Suki Jones 

Lockdown was when I hit rock bottom, but the truth is, my downward spiral began long before that. I had been drinking heavily for at least 10 to 15 years prior. If I'm honest, it probably goes even further back. The last time I remember going more than four days without drinking was in October 2010. I managed five whole weeks sober then, but since that time, it’s been a constant, relentless pattern—drinking every day, night after night. At first, it was just a bottle of wine in the evening. Over time, one bottle became two, then three. Wine led to whisky, vodka, gin—anything that could numb whatever it was inside me that I didn’t want to face.

When lockdown hit, everything intensified. Like so many others, working from home became the norm, and with all the extra time at home, the drinking escalated. Drinking in the mornings became my routine—11 a.m., 10 a.m., sometimes even earlier. I remember sitting in the garden, the sun shining, and justifying my morning gin or vodka as a reward for surviving another week of isolation. But the truth is, I had been doing this long before lockdown, back when I was at university, running my own business, working in a high street bank. Morning drinking was familiar, but it hadn’t been a regular occurrence for a decade. Until lockdown.

My lockdown drinking schedule was chaotic. I’d go through three bottles of spirits and at least 7 to 10 bottles of wine every week. Every. Single. Week. And still, I told myself it was normal, convincing myself that “everyone” was doing it. I’d hear the bin men emptying my overflowing bottle bin every Monday morning, and the shame would hit me hard, yet it wasn’t enough to make me stop. It was as though I had become immune to shame.

My drinking wasn’t just about the alcohol; it was about everything I was trying to hide—from my wife, my kids, my family, and myself. By the time 2018 rolled around, I was having an affair, and my affair partner and I drank heavily together. Drinking was always part of our time together. We’d sit in the garden, bottle after bottle, or visit a local pub, pretending we were part of a bubble, when really, we were just entangled in addiction, and brokenness. I was losing myself in alcohol and in a relationship that only deepened the emotional distance between me and those around me. 

The darkest time was during the peak of my drinking in 2022. I was drinking all day, every day. Mornings, afternoons, evenings—it didn’t matter. I barely needed to be present for my job. Working from home allowed me to hide the extent of my addiction. I’d drink during work hours, take calls drunk, and attend meetings drunk. I was sending Teams messages at 10 o’clock at night, completely inebriated, making a fool of myself. There were days I couldn’t even get out of bed. I’d miss dropping the kids off at school, cancel meetings, and isolate myself completely. The weight of it all—alcohol, the affair, my failing marriage—it was unbearable, and yet I kept drinking to avoid the pain.

In April 2023, I had a wake-up call of sorts. I was scheduled for a medical exam at work, and my blood pressure was so high that I had to stop halfway through. I was sweating, shaking, and anxious, telling myself it was just a cold, but deep down I knew. My body was craving alcohol. It was screaming for it. The shakes, the sweats, the anxiety—that’s what happens when you’ve been drinking so heavily and for so long. My brain had become so used to functioning with alcohol that it couldn’t handle even a few hours without it.

When you drink like I did, your brain gets accustomed to the constant flood of alcohol, and it starts to overcompensate. That’s why, when you stop, you experience all those withdrawal symptoms—shakes, sweats, heightened anxiety. It’s your brain and body struggling to cope without the crutch you’ve been leaning on for so long. In those days, I couldn’t even brush my teeth without shaking. I couldn’t put in my contact lenses without feeling like I was about to have a breakdown. The only way to calm my nerves was to take another drink. A shot of whisky in the morning was how I got through the day.

When my affair came to light, my life exploded. I moved in with my parents, and that’s when the drinking got even worse. I was literally hiding bottles of vodka in their house, sneaking drinks in my bedroom, and carrying vodka around in water bottles. At one point, I was pouring vodka into my morning coffee just to stop the shakes. I had no appetite and had dropped over 12 kilograms in five months. I looked like a shell of the person I used to be.

Eventually, I moved into an Airbnb, where I drank myself into oblivion every single night—three bottles of wine, whisky, whatever I could get my hands on. I remember sitting alone in that Airbnb, filled with shame, but still feeling the addictive pull of alcohol. It was like this dark side of me—the Hulk, I call him—woke up every time I thought about drinking. Even now, that side of me whispers, “You could do it again, you know. Just one drink.” But I know better now. One drink would mean the end of everything I’ve worked so hard to rebuild.

I’ve had to fight that urge every day since I stopped, for me rehab was the only thing that made it possible. There are moments when I feel like it would be so easy to slip back. I live alone, and sometimes the thought crosses my mind: “No one would know. You could drink a bottle of whisky, spend the next day in bed, and no one would be the wiser.” But the truth is, I’d know. And I’d be letting myself down. I’d be undoing all the progress I’ve made.

Giving up alcohol was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it saved my life. Physically, I feel better—no more shakes, no more sweating, no more high blood pressure. Emotionally, I’m more present in every aspect of my life. I’m there for my kids in a way I never was before. My son recently said to me, “Dad, you play with me more now,” and it broke my heart. But it also gave me hope because it means I’m becoming the father they deserve.

The journey isn’t easy. Even now, there are moments when the guilt washes over me, especially when I think about my children. I turned their world upside down, not just because of my affair, but because I was absent for so much of their lives. I was physically there, but emotionally, I was checked out, lost in a haze of alcohol. But I’m trying to change that narrative now. I’m trying to be the dad they can rely on.

There’s no shame in admitting you have a problem. I used to think that because I was “high functioning,” I wasn’t an alcoholic. I wore that badge with pride. But alcohol was behind every single bad decision I made. Whether I admitted it or not it impacted my judgement and decision making. I believed I was invincible and no harm could come to me; yet I was harming myself everyday.

If you’re reading this and you think you might have a problem, trust me, you probably do. Don’t lie to yourself like I did for so long. I lied to myself, to the people around me, to everyone. I thought I was fooling them, but the only person I was fooling was myself. You don’t have to go through it alone. There’s help out there. Reach out to AA or to someone who’s been through it. You can come back from this. I did.

Something a counsellor said to me in rehab has stuck with me: “If alcohol was invented today, it would be banned. It would be classified as a dangerous drug.” And they were right. Alcohol isn’t just a harmless social lubricant. For some of us, it’s poison.

So if you’re on the edge, wondering if you can stop, take that first step. Reach out. There’s a life beyond the bottle, and it’s a life worth living.