I grew up in a stable family; there were no addiction issues at all. Looking back now, I can see I had powerful feelings of anxiety and fear, but I thought that was normal at the time.
When I grew up, I got sent away to boarding school, which was a fearful place. I struggled to make friends, especially when I got into my teens. At first, I assumed other people felt the same, but they all seemed to manage so well. It was as if they had a handbook on how to make friendships. So, I thought I’d be better off keeping quiet about it. I was incredibly lonely and scared.
Drinking alcohol changed all of that. Somehow it helped me manage my anxiety and fear. I noticed I’d get attention by behaving in particular ways, so I’d play on that and develop strategies to try and fit in, using alcohol as my crutch. There was excitement – an element of drama – to being part of the group who drank, but it didn’t yield real friendships. I never felt truly close to anybody during that time.
From the beginning I noticed that maybe I was drinking a bit more than everyone else, often to the point where I was sick, but I didn’t think it mattered. In those circles, I figured there were bound to be people drinking more than me.
I felt my world getting smaller
The first time I remember my drinking causing real harm is when I spent three months away at a bootcamp training to be an officer cadet in the army. It was an extremely demanding and quite scary experience, but our group did well. Afterwards, our commanding officers put on a great party for us. It was a rowdy, alcohol-fuelled event that culminated in my first alcohol blackout. I woke up fully clothed in an empty bathtub in the barracks, with beetroot and coleslaw in my uniform pockets. I had no memory of how I’d ended up there or what I’d done, but I had to go on parade dressed like that. I was so ashamed, and my army career did not proceed.
In my late teens, I went abroad, where yet again I employed alcohol to manage my fear and make connections. When you’re frightened, you don’t have solid boundaries. I would do things I didn’t particularly want to do to be liked, only to regret it afterwards. Everything was back-to-front. For instance, I thought that having sex with people might get them to like me, rather than the other way around. Of course, it didn’t work. The whole time I was so lonely. No matter how I looked – I could put on a great mask – I felt empty.
In my early 20s, I returned home and went into advertising, an industry well known for its excess and inappropriate behaviour. Viewing it with today’s standards, it’s extraordinary what went on. Back then, it was the norm.
Throughout that time, I felt my world getting smaller. I got married but it didn’t last long; I didn’t know how to be a husband at all. Then I embarked on a period of my life that was, on the one hand, quite glamorous and exciting, but deep down quite isolating. I had no meaningful relationships other than what I would call ‘events’. There was nothing there, just two parties using each other for brief moments in time. Meanwhile, my drinking and behaviour got worse, and I got involved with someone who drank a huge amount as well, so everything became chaotic. Alcohol started dominating our lives.
When the relationship ended, my life got to a low ebb. I had very little yet was still wearing a mask that said everything was okay. Drinking had taken a lot from me, and I got into a desperate place.
I had honestly never considered not drinking
The turning point came for me when someone I met who was on a twelve-step programme suggested I stop drinking. It might sound extraordinary, but I had honestly never considered not drinking as an option. That said, I only agreed to go to that first AA meeting to keep this guy as a friend. I thought AA would be punitive, grubby, and unpleasant. However, when I turned up that day on Friday 13th, now just over 30 years ago, I found love, care, and connection – all the things I’d been looking for when I first picked up alcohol.
For the first time in my life, I could share the things I was ashamed of with people and have them reply: ‘Oh I know that’, ‘I get that’, or ‘I did that worse’. I started to feel safe and connected. I learnt that I had feelings and emotions that could be supported and processed and listened to within the Fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous; that it’s okay to be vulnerable, lonely or sad, because other people were. The Fellowship showed me that I’m not special or different; I’m just simple, ordinary me. It was such a relief to allow that.
I began learning things about myself and developing emotionally, and I made friends! Attending those meetings gave me these extraordinary connections I didn’t know were possible. We had so much fun together. One of our number was quite well known so we’d get into these great nightclubs where they played fantastic music and dance our socks off for a few hours, then leave before anyone else turned up. We’d always finish early because we weren’t drinking, but we’d have the best time.
I discovered there were things I was good at
It’s difficult to express what that time meant to me: the connection, the decency, the care, the compassion, the humour, the laughter. And that was the beginning of my journey. From there, I was surfing the crest of a wave. As a sober man, I started getting these fantastic jobs that I loved. I discovered there were things I was good at, and people would trust me to do them. I no longer held people hostage with my actions, and relationships formed out of genuine connection rather than having an ulterior motive.
About eighteen years ago, I moved away and met someone, which I wasn’t expecting. We had two children together shortly after getting married, and I gained two stepchildren. Suddenly, I went from being a single bloke to a family man. It all happened so quickly, but for once I wasn’t scared. I felt connected and, in my sobriety, confident I could engage in a relationship that required that level of maturity.
I spent over thirteen special years at Clouds House and left as Lead Treatment Consultant
Around that time, I also made a career change and returned to education. Over coffee one day, a friend suggested I’d make a good counsellor. I hadn’t been the greatest academic in school, but by the skin of my teeth, I got into a top ten university and graduated with a good degree. The addiction treatment centre Clouds House was nearby then, and I was lucky enough to be given a place on their counselling team. I spent over thirteen special years at Clouds House and left as Lead Treatment Consultant, more recently becoming a Founding Director and Equity Partner at BWR Synergy Health Limited, a specialist medical and clinical partnership based in London. Both positions have allowed me to, not only help others in recovery, but apply my advertising and business development strengths to work tackling the stigma attached to addiction and other issues, which I care so much about.
These are the sort of gifts that recovery has given me. For some, it may sound like the regular stuff, but for me, it has been beyond my wildest dreams. And it has all happened because that person that day said you don’t have to drink. Truthfully, if that hadn’t happened, I might have ended up dead. My gratitude is just enormous. Without recovery, I’d have none of the stuff I’ve spoken about: none of the settled relationships, parenthood, teenage battles – and none of the freedom to be me.
There is no holiday from alcoholism
With many things in life, if you do them successfully for a long time, you become more accomplished at that task. But recovery never stays still; you learn new things about yourself everyday. I probably go to more meetings now than I did fifteen years ago. The thing that keeps me sober today is not the thing that kept me sober back then. The feelings don’t go: they change and develop; they need constant management. There is no holiday from alcoholism. You can’t afford to be complacent. That’s why I keep going.