Alcohol and the slow reckoning

There’s no ignoring it—alcohol has played a huge role in my life. It still does, in some ways. I grew up around it. It’s been a consistent focal point in my social world since I first started drinking as a teenager.

And I know I’m not alone.

Like most people, I drank because it was fun. It loosened the grip of my shyness and opened the door to more vibrant social scenarios. My friends were funnier. Girls seemed more attractive—and more open to me getting closer. It felt like the fuel that brought people together. And hey, everyone drinks, right?

Hangovers came and went. They were just the price of entry. Another drink usually helped.

But slowly, I realised it wasn’t so great after all. In fact, it was tangled up in many of the negative things happening in my life. It stopped living up to the promise.

That realisation wasn’t a lightbulb moment—it was slow. And easy to ignore, especially by the end of a workday.

It wasn’t until I gave up alcohol for an extended stretch that I really started to understand its grip. That’s when the depression surfaced. I hadn’t beaten it—I’d been masking it for years. Drinking stronger, more often, in a desperate attempt to feel that warm glow of contentment again.

But I needed to face the depression. I needed to see it clearly and own it, so I could deal with it in a healthier way. The alternative was… to keep drinking. And where would that have taken me?

William Porter, in his book Alcohol Explained, writes that alcoholism is a spectrum—a sliding scale we step onto the moment we have our first drink. At one end, we see chronic alcoholics—people who need it to survive. The kind of characters we recognise from the streets, or gritty films. “How did they let it get that bad?” we wonder.

But most of us are somewhere in the middle, still on the scale. How far we slide, and when it becomes uncomfortable—that’s personal.

I remember telling my mum I thought I was an alcoholic. She cried. No one wants to hear that from their son.

But I had to call it out. I had to name it for what it was so I could start dealing with it.

My life wasn’t in ruins. But I was unhappy. I was drinking every day, and in a way that wasn’t healthy. It was a coping mechanism—a way to escape the darkness for a few hours. The trouble was, I’d wake up with the same darkness… now amplified by regret and self-loathing.

I never joined AA or went to a support group. That path didn’t feel right for me. But I did open up to people I trusted.

One of those people was Gary. He was navigating his own path with sobriety, for very different reasons. But our conversations—sometimes daily—helped us both stay focused on the bigger picture. We acted as accountability partners. Not to judge or shame, but to listen and challenge the thought patterns that weren’t serving us anymore. We shared ways of noticing the craving before it took over. Of reframing things. And of walking a different path.

Without Gary, I don’t think I’d be where I am now.

So… where am I now?

I still drink. Sometimes, too much. But it’s different. I can make better choices. I can go without. And I’ve created some boundaries that help.

For one, I don’t keep alcohol on the boat. If it’s in the fridge, I’ll drink it. Usually alone. Usually for the wrong reasons. And that never ends well. Drinking alone takes me back to a darker version of myself—the one who drinks to get drunk, not to enjoy connecting with others.

Setting that boundary has helped. I now drink more socially and more consciously. It feels like I’m making the choice—not being pulled along by something stronger. And that’s a big shift.

I used to feel like I was being dragged behind my own intentions—railroaded by cravings that blurred whatever clarity I had that morning. I’d wake up gutted by my own choices.

This tension between ‘morning Gerry’ and ‘evening Gerry’ is one I’m still navigating. Morning Gerry wants presence. He wants peace and progress. Evening Gerry? He wants to hit the fuck-it button and feel good—right now. He doesn’t care about morning Gerry. He never has to clean up the mess.

But I’m learning how to listen to both. How to honour evening Gerry without letting him drive us off a cliff. It’s slow work. But the conversation between us is getting better.

So maybe the real question is this:

What would your evening self do differently—if they truly cared for your morning self?