Suki Jones 

When I was in rehab, I had to face the reality that my entire life had revolved around alcohol. I used to think I drank because I wanted to; the truth is I was drinking because I had to. Everything became a trigger: a beer advert on the telly, a character having a drink in a Netflix show, a football result, a delayed train, a sunny day, a rainy day—any and every excuse would do. I prided myself on being the bloke who could drink more than anyone else. It was a badge of honour. I’d start drinking hours before a party, just so I could be well ahead of everyone else by the time it started. I was the first to crack open a bottle and the last to put it down.

What I didn’t realise back then was how much damage I was doing. It wasn’t just the physical toll, although I can see that clearly now: the tiredness, the shakes, the paranoia. It was the emotional damage—to myself, to my kids, to everyone around me. I was so busy trying to be the life of the party that I didn’t see the destruction I was leaving in my wake. I thought I was in control, but the truth is I was completely lost.

Since leaving rehab, I’ve had to start again from scratch. It’s like learning to live all over again. I was so used to my life revolving around alcohol that I didn’t know how to do anything without it. Rehab gave me the tools, but once you’re out, the real work begins. I had to learn how to function in a world that’s full of triggers. They tell you in rehab to avoid zero percent drinks, to steer clear of anything that reminds you of alcohol. But I took a different approach. I wasn’t going to come out of rehab and hide away. I wasn’t going to give up my entire social life. My girlfriend and I used to enjoy going out—drinking was a big part of our relationship. It was part of our affair, and a big part of my downfall. But I didn’t want to lose everything. So I decided to keep going out, keep socialising, but without the booze. It was hard at first, sitting in a pub and ordering a zero percent beer while everyone else was having a proper drink. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to join in.

Six months on, though, and it’s not an issue anymore. It’s not easy, but it’s manageable. My girlfriend has been amazing. She even offered to stop drinking around me, but I said no. This is my problem, my illness. I’ve caused enough upheaval with my drinking. I’m not going to make it worse by letting my recovery dictate other people’s lives. I have to deal with this on my own. She’s been incredibly supportive, and I’m lucky for that. It’s made things a bit easier, but I’m under no illusions—this is something I’ll have to manage for the rest of my life.

Some days, the craving is still there. I’d be sitting in the pub, and I’d kill for a whisky, or a cold pint of Guinness. The thought of that first sip still haunts me sometimes. The temptation is always lurking in the background, like a shadow that won’t go away. I’ve come to accept that it will probably never leave me. So I’ve had to come up with ways to deal with it. I’ve made it into a game. I think of my drinking side as an alter ego, like the Hulk—someone I don’t want to let out. That side of me is still there, whispering in my ear, “Just one drink. It’ll be fine.” But I’m stubborn, and I refuse to let him win. I’ve given him a name, something separate from myself, so I can fight against him. If I think of that side of me as ‘me,’ then it’s too easy to give in. By making him into something else, something outside of myself, I can manage him. It’s a bit strange, but it works. It’s just one of the ways I keep that dark side at bay.

I know myself too well. I’ve never stopped at one drink in my life, so why would I start now? I know that if I have even one sip, I’ll be right back to where I started. I’ve made too much progress to risk it all for a moment of weakness. I look at my life now, at all the small victories, and I know that they keep me on this path. I’m not tired all the time anymore. My brain is clearer, sharper. I’ve got energy. I went to bed at 3 AM last night, woke up at 7 AM, and I still feel fresh. In the past, I’d have been bedridden, shaking, paranoid, unable to face the day. I feel like a different person now, and I know that one night of drinking would strip all that away. I think of all the sober days I’ve got in the bank, all the effort I’ve put in. I’m like Sonic the Hedgehog collecting rings. I’ve got loads, and I don’t want to hit a spike and lose them all. I don’t want to start over from zero.

Will I ever drink again? If I’m honest, I don’t know. I can’t promise that I’ll never have another drink for the rest of my life. It’s too big a promise, too overwhelming. I just take it one day at a time. If I can get through today without a drink, then tomorrow is another day, another chance to stay sober. That’s all I can do. I still do a lot of the things I used to do when I was drinking. I still go to the pub with my mates, still go on all-inclusive holidays. I’ve just changed how I do them. I’m present now, engaged. I actually enjoy those moments, rather than letting them slip away in a drunken blur.

Taking each day slowly has taught me a lot about myself. I’ve learned that I’m stronger than I thought I was. I’ve learned that I don’t need alcohol to have a good time, to be happy, to live my life. I’ve learned that I’m capable of change. But I’ve also learned that I’m not invincible. This is a fight I’ll have to face every day for the rest of my life. But that’s okay. Because I’ve got a lot to fight for. My kids, my health, my future. I’m not the person I was six months ago, and I never want to be that person again. So, I’ll keep taking it one day at a time, one step at a time, and I’ll keep moving forward. Because I know what’s at stake, and I know that I’m worth fighting for.