I didn't drink in the morning, and I rarely drank alone. I worked a prestigious, high-pressure job, earned a six-figure salary at a prestigious bank, and maintained good health. I ran regularly and he proudly told everyone that he had completed two marathons and was still drinking wine the night before the run.
It was the 1990s, and there was a culture of work hard, play hard, and hunkering down at the bar four nights a week after a long day at the office. He arrived wearing a smart suit and both contact lenses, but a few hours later he was groping around the pub floor, carrying two bottles of wine, looking for the wine he had lost. Or maybe you passed out while wearing your glasses and needed a quick repair at the optician the next day. The alcohol levels in my body were so high that my brain was unable to form new memories, and I sometimes passed out.
My boss laughed and said, “Eating is cheating,” so the food didn't matter and the next day we flaunted our hangovers like it was a badge of honor. I'm only 5ft 4in tall but I'm proud to be a 'tough' Glaswegian. It never occurred to me that I had a problem because other people seemed to be doing the same.
I would often break down publicly, not only in my bathroom, but also, embarrassingly, in bars. When I woke up, I was haunted by regret and anxiety, vaguely piecing together the events of that night. What did I say? Who did I argue with? Who did I snort? How the hell did you get home? Panic was often overwhelming. I vowed not to drink, only drank on weekends, promised not to drink to the point of getting drunk, but I simply didn't have the “off switch.”
One night, after a party in south London, things got more out of hand than usual. I took a taxi home with two friends, but after the driver dropped them off, he got lost multiple times. Or maybe I couldn't remember the street I lived on, but we seemed to go around in circles until I became aggressive. Finally at my apartment he angrily told me that the money I had was not enough. I tried to push all these coins to him, but the coins fell on the floor of the taxi. Then he turned around and punched me in the face. There was blood on his work clothes and his teeth were loose. I stumbled out of the car in tears.
In recovery circles, people talk about hitting “rock bottom.” This is generally the lowest moment to kick up your ass to stop an addiction. For me, there are too many fears to choose from: losing consciousness, vomiting in public, getting punched in the face by a taxi driver.
If I had continued a 35 year relationship with alcohol, I would have died. My first drinking experience was with cider at 14 years old. For many Gen-Xers like me, this was the standard entry-level drink, shared with friends in people's homes. I enjoyed the warm, fuzzy feel and the giggles.
