During my first rehab stint, I was kicked out for engaging in a romantic relationship with another patient, which violated the facility’s rules. Just the month prior at work, I’d been caught partying and drinking with interns on the premises after hours and faced termination if I didn’t enter an outpatient program. Somehow, I managed to keep my job despite my expulsion.

Being an addict, I’d become adept at charming my way through life, manipulating situations to my advantage. This survival strategy allowed me to continue drinking for another decade without completely unravelling my life.

The excuses were endless. At 20 years old, I perceived my behaviour as normal. Everyone I knew back home was attending parties and going out every night. Isn’t this just what young people do, drink until they black out or vomit? I thought. I was on a different path, working with rescued animals and trying to extract meaning from caring for other living things. My father had recently died, and I was trying to make something out of the scraps I had left, far away from home. 

My father, an alcoholic who had become sober before I was born, passed down to me a wicked sense of humour but also a host of mental health issues after decades spent battling his bipolar disorder, depression and addictions. I never had a drop until after I’d graduated and moved away, afraid of experiencing the health struggles I watched him navigate throughout my childhood. The first time I took a sip, though, it felt like reuniting with an old friend. For years, the only constant in my life was alcohol.

I was always focused on the next drink, wondering when I could have it. I’d ask myself if there would be alcohol at upcoming events or if I should have a drink before a task or commitment. I dangled the prospect of it in front of myself as if I were coaxing a treat-motivated puppy to perform a trick. Despite having career and life aspirations, there was never a strong enough reason for me to quit booze – nothing big enough at stake to compel me to confront the truth. Besides, I was the life of the party, wasn’t I? If everyone is laughing at your stories, your behaviour can’t be that bad… right?

Blackouts were my norm, along with the constant misplacement of keys, wallet and purse. I often held several side hustles or part-time jobs simultaneously, but my employment was never steady. I underestimated the effect of my reckless drinking-related behaviour on my friendships, only realising their significance when it was too late to repair.

After the demise of my abusive, toxic first marriage, I made another attempt at sobriety. I attended AA meetings regularly and shared stories with a group during early morning outings to the diner. Despite my immersion in the Big Book, it didn’t offer the clarity I needed. My journey toward sobriety then wasn’t driven by a genuine desire for personal transformation; instead, it was fuelled by a desperate fear of loneliness and abandonment. At the time, I secretly believed that the best outcome would be my husband leaving, even if I wasn’t fully aware of it. Yet, when he eventually did leave, my commitment to sobriety faded along with him. Every effort to remain sober crumbled as my interest waned in what was at stake. 

A few years later, I unexpectedly became a mother at the age of 24 when my IUD failed. Motherhood posed an ongoing, relentless challenge, forcing me to confront my own childhood traumas and flaws while caring for a precious yet demanding baby. To cope, of course, I turned to drinking. I would put her to bed at night and unwind with a glass of wine, a behaviour commonly accepted and normalised. Except for me, when the bottle opened, I couldn’t stop.

I was plagued by alcohol cravings and panic attacks if there was an absence or short supply of it in my house. Each day, I’d wake up determined not to drink, setting strict limits that I couldn’t maintain and feeling ashamed when I failed. I’d anxiously wait for the socially acceptable time to drink, longing for relief from the constant obsession and sickness, unable to sleep without it.

While many find their way to sobriety through rock bottom or self-awareness, for me, it was like collecting the scattered pieces of a broken vase from life experiences and trying to rebuild them into a functional whole. In the wake of the brutal and quick loss of my mom to lung cancer, I turned to the bottles of wine sent as condolences rather than therapy.

I wasn’t deliberately pursuing death, but hopelessness and apathy were strong enough to make me turn to alcohol and benzodiazepines. The consequences were swift and startling. The following day, I woke up with no recollection of the previous night, extremely ill, and facing an ultimatum from my family to admit myself to a mental health facility hours away from my children.

Following my hospitalisation, it took me weeks to grapple with the notion of giving up alcohol. The idea of never savouring a glass of wine with dinner or enjoying a nightcap with friends seemed ludicrous. I found myself envious of those who could drink in moderation as if they held keys to an exclusive club to which I didn’t have entry. Acceptance came to me slowly. Rather than viewing it as I can never drink again, I learned those in recovery master an I can’t drink today approach. 

Shame, a powerful force, held me captive in addiction for a long time. It was the fear of judgment and the prospect of confessing to my litany of wrongdoings, such as stealing alcohol from pet-sitting clients, chronic lying about my drinking habits and driving under the influence. I concealed empty bottles at the bottom of recycling bins and hid stashes throughout the house. I don’t shy away from acknowledging my past actions; it’s vital for my ongoing recovery. I remind myself how much worse the consequences could be if I don’t wake up and choose sobriety each day.

I’m happy to say I quit drinking when my children were young enough to hopefully not remember intoxicated me. I promise someday, when they are older, to share the addiction in our family lineage and let them know that they’ll need to be careful. The way my parents never talked to me about it. 

These days, thoughts of alcohol rarely cross my mind. Occasionally, a familiar twinge of envy surfaces, typically during social gatherings. I’ve adopted a helpful practice of playing the tape forward. I ask myself: “What happens after just one drink? What follows that, and so on?” I know the ending. It’s accompanied by the inevitable headache, regret, nausea and a sense of squandering precious time from my life. Alcohol stole so many years. I won’t waste any more.

If you or someone you know is struggling with their mental health, you can find support and resources on the mental health charity Mind’s website and NHS Every Mind Matters or access the NHS’ list of mental health helplines and services.

If you are struggling with your mental health, you can also ask your GP for a referral to NHS Talking Therapies, or you can self-refer.

For confidential support, you can also call the Samaritans in the UK on 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org. In a crisis, call 999.

Frame Of Mind is Stylist’s home for all things mental health and the mind. From expert advice on the small changes you can make to improve your wellbeing to first-person essays and features on topics ranging from autism to antidepressants, we’ll be exploring mental health in all its forms. You can check out the series home page to get started.