My Life in Addiction vs Sobriety

I remember when I wanted what I have now

Towards the end of 2021, one of the worst years of my addiction, my ‘life’ wasn’t my own. It belonged to the next drink. From the moment I opened my swollen eyes— whether that was in a hostel bed, a doorway, or flat on the cold ground outside—I had one master, and that was alcohol. It consumed me entirely.

There was no space for anything else, and no person, including myself, could have said or done anything to change that, short of locking me away. And that happened, more than once.

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The Descent into Physical Dependency

By late 2021, my addiction had descended into something far more dangerous: physical dependency. Withdrawal wasn’t just an uncomfortable event to sweat out on my own anymore—it was life-threatening. I had to prevent or treat my withdrawals with urgency because, at that level, they were a medical emergency. In a very cruel paradox of dependence, the very cause of my problem had become the thing that kept me alive. The first gulps of alcohol that I could hold down were more about survival than a desire to be drunk.

Addiction and physical dependency are often intertwined, but they are distinct in nature.

Addiction is a complex psychological and behavioural condition characterised by—but not limited to—constant craving, compulsive use, neglect of other activities, and continued use despite known harmful consequences.

Physical dependency refers to the physiological adaptation to a substance, leading to a reliance on it to function normally. Over time, my brain had adjusted to the constant presence of alcohol, incorporating it into its biochemical balance.

When alcohol is suddenly removed, this balance is disrupted, leading to a dangerous surge of neural activity. This can cause anxiety, tremors, hallucinosis, delirium, seizures and even death. Picture compressing a spring down and then suddenly releasing it in one violent snap.

Unfortunately, through prolonged use, I was both addicted and physically dependent. I was damned when I drank and damned when I didn’t. My choices, at that point, were very limited.

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A ‘Normal Day’

In this era of addiction, there were no ‘days’ for me in the typical sense. There was no morning, no evening, no distinction drawn between day and night. Just a prolonged blur of being awake and knocked out, which could alternate several times in a 24 hour period.

There was no rhythm, no plans, no sense of accomplishment. When I was awake, my only goal was to drink through a looming threat of withdrawing and to numb myself from the catastrophe of this existence I’d created. When I passed out, it wasn’t rest; it was escape. Oblivion was the closest I got to peace.

Vodka was my weapon of choice —and not the kind to savour, if there is such a thing. This was the cheap, rough stuff that could disinfect your floors. Vodka had the advantages of being cheap, portable, and potent enough to hit you quickly. I could pour it into other containers when out and about. It doesn't stink like whisky or rum, so I could pretend I was functional when I had to deal with people at close range, like a doctor, a shopkeeper, or an addiction worker with whom I’d agreed to an alcohol reduction plan.

Beer and wine had long since become useless. They were a waste of space in my stomach. Vodka gave me what I wanted: the fastest route to oblivion.

I had circuits of shops I’d frequent, trying to disguise the sheer volume I was buying. Purchasing two bottles of vodka in a week was already a lot for one person, so to buy two bottles every day would certainly raise eyebrows. I spread my purchases around, hoping the shopkeepers wouldn’t notice. But of course, they did. I wasn’t fooling anyone.

There was one shop that sold 1.5 litre bottles of dirt-cheap vodka. I’d buy two, put myself into seclusion somewhere, and hope they’d last me through a couple of days. That’s if I didn’t demolish them faster, which sometimes I did.

There was nothing else to my life. I didn’t have a job, of course. I lived off savings, overdrafts, and credit cards, which a former version of me had the wisdom to set up for emergencies. I’d hop from one location to another, usually getting evicted or asked to leave. Sometimes I’d spend the nights outside. As long as I had alcohol with me, I didn’t care for much else. Alcohol tricks you into feeling warm, safe, and invincible—even when you’re anything but. It blocked the pain of my unmet needs, but more than that, it kept me from ever coming close to meeting them.

I mostly tried to keep a low profile. I avoided people, and they avoided me. But every now and again, things would spiral into bursts of manic, reckless, stupid behaviour. I’d find myself on the wrong side of everything, including the law. And that’s what became my new normal.

The Terrifying Reality of Withdrawal

There were times when I’d run out of alcohol and had no access to get more, typically when I woke up too early or too late for a nearby shop to be open. Withdrawal is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced. The fear is like nothing I’ve ever known. I’ve faced violence, beatings, and drug-induced paranoia, but nothing has stricken the sheer, crippling panic in me like an alcohol withdrawal.

The confusion, spasming, incapacitation, hallucinations, helplessness, dread— your mind is now your enemy and your body is locking you in. And all made worse knowing that a seizure is coming to get you. I’ve known people whose families had to deliver alcohol to them to keep them alive for this reason. I didn’t have that option.

In that state, every second without alcohol feels like hanging by your ankles over the edge of a bottomless pit. Muscles spasming, sweat pouring, freezing cold, lost in a fog of confusion. And there is only one way out…more alcohol.

And if I didn’t get enough alcohol? Well, this kind of thing happened:

One of my hospital admissions relating to alcohol withdrawal.

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What A Day Feels Like Now

So, what happens when you give up something that consumed your entire existence? When alcohol was everything—your friend, enemy, protector, destroyer, your round-the-clock obsession, your source of calories, your safety net, and medicine?

What happens when that’s gone? Who do you become?

Well, the answer is simple: I become what I repeat. And now I make sure to repeat what aligns with my needs.

These days, I have real days with structure and purpose, and most importantly, days that belong to me. I get 24 hours, 7 days a week and 365 days a year. I get a life. I wake up with clarity, knowing each day is mine to shape. My circadian rhythm is back, so I sleep at night and rise with the sun.

Tomorrow isn’t promised but it’s far more likely than it used to be, so I take my time. I savour each moment. I take it all in.

Growth is deliberate but gradual, like planting seeds and tending to them every day. Good choices beget good outcomes—it’s simple cause and effect. That has become my guiding philosophy, and I live it every day. My actions create my future, so I choose them wisely.

When I wake up, I’m not battling withdrawal or chasing oblivion. Now each day is a fresh canvas for the habits I’ve built, and those habits are the building blocks of a well-functioning life. Over time, those habits shape the outcomes I truly want. I ensure that what I do aligns with my core needs, and so every action brings a sense of fulfilment and points me in the right direction.

Part of that direction involves turning my experiences into something valuable for others. In 2023 I began researching rehabilitation theories and drafted a business plan for a new dream of mine—a rehabilitation centre. Though it’s not moving forward without capital, it was a meaningful exercise, helping solidify a vision that draws me into the future. I’m keeping that big dream in my back pocket for now, but the seeds have been planted.

In 2024, I discovered Substack, where as my bio says, I share my ‘hard-won wisdom’ with readers like you. Through this particular growth journey, I’ve absorbed millions of words from incredible Substack writers, each offering their insights on personal development. I’d like to think what I bring, in turn, adds value to others navigating their own paths of growth and change.

Today, I focus on truly being alive. Not through grand adventures like skydiving or climbing mountains, or by trying to change the world in a single day. It’s far simpler than that. I live in appreciation of simple everyday moments. I’m grateful for the things I once took for granted like running water, a roof over my head, the trees and the rivers. I’m grateful that my life is no longer consumed by the chaos of my own making. I’m grateful for the second chance to build a life that matters, free of the unnecessary, and full of meaning. Thanks to the choices I’ve committed to, I’m back where I belong, with the love of my life, which I cherish above all.

To me, living is putting one foot in front of the other, building life brick by brick, moment by moment, slowly and softly, but surely. I’m in no rush to achieve my wildest dreams because what is happening to me now is a dream come true. Each day offers an opportunity to patiently chip away at something great.

I may not be rolling in cash, but in all the ways that matter, I’m wealthier than I’ve ever been.

My overarching goal is to take care of myself. The beautiful thing about sobriety, and living well in general, is that the more you invest in yourself, the more your cup overflows to others around you. By taking care of yourself, you naturally create space for others to grow and thrive alongside you. And when they take care of themself, you get their overflow too. Well-being is contagious, and it ripples outwards from you. If there’s one message I hope you take away, it’s this: take care of yourself, and you’ll lift your tribe with you.

My life is anchored by “soft” routines and purpose, always guiding me forward. At this point, moving forward almost feels inevitable. And repetition doesn’t bore me; it’s a privilege, because every day I get to repeat the things I love, and those things truly serve my needs.

My friend

Mike

hits the nail on the head when he talks about soft goals in his article Setting Goals And Looking Ahead:

I’m setting “soft” goals now. Directional goals. Goals that are still real goals, minus the compulsiveness. Goals that have some space to breathe, let’s put it that way. Some space to take in each day along the journey. Some space to have a random day off if I choose it, knowing I’m not straying from my goals if I do.

I remember when I wanted what I have now. So I’m grateful.

There’s one memory that never fades. It was a day I tried to ride out a withdrawal on my own, cold turkey. My body was shaking and my mind was unravelling, but I convinced myself I could push through the panic, exhaustion, and tremors. All I wanted was to feel normal again. In my desperate attempt to find a shred of calm and control, I tried to make a cup of tea. A simple, plain old cup of English tea. At that moment, this cup of tea was a symbol of everything I longed for— normality, peace, and stability.

In my jangled mind, if I could manage this small task, maybe everything would just start to fall into place. Maybe life could somehow clear up and I could start over.

But I couldn’t do it. I tried so desperately, but my hands shook too violently, and my mind was too scattered to get it right. I was defeated by the simplest of tasks, and I was crushed by the guilt of being unable to do something so ordinary.

So now, when I make my tea, I am eternally grateful.

My morning cup represents everything I wished for back then, and I now get to enjoy it every day. A BIG mug. Milky. Fresh. Hot. At peace. Sober. Normal.

I know it’s just tea. But to me, it’s everything.

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Thank You.

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Catch up on previous articles here:

Shrink Addiction into Irrelevance

The Bigger Picture of Personal Growth in Life After Addiction

I Could Relapse

The Power I Found in Losing Everything

Choices Are the Currency of Agency

Omnia Vincit Amor