I asked this question numerous times over my 45-year drinking career, “Is My Drinking Excessive?”, but always came up with the same lie, “No, I don’t have a drink problem, I can take it or leave it”, and the numerous other lies the brain told me. It’s a simple question, isn’t it? Four little words that should have a straightforward answer. Yet, for decades, that question was a revolving door in my mind. I’d approach it, push it open with a flicker of genuine concern, and immediately be ushered out the other side by a well-rehearsed, comforting lie. The lie was my gatekeeper, my shield, and my closest confidant. It told me everything was fine. It told me I was in control. It told me that the man looking back at me from the mirror was exactly who he was supposed to be.
This isn’t a story about quitting drinking, not in the way you might think. We’re often sold a narrative of dramatic interventions, of car crashes and lost jobs, of a single, explosive moment that forces a change. My story wasn’t like that. This is about what happens after. It’s about the deafening silence that rushes in when the constant, low-hum numbing stops. It’s about the slow, terrifying process of the masks coming off, one by one, until you’re left standing face-to-face with the raw, uncomfortable truth that your life has drifted so far from who you wanted to be, you barely recognise the bloke in the mirror.
For 45 years, I drank. Forty-five. Let that number sink in. It’s a career. A mortgage. It’s longer than many people’s entire adult lives. And during that time, I wasn’t the caricature of a problem drinker you see in films. I wasn’t reckless, chaotic, or smashing windows on a bender. From the outside, and even from the inside most of the time, I was functioning. I was more than functioning; I was successful, personable, the life of the party. Smiling. Cracking jokes. I was even coaching others, dispensing advice on how to live a better life, all while systematically, quietly, and efficiently destroying myself. Mine was that other kind of drinking. The insidious kind. The slow, silent killer dressed up as “just one more.” The socially acceptable kind that pats you on the back as it walks you, step by imperceptible step, toward a life you never intended to live.
This post is for anyone who feels that same disconnect. It’s for the people who feel stuck. Numb. Trapped in cycles they can’t seem to break — whether it’s booze, food, mindless scrolling, or the most potent addiction of all: lying to themselves. It’s for those who have a persistent, nagging feeling deep in their gut that they’ve got more to give but don’t know where to start. If you’re asking yourself if your drinking is excessive, you’re already holding the key. The question itself is the beginning of the answer.
The Functional Façade: Deconstructing the Lies We Tell Ourselves
The most powerful lie is the one that contains a kernel of truth. “I can take it or leave it,” I’d tell myself. And on some level, it felt true. I could go for a day. Maybe two. I could “leave it” for a morning meeting or a family event. This flimsy evidence was all the proof my brain needed to build an entire fortress of denial. The lie wasn’t just a sentence; it was a complex psychological defence mechanism, meticulously constructed over decades to protect the habit. The brain, in its desperate attempt to maintain the status quo, will tell you anything to keep the numbing agent flowing.
The “functioning” drinker is the master of this self-deceit. Society provides the perfect cover. We celebrate drinking. It’s how we connect, how we relax, how we reward ourselves. A glass of wine after a long day isn’t seen as a problem; it’s marketed as self-care. A few beers with friends isn’t a warning sign; it’s bonding. My life was a testament to this.
- Smiling. Cracking jokes. My exterior was my armour. Humour became a deflection. As long as I was making everyone else laugh, no one would look closely enough to see the strain behind my eyes. The performance of being “fine” was exhausting, but it was a role I had perfected over 45 years. Each joke was another brick in the wall, another layer of soundproofing to keep the quiet desperation from being heard. The laughter of others was validation that the mask was working.
- Coaching others while destroying myself. This is perhaps the most painful irony. I was adept at seeing the patterns, the self-sabotage, and the potential in other people. I could give rousing speeches about seizing the day and living with purpose. Yet, every piece of advice I gave was a boomerang that I refused to catch on its return. It was easier to fix the world than to look at my own reflection. This duality creates a profound sense of fraudulence. You feel like an imposter in your own life, doling out wisdom you can’t apply to yourself. The cognitive dissonance is immense—preaching health while committing a slow-motion suicide, advocating for clarity while marinating in a fog.
- The slow, silent killer dressed up as “just one more.” This is the heart of the matter. Excessive drinking for the high-functioning person is rarely an explosion. It’s a rising tide. At first, it’s just your ankles. It feels refreshing. Then it’s your knees, and it’s a bit more effort to move. Before you know it, you’re treading water, and you can’t remember what it felt like to stand on solid ground. “Just one more” is the mantra of the slow drift. It’s the harmless negotiation you have with yourself a thousand times over, each one seeming insignificant in the moment. But those moments compound. They stack up, day after day, year after year, until “just one more” has built the very prison you inhabit. The bars aren’t made of steel; they’re made of excuses, justifications, and the crushing weight of routine.
The lies we tell ourselves are seductive because they allow us to postpone the terrifying work of actual change. They keep us in a holding pattern of comfortable misery. We know something is wrong, but the perceived pain of confronting it feels greater than the chronic, low-grade pain of continuing as we are. We become trapped in cycles—booze to numb the dissatisfaction, junk food to comfort the anxiety, endless scrolling to distract from the emptiness. Each is a temporary escape, a fleeting hit of dopamine that only digs the hole deeper, reinforcing the need for the next escape. It’s a perfectly closed loop of self-medication, and breaking it seems impossible.
The Brutal Realisation: When the Mirror Stops Lying
There was no single, cataclysmic event. No flashing lights, no dramatic ultimatum from a loved one. My moment of change didn’t happen in a public spectacle but in the profound silence of an ordinary day. At 57, after a lifetime of running, I simply stopped. It was a quiet moment of clarity. Me. A mirror. And a simple, brutal realisation: If I don’t change everything, I’ll lose everything.
This is the part of the story that often gets left out of the recovery narrative. We are conditioned to expect a “rock bottom.” We believe we have to lose the house, the car, the job, the family, before we are granted permission to change. But what if rock bottom isn’t a place? What if it’s a feeling? What if it’s the soul-crushing realisation that you’ve been existing instead of living?
That moment in front of the mirror was my rock bottom. It wasn’t about what I had lost on the outside; it was about what had eroded on the inside. I looked into my own eyes and saw a stranger. Not a monster, not a villain, just a bloke I didn’t know. A man whose dreams and ambitions had been diluted over time, replaced by a predictable routine of numbing and pretending. The life I was living had drifted so far from who I wanted to be; the gap seemed unbridgeable. That is a terror far greater than any external crisis.
This quiet clarity is born from the cumulative weight of thousands of small compromises.
- It’s the morning you wake up with a familiar, dull headache and a wave of self-loathing that is so routine you barely notice it anymore.
- It’s the conversation you have on autopilot because your mind is already calculating the minutes until your first drink.
- It’s the hobbies you’ve abandoned, the passions you’ve let wither, the relationships you’ve maintained at a superficial level because true intimacy would require a vulnerability you can no longer access.
- It’s the sickening feeling that time is accelerating, that the years are blurring together into a featureless landscape of the same repeated days, and you are merely a passenger.
When the numbing stops, even for a moment, the raw, uncomfortable truth rushes in to fill the void. The truth is that the alcohol wasn’t the problem; it was the solution. It was the faulty, destructive solution to a life I couldn’t stand to feel. It was the anaesthetic for a deep-seated sense of being stuck. It was the mask that allowed me to face the world. And in that moment of clarity, the realisation hits: the solution is now the cage. The thing I used to escape my life has become the very thing preventing me from having one. And the final, brutal truth lands with the force of a physical blow: If I don’t change everything, I’ll lose everything. Not just the tangible things, but the intangible—the chance to know who I really am, the opportunity to build a life I don’t need to escape from.
The Midlife Reset: A Framework for Rebuilding
This book, this journey, isn’t about the act of quitting. That’s a single event, a line in the sand. This is about what happens the day after, and the day after that. It’s about the staggering, overwhelming, and ultimately liberating process of a reset. A midlife one. Late, maybe. But not too late.
When you remove the numbing agent, you are left with the thing you were trying to numb. You have to face the unvarnished reality of your life, your choices, your regrets, and your fears. It’s terrifying. The masks come off, and you’re left with your own face, which you may not have truly seen in decades. This is where the real work begins. It’s not about finding the perfect replacement for booze; it’s about building a life that is so fulfilling, so aligned with your true self, that the thought of numbing it becomes absurd.
I won’t give you fluff. I have no interest in guru speak or peddling perfect morning routines that sound great on a podcast but fall apart by Tuesday. My path was paved not with inspirational quotes, but with hard-earned truths and lived experience. It was a process of rebuilding from the ground up, based on a simple framework of radical honesty and deliberate action. The principles are straightforward, but they are not easy.
This framework is for people who are sick of their own bullshit. It’s a commitment to:
- Stop Lying to Yourself: This is the foundational step. It means an end to the grand lies (“I can take it or leave it”) and the thousand tiny ones (“I deserve this,” “It’s been a hard day,” “I’ll start tomorrow”). Honesty has to become a practice, a muscle you exercise every moment. It starts with admitting you don’t have the answers and that the way you’ve been living isn’t working.
- Embrace the Uncomfortable Truth: When the numbing stops, feelings you’ve suppressed for years will surface. Boredom, anxiety, regret, sadness. The instinct is to find a new numbing agent—food, scrolling, workaholism. The reset requires you to sit with the discomfort. To learn what it’s trying to tell you. Your boredom is telling you your life lacks passion. Your anxiety is telling you there are unresolved fears. These feelings are not your enemies; they are your roadmap.
- Move from Existing to Living: For years, I existed. My life was a loop of predictable inputs and outputs, designed to maintain equilibrium and avoid disruption. Living is different. Living is active. It involves making conscious choices, trying new things, facing fears, and pursuing what sets your soul on fire. It means choosing the difficult, meaningful path over the easy, empty one. It means being the author of your life, not just a character in a story that’s happening to you.
- Build a Life You Don’t Need to Escape From: This is the ultimate goal. The entire purpose of the reset is to construct a reality that is more compelling than any escape. It means identifying your core values and aligning your actions with them. It means investing in your health, nurturing your relationships, finding work that matters to you, and cultivating genuine joy. When your life is built on a foundation of purpose and authenticity, the need for a chemical escape hatch simply falls away. You’re no longer running from your life; you’re running towards it.
Conclusion: It’s Not Too Late to Meet the Bloke in the Mirror
Returning to the original question—”Is my drinking excessive?”—you begin to see that it might be the wrong question entirely. It’s a question that invites a negotiation, a comparison, a lie. Perhaps the better question is the one I finally asked myself in front of that mirror: “Is this the life I wanted to be living?”
If the answer is no, then any behaviour that keeps you stuck in that life—whether it’s one drink a night or ten—is excessive. It is costing you too much. It is costing you time, potential, and the chance to know the person you were meant to be. The slow, silent killer isn’t just about physical health; it’s about the death of the spirit, one “functioning” day at a time.
My journey started at 57, after a 45-year drinking career. A midlife reset. It was late, yes. There’s no denying the years lost to the fog. But the single most important truth I’ve learned is this: it is not too late. It is not too late to stop the drift. It is not too late to take off the masks and confront the raw, uncomfortable truth of your own life. It is not too late to rebuild from the ground up.
If you’re reading this, a part of you is already there. A part of you is tired of the performance. If you’re ready to stop lying to yourself. If you’re sick of existing instead of living. If you’re done with the bullshit and want a life you don’t need to escape from — this is for you. The path isn’t easy, but it leads back to the one person you’ve been avoiding for years: yourself. And it’s time you were reacquainted.
