The Problem with Drink

I recently read an article about the Bishop of Stafford condemning binge drinking as sin; actually what he said was “Alcohol abuse is one of the major ‘sins’ of our time – and it is one that governments do very little to prevent.” and I agree with him.  We now have a society in which significant proportions go out not to have a drink with friends but to get drunk without any thought for the costs to the whole of society in policing them and treating them when they hurt themselves, others or do permanent damage to their bodies.  Unfortunately bishops are no longer respected figures whose pronouncements have the ear of government but are considered to be out of touch with the modern world and so they can be ignored; even when they are right.

People who know me may well be saying “hypocrite” knowing that I like a drink and have often had more than is good for me and, in all likelihood, for those around me.  To that I have no answer except to say that I now acknowledge that I had a problem and I no longer drink as it is incompatible with one of my medications.  That, however, is only part of the story as I wasn’t an alcoholic (I would stop for periods when I wanted to) but my drinking was one of the ways I was trying to cope with the depression that had been part of my life since I was in my teens. While I admit that I like good beer, full bodied red wines and malt whisky they, in themselves, were not the problem; I was drinking, and drinking too much, to dull the inner pain of depression.  In the end this didn’t work and I end up in what my wife called the ‘loony bin’ for 2½ weeks.

It was only then, and through months of counselling, that I could openly admit what I knew deep inside – I had a drink problem.  When I was put on Prozac I had to give up drinking as it won’t work properly when combined with alcohol but this has given me the opportunity to not drink and to begin to appreciate not drinking. I am limited to the small glass of wine I am allowed at special celebrations such as birthdays, anniversaries and my son’s forthcoming wedding and that is all. I had thought that if I ever stopped taking Prozac I would be able to have the odd drink but I now realise that this won’t be possible as I rarely stop at the ‘odd drink.’  So I am now going to say openly something that inside I have known for some time: I have to give up alcohol. 

I have to give up alcohol not only for myself but for those around me, family and friends, who have had to put up with me drinking too much.  For years I have kidded myself that the only person I was putting at risk was me but I have just read the book ‘Jesus, my father, the CIA and me’ by Ian Morgan Cron and it made me realise how much I have damaged my family (and possibly others) by my drinking. I can’t go back and undo that damage but I can make sure I stay clear of drink so that I don’t make the same mistakes in the future.

I will still allow myself the small glass for celebrations but that is all or I will slowly (or quickly) fall back into drinking too much.  Alcohol in itself is not the problem but there are some of us whose genetic makeup makes us vulnerable to its hold even though this can take years to make itself apparent but once it does our best hope is to steer clear and not drink.

I know I haven’t explained myself very well so I have tried to put what happened to me into a poem.

I like a drink.

I like the taste of good beer.

I like the taste of full bodied red wine.

I like the taste of malt whisky.

But somehow that stopped being enough

I needed a drink.

Not for itself,

But to dull the pain.

The pain of being.

The pain of being me.

The pain of living.

The pain of living with depression.

At first it was just a drink.

Then it took more.

Enough to make me hide it

From those closest to me.

I needed the drink

Not for itself

But to kill the pain.

Then I could cope.

A couple of pain dulled hours

And I could cope with the pain.

For a while.

But I wasn’t coping.

The pain was building;

Building until even the drink didn’t help.

It was only then

When all hope had gone

That I could admit the truth.

The truth that drink didn’t help.

That it just hid the problem.

Hid it from me.

Hid it until it was too big to hide.

Too big for me

To cope.

It was only as the pain washed over me

That I could confront it,

Find the wounds

And bind them.

Some wounds will heal.

Other have to be cleaned

And dressed

So they don’t spread infection.

And that means no drink.

So the wounds can close

The infection die

And with them

The pain.