Living in the raw

Until January 26th, I used to drink my way out of complicated emotions. I knew I had my good old crutch to fall back on whenever I'd feel slightly uncomfortable: alcohol.

I would get drunk almost every day. I didn’t care whether anyone joined me I sort of preferred drinking alone. It felt romantic. I pretended I was a troubled writer, sitting in a bar somewhere in Paris. With my Moleskine in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other, I felt like Hemingway: looking for inspiration at the bottom of a bottle.

(It didn’t work for Hemingway in the end, did it?)

Now I am almost four months sober. I don’t smoke, don’t drink. Not even social drinks. I didn’t do it on my own.

I came home drunk one day, and my newly wedded wife told me she wouldn’t have it. Then I went to see a therapist, and he prescribed me pills, saying that if I were to attempt to mix them with alcohol, my liver would give up.

So I stopped.

Four months in, antidepressants and being sober have worked their magic. I feel better than ever. For the first time in a very long time, I feel truly alive.

I notice things. I care about things. I want things. I have hope. When I was depressed and binge drinking, I didn’t have any of that.

It’s not always easy, of course — sometimes I still want to stuff my face with liquor — but it gets easier every week and every day. I have the support of my wife, my therapist, my family, and my readers.