I used to think alcohol gave me peace.
I never asked what it wanted back.

Do I like drinking?

Not anymore.

There was a time when I did. There was a time when alcohol meant music, laughter, getting ready, the promise of a night out, the clink of glasses, friends around a table, and that warm little buzz of knowing the night had only just begun.

There were good times. Real ones. Nights where we laughed until our stomachs hurt. Nights where the world felt lighter. Nights where alcohol was part of the fun, not the reason I needed to keep going.

At the start, it was fun.

But it was only the beginning of the lie.

Then it changed.

Alcohol stopped being something that belonged to nights out and started becoming something that belonged to me. It moved quietly. First into evenings. Then into nights. Then, with terrifying haste, it dropped into mornings and afternoons.

It stopped waiting for celebration.
It stopped needing an excuse.
It became the excuse.

Alcohol became a lifeline.

But it was not a lifeline.
It was a rope tightening quietly.

It took away my emotional pain.

Or at least that is what I told myself.

The first sign of depression would rise in me and then vanish. Gone. Eradicated. It disappeared as quickly as a startled rabbit in headlights. One drink and the edges softened. Two drinks and the sadness blurred. Three drinks and I could almost pretend I was not carrying anything at all.

For a while, I could breathe.

For a while, I could exist without feeling every sharp corner inside me.

For a while, it felt like mercy.

But it did not take the pain away.
It taught it to wait.

Alcohol gave me confidence.

That false golden confidence. The kind that made me speak louder, laugh harder, feel bigger than the fear sitting inside me. It made me believe I could be someone else for a while. Someone easier. Someone lighter. Someone less afraid.

It let me step outside myself.

It let me wear a version of me that did not shake under the weight of everything.

But it was not confidence.
It was me disappearing in public.

Alcohol gave me comfort.

That first drink would land like a sigh. Warm. Familiar. Immediate. It did not ask questions. It did not need explanations. It did not expect me to find the right words for pain I could barely understand myself.

It was there.

Always there.

A glass. A bottle. A way out. A way down. A way to quiet the things that would not stop shouting inside my head.

But it was not comfort.
It was loneliness with a familiar taste.

Alcohol gave me sleep.

Or something that looked like sleep.

It helped me shut down when my mind would not stop. It pressed a hand over my thoughts and forced them under. It blurred the room, softened the light, pulled the night over me like a blanket.

I thought it was rest.

I thought it was relief.

But it was not rest.
It was unconsciousness wearing pyjamas.

Alcohol gave me silence.

And sometimes that silence felt like everything.

When your mind is too loud, silence can feel like salvation. When your heart is tired of aching, numbness can feel like peace. When the memories come too close, anything that pushes them back can feel like kindness.

So I drank for the quiet.

I drank for the pause.

I drank for the small space between me and myself.

But silence is not peace when the pain is still breathing underneath.

Alcohol gave me escape.

From myself. From memory. From guilt. From shame. From the parts of my life I could not put down any other way. It opened a door in my head and let me leave the room for a while.

And I needed that.

That is the truth I cannot dress up.

There were days when I needed somewhere to go, and alcohol became the place. Not a good place. Not a safe place. But a place where I did not have to feel everything at once.

But escape is not freedom when you always wake up in the same prison.

Alcohol gave me permission.

Permission to cry. Permission to say too much. Permission to feel the things I had spent all day forcing down. Permission to collapse under the weight of what I pretended I was strong enough to carry.

It loosened the lock.

It opened the door.

It let the pain spill out.

But it was not permission.
It was pain leaking through a broken lock.

Alcohol made life bearable.

And that is the hardest thing to admit.

Because I cannot pretend it did nothing for me. I cannot say it was only bad from the beginning. I cannot say I kept drinking for no reason.

I drank because, for a while, it worked.

It worked just enough to fool me.

It softened the unbearable. It turned the volume down. It made the sharp things blur. It made me feel held without having to be known. It gave me something that looked like peace when I did not know how to find the real thing.

But borrowed peace always comes with interest.

And alcohol collects.

It collects your mornings.
It collects your memory.
It collects your confidence.
It collects your self-respect.
It collects the parts of you that were already tired and tells you it is helping while it takes more.

It promises relief and delivers shame.

It promises warmth and leaves you cold.

It promises silence and brings chaos.

It promises to hold you, then drops you lower than where it found you.

And I wonder sometimes if I will ever win this battle.

I wonder if alcohol will always keep me oppressed and hostage. A proverbial tug of war between my rational mind and my addiction.

One side of me knows the truth. It knows the damage. It knows the cost. It knows the mornings, the shame, the fear, the way alcohol takes far more than it ever gives.

But addiction does not argue fairly.

No matter how dogged I am, no matter how much sense I try to speak into myself, addiction somehow still reaches the deepest place in me and convinces it that alcohol is essential.

Not wanted.
Not enjoyed.
Essential.

That is the frightening part.

No health warning can save me from that voice. No stern words can shame it quiet. No anger can make it waver. It does not care about logic. It does not care about consequences. It does not care how much I lose.

It only cares about being fed.

And maybe that is why this is so exhausting. Because I am not fighting something outside of me. I am fighting something that learned how to speak in my own voice.

So no, I do not drink because I like drinking.

Not anymore.

I drink because somewhere along the way, alcohol convinced me it was helping. It convinced me that the peace was real. It convinced me that numbness was safety. It convinced me that survival and destruction could look the same if the glass was full enough.

And maybe that is the cruellest part.

Alcohol does not always look like ruin at first.

Sometimes it looks like laughter.
Sometimes it looks like sleep.
Sometimes it looks like courage.
Sometimes it looks like comfort.
Sometimes it looks like the only thing keeping you alive.

But even then, even in the tug of war, even with my hands burning from holding the rope, there must still be something in me pulling back.

Because I am still here.

Still questioning it.
Still naming it.
Still refusing to call the cage a home.

And maybe that is where winning begins. Not in one grand moment of being free, but in every small moment I tell the truth about what is holding me hostage.

Alcohol may still convince the deepest part of me that it is essential.

But today, another part of me is writing this.

And that part is still fighting.