Suki Jones 

University was where my relationship with alcohol truly began, but like a lot of things in my life, it started subtly. I wasn’t one of those students who discovered a love for beer or wine—I went straight for the vodka. Vodka and Fanta, Lucozade, Red Bull, lemon and lime—it didn’t really matter what it was mixed with as long as I couldn’t taste the alcohol. The bitterness of beer put me off then, and to this day, I still can’t stand it. Instead, I’d drink snakebites—a combination of beer and cider. It wasn’t just about getting drunk, though; it was about being part of something, finding my place in a world I was just starting to understand.

Like most students, I overdid it. Nights blurred into mornings, the alcohol flowing freely, but I had no idea then that these early habits would set the foundation for the next chapter of my life. I was the last man standing—the one who could always handle his drink. It wasn’t just a badge of honor; it became part of my identity. Drinking made me feel invincible, untouchable, and most of all, it gave me a sense of belonging. I became known for it—among my friends, and in my own mind. That’s when the seeds were planted, long before I recognized what was happening. It wasn’t just about drinking to have fun anymore—it was the beginning of something much bigger.

During university, I worked part-time at a high street bank’s call center. It was a sales-driven environment, stressful, but with good money if you hit your targets. And that’s when I started pushing the boundaries. Sneaking in bottles of Fanta, Sprite, or Red Bull, I’d top them up with vodka before my shifts. I remember sitting at my desk, sipping from what looked like an innocent soft drink, while feeling the warmth of the vodka hit me. A few colleagues would join in now and then, but mostly, this was my little secret. Oddly enough, after a few drinks, I found myself selling more. I wasn’t doing this every day—just on the days when I knew I’d be heading out after work. But it was the beginning of something darker: drinking at work and feeling invincible because of it.

That was the start—where things began to unravel, slowly at first.

When university ended, I didn’t leave the bank. I transitioned to a customer-facing role in one of their high street branches. By now, sneaking vodka into my drinks had become second nature. It wasn’t a reliance, not yet anyway, but it was something I did to prove to myself that I could. I would take a swig of vodka-Red Bull in the morning, sometimes hiding the bottle in my wardrobe. Not because I needed it, but because I liked the thrill of knowing I could do it and still function. It was a twisted form of bravado—something I did to tell myself, "I’m in control." At lunch, I’d walk to the nearest Wetherspoons and down three or four double vodkas. Then I’d head back to work, oddly refreshed, with my sales numbers hitting targets once again. The same pattern: drink, work, hit goals. It was starting to sink in that alcohol wasn’t just a habit—it was helping me perform.

Socially, it became the same. Friday and Saturday nights were ritualistic. The drinking wasn’t about meeting women anymore; it became about being an alpha male, leading the pack. Back in my hometown, it wasn’t unusual for me to be out with 15 or 20 friends, the center of attention, drinking until the early hours. It was less about the alcohol itself and more about what it represented—power, status, confidence. And yet, I still wasn’t drinking in the mornings. I told myself I wasn’t reliant, that this was all just for fun. But the truth was, I didn’t want to admit how much I was leaning on it.

One memory sticks with me from those days. It was New Year’s Eve, my first one after starting university. We were celebrating with family, as usual, and this year, it was at my uncle’s house. His son, my cousin, and I were the same age, so we’d grown up together, inseparable at family gatherings. That night, my uncle offered me a drink, and I asked for a vodka. My dad was furious. He wasn’t angry because I was drinking, but because I was drinking “the hard stuff.” He told me I should stick to beer or something lighter, but being 19 and stubborn, I refused. I drank more, not because I wanted to, but because I was annoyed. Annoyed that my dad didn’t see me as an adult, as someone who could make his own choices.

That moment stays with me because it was a small but significant decision. A fork in the road, if you will. I often wonder if things would’ve been different if I’d listened to my dad that night. Would I have stayed away from vodka? Probably not. But I can’t help but look back and see that as one of the first times I actively defied advice that might have saved me from the path I was heading down. It’s one of those “what ifs” that linger in the back of your mind, even though you know deep down, it wouldn’t have changed much.

University was the beginning of it all, but by the time I was in my first full-time job, drinking had become a central part of who I was. I wasn’t drinking every morning yet, but I was starting to. There was a game I was playing with myself—how far could I push things before they pushed back? And for a while, I thought I was winning. But the rules of that game were shifting, and I didn’t even realize it.

I can trace it all back to university, where drinking was just part of the culture, part of fitting in. But for me, it became more than that. It became a crutch, something I relied on to be who I thought I wanted to be. And as I moved into the working world, that crutch became stronger, more necessary. But at the time, I didn’t see it that way. To me, it was all fun and games.

The morning reliance—the real dependence—came later. But this was where it started. Sneaking vodka into work, hitting sales targets, feeling invincible. Alcohol wasn’t just a drink anymore; it was becoming part of my identity.

More on that another time…