an issue with me - that I wasn't as happy as I should have been - but I put it down to the odd working pattern and ploughed on. The damage my drinking habits were doing barely crossed my mind.
I haven't mentioned my family yet. While I was out drinking with my friends, a completely normal thing for an 18/19 year old to be doing, I hardly even considered the effect on my parents. Rolling in at 6 in the morning, sometimes coming face-to-face with a very disgruntled father going to work, sometimes throwing up in the middle of the night due to over exertion and waking everyone up. For some people only throw up once or twice before they know their limits, I managed to get into my head that I could drink unlimited amounts. In my life, I must have thrown up about twenty times because of drinking too much. My mum has never been a drinker. She has a glass or two of fizz at Christmas and that's it. Her voice telling me to calm down still rings in my head to this day. If only I had listened to the old adage of 'your mother knows best'...
I carried on drinking. Occasionally spending over £100 on a single night as I tried to appease my friends, who were still none the wiser over my sexuality. I did eventually come out to them as bisexual, (I saw it as a stepping stone - but I want to stress it isn't usually and bisexuality does exist) and everyone carried on as usual. It was a confidence boost, but my drinking habits didn't change. The thought of coming out to my parents filled me with dread. I carried on in the same drinking vein, until I was out on another mega night in Manchester. I don't know what I was doing, but I thought it was a wise idea to down a pint of JD, vodka and coke. A third of each in one glass. From there, I remember nothing until I was once again lying in a hospital bed. It was 5am, with my friends sitting next to me, when I burst out crying and told Dan to text my Mum everything.
I came out to my parents and I didn't send the text telling them. That is one of my biggest regrets.
I didn't drink for a month after that. The longest time I had gone without any alcoholic drink since my first ever one, way back in that cosy restaurant. I think everyone presumed I'd stopped, but I hadn't. I started again in the Summer, wanting to be involved on those magical summer nights and went back to the same old routine. I thought the worst was behind me and I'd know when to stop. But things don't quite work out that way...
Over the next couple of years, I drank and drank and drank. I continued to do so, with the defence that I was only drinking at weekends, just like everyone else, so I'd be okay. In truth, everyone is unique and reacts to alcohol in different ways. It isn't for everyone. Some people can pack it away and be fine. Some, like me, could also pack it away, but without consciously knowing, each drink would nibble away at my sanity. I was 21 when I first attempted suicide. New Years Eve 2012, I found myself on the roof of the multi-storey car park next to the bus station. A shiver always goes down my spine every time I walk past it, remembering the scores of emergency services as my tears dropped on to them from above. I was very drunk. And very, very sad. I spent three days in Weller Wing. For those of you who aren't Bedfordians, Weller Wing is the mental health unit at Bedford Hospital.
Mum suggested I probably shouldn't drink anymore and she was definitely right. But I was 21 now, with history behind me and a new lease of life ahead. I didn't listen. I took another month off and it became the first of my Dry Januaries. On the first Friday of February though, I was back at it. Same old routine. "I'm old enough to know my limits now. I'll be fine." He said.
With each hangover came worse feelings of depression. Still, the connection between the two had not clicked. My need to feel included in friendships drowned the obvious truth. Alcohol was killing me. My depression got so bad that I pressed the 'Fuck it' button. I did things I just was not capable of before. I stole money. I went to London and spent £500 on a single night and did coke. I went to casinos and blew my wages, leading me to steal more money to pay the bills. I can't tell you how ashamed I am of those days. How I did not trigger what was happening to me, months before. Years before. I hope you don't think any less of me for knowing that, but I was out of control.
Alcohol is the explanation for everything. EVERYTHING. All that vodka and whiskey compressed my brain in such a way that I couldn't react properly to situations. Any sign of difficult times, my brain would shut down and severe thoughts took over. I lasted one week at university. I lasted one week on a trip of a lifetime in Australia. I lasted short amounts of time in jobs. Every single job I've ever had has ended because of the effects alcohol has had on my brain. My last stint in hospital, at The Priory in September of last year was the result of an ordinary nights drinking that led to a psychotic episode. I drank no more or less than usual, but that night, my brain went over the edge. It opened my eyes. The doctor showed me a scan of my brain and it was "dented" in numerous places. The usual circular(ish) shape of my brain looked more zig-zagged. Because of that, the nerves in my brain occasionally go mad, only made ten times worse by the depressant that is alcohol. I may well owe my sanity and my life to Dr. Gurusamy.
It sounds drastic. It sounds over the top and melodramatic, but that happened to me. People associate heavy drinking with the liver, but it affects the brain just as much, if not more. Alcohol and I do not go together. That is a fact. It's a fact for a lot of people. Ever since leaving hospital last year, I have fought against the urges that alcohol brings. I cannot tell you how much I miss the party lifestyle. I am the party animal that my friends labeled me with. I love to party. Very recently, I have given in a couple of times and have felt extremely guilty at taking the risk. Any night that includes alcohol has the risk to send my brain mad. It risks sending me literally insane and I cannot do it any more.
Reading this post again, I changed the first sentence of the second paragraph. I originally put, "I am not an alcoholic", but have changed it to "I am not your stereotypical alcoholic". Because I suppose, in a way, I was. I was an alcoholic. I was addicted. Not to the alcohol itself, but to the lifestyle.
You now know everything about me. I owe it to everyone around me to change and of course, I owe myself a chance at life. I owe myself a chance to be happy. Proper happy, not drunk happy. I've been given a second chance, a third chance and a fourth chance at life and I deserve no more. I've landed on my feet more times than the most daring of cats and I'm not sure I have another life left.
Which is why I want to make the most of this one.
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