Alex’s Story

For a long time, alcohol and drugs were how I survived. That’s the simplest way I can put it. They helped me numb things I didn’t want to feel and quiet thoughts I didn’t know how to live with. What started as relief slowly became something else. Something heavier, something that took more than it gave.

By the time I was in my late thirties, I was tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix. I’d tried to stop before. I’d promised myself I would. Sometimes I meant it. Sometimes I didn’t. Addiction has a way of convincing you that tomorrow will be different, while keeping you stuck in the same loop.

My children changed something in me – not all at once, and not in a way that magically fixed everything. It was quieter than that. I’d watch them sleep, or listen to them laugh, and feel this ache in my chest. A wanting. Not just to be better for them, but to actually be present. To remember their lives, not blur through them.

There was a moment, not dramatic, just honest, where I realised I couldn’t do this alone. That scared me more than the addiction itself. I’d built my life around handling things on my own, around not needing anyone. Therapy felt like admitting failure. It wasn’t.

Therapy has been slow, uncomfortable, and necessary. I’ve started to name the things I used substances to avoid – grief, anger, shame, fear. Some days I leave feeling lighter. Other days I leave cracked open. Both matter. Both are part of it.

I’m not cured. I don’t think that’s the right word anyway. What I am is present in ways I wasn’t before. I show up. I apologise when I get it wrong. I keep going when old urges surface. And when I stumble, I reach for support instead of pretending I’m fine.

I want a better life, for my kids, yes, but also for myself. I’m learning that I’m allowed to want that.

If you’re in the thick of it right now, I won’t pretend it’s easy. But I will say this: choosing to stay, to ask for help, and to try again is not weakness. It’s work. And sometimes, it’s enough to start with today.