Love Story that Tried to Kill Me

From 18 to 30, alcohol wasn’t just part of my life, it was my life.

At the start, it felt like a brilliant idea. A laugh. A personality upgrade. A social cheat code. Suddenly I was funnier, louder, more confident. The kind of fella who’d say yes to anything and remember none of it.

Back then, drinking wasn’t a problem, it was a solution.

Bad day? Drink.

Good day? Drink.

No day at all? Definitely drink.

At 18, it was all craic. Cheap pints, dodgy nightclubs, and stories that got better every time they were told, mostly because none of us could remember them properly. 

Waking up with mystery bruises became normal. So did the fear that creeping dread of checking your phone the next morning like it was about to personally ruin your life.

By my early 20s, alcohol had settled in like an unpaid tenant.

Still fun, but now it came with consequences. Missed work. Arguments. Apologies I didn’t fully understand because I couldn’t remember what I’d done. I became a professional “Sorry about last night” merchant.

And the thing is, I wasn’t drinking because I was wild.

I was drinking because it worked.

It quietened things. The noise in my head. The pressure. The expectations. The parts of me I didn’t want to deal with. Alcohol didn’t judge me, it just switched me off.

But slowly, without announcing it, the relationship changed.

It stopped being fun and started being necessary.

By my mid-to-late 20s, it wasn’t about going out anymore, it was about getting through. I’d drink to relax… then drink because I’d drank… then drink because I felt like shit the next day. A perfect, miserable cycle. Like being stuck on a roundabout you’re too dizzy to get off.

Blackouts weren’t rare, they were standard.

“Did I say anything stupid?” became a daily question.

(Answer: yes. Almost definitely yes.)

And yet, I kept going. Because stopping meant facing everything I’d been avoiding for years. And that was terrifying.

The hardest part wasn’t the hangovers or the embarrassment.

It was the quiet moments,  when I realised I wasn’t really living anything. I was just passing time between drinks. Watching life happen instead of being in it.

There’s a moment, and I can’t even tell you exactly when it happened, where I knew something had to change. Not dramatically. Not in a big movie style breakdown. Just a quiet, honest thought:

“I can’t keep doing this.”

No big speeches. No audiences. Just me, realising that the thing I thought was helping me was slowly taking everything.

And here’s the truth, I don’t hate that version of me.

He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t stupid.

He was coping the only way he knew how.

Alcohol gave me something when I needed it.

Until it started taking more than it gave.

From 18 to 30, I wasn’t just drinking, I was learning.

Learning what I was running from.

Learning what I needed.

Learning that numbing everything also numbs the good.

And eventually, learning that I deserved better than surviving my own life.

I didn’t change because I was forced to.

I changed because I was tired.

Tired of the same nights.

Tired of the same regrets.

Tired of being lonely.

Tired of not recognising the person staring back at me.

And if you’re anywhere in that cycle, the laughs, the chaos, the quiet doubts,  just know this:

You’re not broken.

You’re not alone.

And you’re not stuck there forever.

Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is decide you’ve had enough.

I stopped drinking for ONE MONTH.

I then relapsed, see it isn't easy! 

I'll cover that tomorrow and asking for help...