friends and family and allowed me the breathing space to put things right in my personal life. A clear distinction was
emerging between life with alcohol and life without. I could pay the rent. My son stayed over. I got a cat and went back playing golf. Simple things. The other key was that I managed to rent a nice
house, a little outside the town centre, and a friend who had a similar outlook on life at the time rented a room. So we both became buffers for each other’s sobriety, and for a year it was
all staying in watching the television with Ballygowan and biscuits. That time away from socialising, though, was needed. I had to get to know myself again without the luxury of alcohol to access
my emotions. Somehow, it worked out. My advice to anyone who feels addiction is taking over his or her life is to abandon ego and seek help. There is an alternative life available; it just takes a
little while to find it, that’s all.
When I look back now, my introduction to alcohol came through the usual routes—the odd bottle of Harp here or sips of Bacardi there. I’m not quite sure why my formative experiences
led to issues in later life. All I know is that by the time my late twenties came around I’d come to rely more and more on alcohol as a means of social and personal interaction. The
counsellors in rehab pointed to the fact that being the first in my family to pursue academia may have been a trigger. Others felt that becoming a father in my early twenties also had something to
do with it, while my genetic makeup also played its part. I’m not sure any of those explanations are in any way valid. For me, I drank because I could, and more often than not because it made
me feel better about myself. Simple as that, really. It was when it stopped making me feel better that things began to unravel. On reflection, my addiction was not particularly severe. I had no
ongoing health problems, no criminal convictions, and at its height, I still had a few people around who were willing to invest their time in me. I didn’t need a drink first thing in the
morning and could go days, perhaps even a week, without it.
Some months back, I called a respected French journalist in Paris, asking for some contacts for a later chapter. I mentioned I was writing a book following experiences I wrote about in the Irish Times article. ‘Oh yeah, I read that article—I didn’t think you were an alcoholic, though,’ she said.
So am I an alcoholic, then? Well, it depends on who’s asking. The term ‘alcoholic’ has much more severe connotations in Ireland than in the United States, say. To be called an
alcoholic in Ireland, a person has to be at the very rock bottom, at such a low point that society is no longer willing to tolerate their presence at the national party. So, in that context, in the
extreme definition of the term, I probably don’t fit the definition. But if an alcoholic is someone for whom drinking causes problems, then hands up, that’s me. I’m more inclined
towards the phrase ‘problem drinker’—it has less social stigma and more practical connotations. And anyway, what’s definition got to do with it?
As time has gone on and I’ve begun to fit into a life without alcohol, I’m less concerned with how many drinks I had at the height of my drinking. I’m less concerned with what
grade of seriousness my problem was at. I’m less concerned with what people may think and with labelling.
What I know is this. When I left rehab, two days before Christmas in 2004, I had €60 in my pocket. I went from there to a mattress on the floor of a friend’s spare room with two
broken springs shooting up through the middle. I wouldn’t have gotten so much as a stamp from the bank. My media career was in the doldrums. I had to re-engage with fatherhood responsibly. I
was left with a handful of friends. In a social setting I had little to offer—my confidence was shot, I was still paranoid and had yet to feel
emerging between life with alcohol and life without. I could pay the rent. My son stayed over. I got a cat and went back playing golf. Simple things. The other key was that I managed to rent a nice
house, a little outside the town centre, and a friend who had a similar outlook on life at the time rented a room. So we both became buffers for each other’s sobriety, and for a year it was
all staying in watching the television with Ballygowan and biscuits. That time away from socialising, though, was needed. I had to get to know myself again without the luxury of alcohol to access
my emotions. Somehow, it worked out. My advice to anyone who feels addiction is taking over his or her life is to abandon ego and seek help. There is an alternative life available; it just takes a
little while to find it, that’s all.
When I look back now, my introduction to alcohol came through the usual routes—the odd bottle of Harp here or sips of Bacardi there. I’m not quite sure why my formative experiences
led to issues in later life. All I know is that by the time my late twenties came around I’d come to rely more and more on alcohol as a means of social and personal interaction. The
counsellors in rehab pointed to the fact that being the first in my family to pursue academia may have been a trigger. Others felt that becoming a father in my early twenties also had something to
do with it, while my genetic makeup also played its part. I’m not sure any of those explanations are in any way valid. For me, I drank because I could, and more often than not because it made
me feel better about myself. Simple as that, really. It was when it stopped making me feel better that things began to unravel. On reflection, my addiction was not particularly severe. I had no
ongoing health problems, no criminal convictions, and at its height, I still had a few people around who were willing to invest their time in me. I didn’t need a drink first thing in the
morning and could go days, perhaps even a week, without it.
Some months back, I called a respected French journalist in Paris, asking for some contacts for a later chapter. I mentioned I was writing a book following experiences I wrote about in the Irish Times article. ‘Oh yeah, I read that article—I didn’t think you were an alcoholic, though,’ she said.
So am I an alcoholic, then? Well, it depends on who’s asking. The term ‘alcoholic’ has much more severe connotations in Ireland than in the United States, say. To be called an
alcoholic in Ireland, a person has to be at the very rock bottom, at such a low point that society is no longer willing to tolerate their presence at the national party. So, in that context, in the
extreme definition of the term, I probably don’t fit the definition. But if an alcoholic is someone for whom drinking causes problems, then hands up, that’s me. I’m more inclined
towards the phrase ‘problem drinker’—it has less social stigma and more practical connotations. And anyway, what’s definition got to do with it?
As time has gone on and I’ve begun to fit into a life without alcohol, I’m less concerned with how many drinks I had at the height of my drinking. I’m less concerned with what
grade of seriousness my problem was at. I’m less concerned with what people may think and with labelling.
What I know is this. When I left rehab, two days before Christmas in 2004, I had €60 in my pocket. I went from there to a mattress on the floor of a friend’s spare room with two
broken springs shooting up through the middle. I wouldn’t have gotten so much as a stamp from the bank. My media career was in the doldrums. I had to re-engage with fatherhood responsibly. I
was left with a handful of friends. In a social setting I had little to offer—my confidence was shot, I was still paranoid and had yet to feel
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