On 9th February 2024, I was utterly powerless over alcohol. I woke up that morning, as I did every morning after passing out, gripped by intense fear and anxiety. The weight of it made it hard to get out of bed. My body knew what was coming. Eventually, I forced myself up and into the shower—not just to get clean, but also to hide the fact that I was being sick. Most mornings began with me throwing up whatever drink remained from the night before. If there was none, I’d be dry retching.
In the shower, the familiar self-loathing began: This needs to stop. I can’t go on like this. Why did I get drunk again yesterday? I’m not drinking today. But despite these thoughts, I would drag myself to work.
That day, I was working from home. I thought that would be manageable—I could keep my head down and focus. My wife would be home to keep an eye on me, and I had no reason to go to the shop. But within an hour, the shaking and sweating started. My mind spiralled with relentless inner dialogue, and I couldn’t think of anything except how just one drink would take the edge off and help me concentrate.
I fought it at first. My wife had caught me out only a few weeks earlier because I hadn’t eaten enough mints to hide the smell on my breath. I couldn’t risk upsetting her again so soon. But after another 30 minutes, she came into the kitchen to tell me she was off to the farm and then shopping with her mum. Instantly, my mind whispered: There you go—you’ll feel better soon.
I remembered the half-full bottle of whisky hidden in the boot of my car. As soon as her car disappeared around the corner, I retrieved it. Back in the kitchen, I poured it into a mug—always a mug, so it would look like tea if anyone walked in or if I got a surprise Teams call from work.
It only took two mugs to finish the half bottle. I felt better and told myself, That’s it—no more today. But I don’t remember much after that. The alcohol must have hit fast, topping up what was still in my system from the night before. Oblivion came quickly.
The next thing I knew, it was the following morning. I was fully clothed, and my wife was standing over me, telling me to go. That had been my last chance.
I couldn’t remember what happened after that first drink, but my wife filled me in. I’d passed out on the couch. When she confronted me, I kicked off and started packing my bags to go to my dad’s—a default reaction: run away. But she had hidden my car keys, knowing I’d try to drive, even drunk. I didn’t care back then. Eventually, after calming down, I broke down in tears, saying, I just can’t help it. I don’t know how this happened. I passed out again on the bed.
When I got to my dad’s, I checked the boot of my car, where I kept my stash. There was another empty 750ml bottle and a half-drunk 375ml one, that I didn’t even remember buying. At that moment, I thought: I need help—but where?
That weekend, I called the doctor. They asked if I’d tried cutting down. I contacted mental health services, who told me to talk to my doctor. I felt trapped and hopeless. Then on Sunday, my dad mentioned that his friend had got sober through Alcoholics Anonymous. Desperate, I looked them up and called.
The very next night, I attended my first meeting. I was completely broken—but finally in the right place.
Today is 9th February 2025—365 days since my last drink. A year ago, alcohol had complete control over me. My life was unmanageable, and if I’d continued, I would have lost everything.
But today, I’m sober. I’m happy. I have my life back, One day at a time.
The Ninth of February
The ninth of February, a year ago,
dawn broke, a bruise on the sky,
and I, a marionette with tangled strings,
danced to the tune of a hangover's lie.
Fear, a cold sweat clinging to my skin,
a shroud woven of regret and shame,
held me captive in its clammy grip,
whispering my worthlessness, my self-blame.
The shower's spray, a futile attempt
to wash away the ghost of last night's sin,
the porcelain throne, a grim confessional,
where empty promises echoed from within.
Work from home, a gilded cage, I thought,
a sanctuary from prying eyes,
but the beast within, it stirred and growled,
a craving that mocked my feeble tries.
My wife's departure, a key turned in the lock
of my self-made prison, a cruel release,
the whisky's siren song, a tempting call,
a false promise of fleeting peace.
A mug of "tea," a masquerade so thin,
a desperate charade to hide the truth,
oblivion's embrace, a swirling vortex,
where reason drowned in a tide of youth.
Waking to her face, a mask of pain,
a final ultimatum, a line in the sand,
my world shattered, a broken mirror,
reflecting the ruins I'd helped to expand.
The boot of my car, a graveyard of bottles,
empty vessels of my despair,
each one a tombstone marking a lost day,
a testament to a life I couldn't bear.
Help, a whisper in the echoing void,
a desperate plea to a silent sky,
doctors, mental health, a maze of doors,
leading only to a deeper sigh.
Then, a lifeline thrown in the darkest night,
a name whispered, Alcoholics Anonymous,
a beacon of hope in the storm-tossed sea,
a chance to break free, to be autonomous.
One year on, the ninth of February again,
but the chains are broken, the spirit free,
sobriety's dawn, a sunrise so bright,
a reclaimed life, a new me.
