There’s no two ways about it; I really do enjoy a good drink, and, as far as I’m concerned, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. I didn’t start drinking alcohol voluntarily until I was about 23–24. Before that, it was always when friends insisted I drink to appease them, and I never enjoyed it. I’d take one sip and it’d put me off completely.
When I finally did start to enjoy it, it was as if something came over me, like I was unconsciously trying to make up for lost time. Finding balance with this new-found hobby of mine was a rough, blackout-riddled path.
Some years ago, I found myself drinking so often that I had to eventually question if I was bordering on alcoholism. Drinking five nights a week and saving the occasional weekend for recovery. Obviously, that couldn’t go on for long.
What really pushed me to get myself out of that slump was the hard-hitting observation that the functions of my brain seemed to be degrading as time went on.
Not only did the quality of my writing begin to suffer, but also my standards for things I’d read, watch and listen to. The energy I could offer and the width, depth and breadth of my communication followed suit shortly after. Energy, patience, attention span, you name it…
