In overcoming anxiety, I had to make big changes. A message to myself that I was prepared to do what was necessary to find peace. And in my booze-addled life, there is no bigger change that I could make than my relationship with alcohol.

Before we get into this, let’s get on thing straight: I love getting drunk.

The crisp taste of cider on a summer’s day, the glass perspiring in the heat. The sweet, warming tones of red wine on a summer’s night. The stale smell of an old pub, bringing with it the promise of pints and drunken laughter. The burn of neat whiskey as it hits the back of your throat, the warm glow as the alcohol in it blends perfectly with John Lee Hooker and Howlin’ Wolf. The slow spiral of inebriation slowly warping your senses, injecting wobbly pleasure directly into your brain, pint by pint, drink by drink.

I love the silliness, the comradery, the drunken gibberish that all flows into one in a good night out. I love how a single drink in the afternoon can turn into a story you’ll be telling people for the next ten years. I love the reckless decision making, the blunt honesty, the debased nature of humanity stumbling about and blurting incoherent nonsense in your face.

Drinking has made me friends. Drinking has played a crucial role in starting every relationship I’ve ever been in. If there were a highlight reel for my life, I’d be drunk for most of it.

Consequently, I’ve long seen alcohol as an ally. There aren’t many problems I haven’t tried to solve with alcohol.

Can’t sleep? Have a drink. Need to relax? Have a drink. Lacking in confidence? Have a drink. In pain? Have a drink. Lost a job? Have a drink. Dumped by text? Have a drink. Can’t think of anything to write? Have a drink. Can’t focus on work? Have a drink. Feel your life spiralling out of control? Have a drink. Complete mental collapse robbing you of your entire identity? Have all the drinks.

In the immediate short term, drinking is great for anxiety. After a couple of Brewdog’s Punk IPAs, nerves and anxiety are washed away. A couple more, and I’d be far too preoccupied shouting at inanimate objects to worry about my problems.

I’m not an emotional or angry drunk, and normally manage to control my monkey urges from taking over when I’m drinking. Unless that urge is “get another drink”. In which case, dial-a-banana ‘cause monkey and I are going all night long.

This happens every time I drink. Even when I “reel it in” and manage to quit before the sun comes up, I’m still liable to have hammered numerous high-percentage beverages. The end result is always the same: feeling like I’ve been force-fed electrified sledgehammers.

Exacerbating the problem is the regular pounding I give my liver. When I drink, I binge, and I drink often. My liver’s like an Egyptian slave. It’ll get the Pyramids built, but it’ll be whipped half to death and buried alive for its troubles.

Hangovers start in my head, replacing my brain with a bunch of meth-addled hornets for the morning. They then progress to my chest. I cough up chunks of lung. My heart feels like it’s taking an acid bath. It leaks out of my chest and melts down south, destroying my gut and intestines. Then, the inevitable movement below. An expulsion of rot that leaves you feeling dead and hollow inside.

A pint of beer can go anywhere up to 400 calories. Add in any old crap I eat before I go out, some hot filth stumbling from pub to pub, and a pizza-shaped blanket for my hangover. A single session could easily be a week’s worth of calories.

Invariably, a hangover equals a write off for the day. Possibly two. And as I’m lying there, surrounded by the leftovers of yet another pizza I didn’t really want, my body wracked in self-inflicted pain, my bank account empty, anxiety is given plenty to play with. What’s worse is the sense of lost time – the anxiety of procrastination. Another day wasted. Another moment with no meaning. All I want to do, all I want to accomplish, has to wait another day. As with work, life has its own to-do list, and it looms above me, judging me in my vulnerable broken state.

The pressure you attempted to drink away has returned tenfold, and it asks you: “was it worth it?”

Two months ago, I decided that it wasn’t.

As I spoke about last week, in order to overcome the anxiety, I have to change. So much of that is tied to my health. How I feel in any given moment. What I look like in the mirror. When it’ll all catch up with me and I’ll finally crumble from my own self-destructive tendencies.

Familiarity has bred contempt. What was once something I love has become corrupted. I know alcohol causes anxiety. Pretending it doesn’t is like rubbing yourself in honey in the woods and wondering why you are being savaged by bears. But I’ve always found an excuse – a reason to keep drinking. It was always the wrong time. I always had some work on that was stressing me out. I always had a party, a stag do, a wedding come up. I always needed to get drunk just one more time.

It came down to a choice. Did I want to just carry on making excuses, or did I want my life back? I made a decision, and had a drink to celebrate.

I set a date, and gave myself the ambitious target of not touching a drop for a whole year – birthday to birthday.

I made a list of pros and cons for giving up drinking, and left a copy on my laptop’s desktop so I can see it every time I open it up. I told everyone that would listen that I was doing it. It’s not that anyone would particularly care if I failed – it’s the fact that I would. I thought of all the things I could do without hangover – getting fit, writing this blog, having time to enjoy myself in other ways.

I prepared myself. I funnelled all my thoughts and efforts into getting ready for it. And then the day came round.

I was game.

I was ready.

I failed the very next day.

But every day for six weeks since, I’ve been booze free.

There have been teething issues, of course. I’ve been agitated. I’ve seen people less as social invites go down for the non-inebriated. I’ve been drinking a lot of fizzy drinks – mirroring my dad’s fridge of ginger ale when he quit. I still get my shit food fix, ordering a weekly slab of lardy gunk as a celebration of not drinking. And I’m smoking weed like a champion.

That all said, the upsides have been massive. My body no longer feels like it’s on the verge of death all the time. Money goes further. I actually remember my social interactions. You get the chance to reframe your relationships with people. I’ve lost weight. I have my weekends back – I have time back. Time I can be myself. Time I can use to do what I want to do. Time I can heal in rather than doing more damage.

I feel genuinely good in myself for the first time in at least a year.

More than anything though, giving up drinking is massively symbolic to me. It’s a commitment to the change I need to enact to overcome anxiety. Each day I don’t drink is a victory against anxiety. It’s a banner for me to rally behind, a landmark to show I’m on the right path, a raw demonstration of willpower which gives me the strength to fight on.

There will be a day I drink again. In fact, I already know the time and the place. My 32nd birthday – Saturday the 15th of April, 1800 hours, Brewdog Cardiff. You are all welcome to come watch a mighty giant felled by a single craft beer.

Between now and then, I have work to do. I have an entire lifetime of anxiety and drinking to cover it up to unwind. But I’m doing it. I’m on the path. Now, more than ever, I feel in charge of my own evolution. I’m going the right way. I’m making the right steps. Each one small, but each one significant, taking me to where I want to be: a person at peace with themselves.

And when I lift that pint in April next year and put it to my lips, it’ll be the greatest beer ever. A taste I’ll love even more than alcohol: the raw taste of victory.

Thanks for reading. If you took something from this piece, please take the time to like, share, subscribe to the FB or Twitter feed, or leave a comment. Not only does it mean others suffering from anxiety might discover it, but seeing my work appreciated gives me the courage to carry on writing. Ta!