Living in the Shadow of Alcohol

The hidden impact of addiction on mental health, relationships and those we love.

I've been thinking about writing this blog for some time, but I've found it difficult to know where to begin. Throughout this year, I've been exploring different mental health conditions, trying to build greater understanding and challenge some of the assumptions we make. This time, I want to talk about something that is both professionally important to me and deeply personal.

Alcohol and addiction.

It's a subject that has touched my life in many different ways, from childhood through to adult relationships and people I've loved. Some of those experiences have stayed with me far longer than I ever imagined.

I want to approach this with compassion, because I know that people don't set out to become dependent on alcohol and that dependency can be painful for them, impacting their lives in many ways. But I also want to be honest about what it can feel like to live alongside addiction, how it can change our behaviour, and how those changes can become patterns that follow us through life.

And perhaps that's why I've found this so difficult to write. Because even now, I carry some of those experiences with me.

When alcohol becomes a way of managing life

We live in a society where alcohol is woven into so much of what we do. We drink to celebrate, to relax, to socialise, to unwind after a difficult day. We joke about needing a glass of wine after a stressful week, or having a few drinks to give us the confidence to face a social occasion. For many people, alcohol remains something they enjoy occasionally without it becoming a problem. But for others, it can gradually become something they rely on.

Perhaps it starts as a way of quietening anxious thoughts, easing loneliness, managing difficult emotions or escaping painful memories. For some, alcohol becomes a way of coping with trauma, particularly when experiences from the past continue to affect how

safe they feel in the present. For a short time, alcohol may seem to offer some relief. The mind feels quieter, worries seem further away, and the things that felt overwhelming become a little easier to tolerate. But that relief is temporary.

Alcohol affects the brain and nervous system, and while it may initially reduce feelings of anxiety, it can also increase anxiety as its effects wear off. It can disrupt sleep, affect mood, make it harder to regulate emotions and contribute to depression. Over time, someone may find themselves drinking to manage the very feelings that alcohol is helping to create or intensify.

And so a cycle develops. Feeling anxious, drinking to cope, experiencing more anxiety or shame afterwards, and reaching for alcohol again to find some relief.

Of course, not everyone who drinks to manage stress will develop an addiction. Alcohol dependence is complex, influenced by many factors, including our biology, environment, experiences and mental health. It isn't simply a lack of willpower, and stopping can be far more difficult than someone who hasn't experienced dependence may understand.

I haven't experienced alcohol dependence myself. I can't truly know what that craving feels like, or how difficult it can be to resist something that has become such a powerful way of coping. But I do know something about what it feels like to love someone who is struggling with it.

Living alongside addiction

Those close to me using alcohol has been a repeating presence in my life. It began in childhood and continued through relationships and people I cared deeply about. Both my marriages were affected by alcohol, although in different ways, and looking back, I can see how patterns established much earlier in my life continued into adulthood.

The circumstances were different, the people were different, and the ways alcohol affected them were different. But there were familiar patterns in how I responded. I learnt to watch people's moods, to notice small changes in behaviour, to anticipate what might happen next. I became good at trying to keep the peace, avoiding conversations that might make things worse, and taking responsibility for situations that weren't really mine to manage.

Sometimes I made excuses. Sometimes I tried to protect people from the consequences of their drinking. Sometimes I stayed quiet because speaking up felt harder, or because I was worried about the emotional consequences of doing so.

At the time, I didn't necessarily recognise what was happening to me. I thought I was helping, supporting, loving someone through a difficult time. And often I was trying to do those things. But somewhere along the way, my own needs became less important. One of the hardest feelings to explain is what it's like to feel that alcohol matters more than you do. I understand that addiction isn't a straightforward choice between drinking and loving someone. Dependence can take an enormous hold over a person's thoughts, feelings and behaviour. But knowing that doesn't take away the hurt.

When promises are broken, plans change, or someone's behaviour becomes unpredictable, it can begin to affect how you see yourself. You wonder whether you're asking too much, whether you should be more understanding, whether you've somehow made things worse. And sometimes you begin to question your own judgement.

There can be a constant sense of waiting. Waiting to see what mood someone will be in, whether they have been drinking, whether an evening will be peaceful or difficult. Even during the good times, part of you may be anticipating what comes next.

For me, this was never about feeling physically threatened. It was about not always feeling emotionally safe, heard or seen. About not knowing whether there would be space for my feelings and needs, or whether they would once again be overshadowed by alcohol. It's exhausting. And when it happens repeatedly, over many years and different relationships, it can become a familiar way of living.

When the experience stays with you

I've become increasingly aware of how much those earlier experiences continue to affect me. I enjoy an occasional glass or two of wine, but I don't want more than that. I feel wary around people who drink heavily and tend to avoid places where alcohol is central to the socialising. Busy pubs, particularly when people have been drinking, can leave me feeling deeply uncomfortable. My body becomes tense, I feel on edge, and sometimes I experience that familiar fight-or-flight response.

The alcohol has become associated with emotional unpredictability, with not knowing what might happen next, and with experiences of not feeling heard, valued or emotionally secure. Our nervous systems can become very good at recognising what they believe might be danger. When we've repeatedly experienced uncertainty or emotional distress, we can become alert to small signals that other people might not even notice.

And although we may understand that we're no longer in the same circumstances, our bodies don't always respond to that understanding. It is about patterns that were reinforced through different experiences, and have continued to influence how comfortable and emotionally safe I feel in certain situations. It has affected my confidence, my self-esteem and sometimes my ability to trust my own feelings.

Loving someone, and the limits of what love can do

My late husband lived with alcohol addiction. Through Alcoholics Anonymous, he stopped drinking and remained sober for around 15 years. That was an enormous achievement. I knew how important his sobriety was, and I never underestimated the commitment it took.

During the final year or so of his life, my husband returned to drinking. Even writing those words is difficult. His drinking wasn't the cause of his death, but it did make the time leading up to his death, and my grief afterwards, more complicated.

Part of me still feels disloyal sharing this. As though acknowledging that he returned to alcohol somehow takes away from the years he spent sober, or changes how people might remember him. But those 15 years mattered. They were real, and they were an important part of his life. His return to drinking was also real.

He was so much more than his addiction. He was a person I loved, with all the qualities, complexities and contradictions that make us human. And I think that's something we sometimes struggle to hold together. We can love someone deeply, recognise their struggles, admire their achievements and still be hurt by their behaviour. We can understand why someone may turn to alcohol without pretending that the impact on others doesn't matter.

Grief can be complicated when addiction has been part of a relationship. Alongside the sadness and loss, there may be anger, disappointment, guilt, relief, unanswered questions and memories that don't fit neatly into the story we want to tell about someone we loved.

Sometimes we grieve not only the person we've lost, but also the things we hoped might have been different.

I don't think we need to erase those difficult parts to honour someone's memory. Perhaps being able to acknowledge the whole person, and the whole experience, is part of finding a way forward.

The shame we don't always talk about

Shame is often part of addiction. People may feel ashamed of their drinking, the things they've done, promises they haven't kept or the impact on those around them. And shame itself can become another painful feeling that alcohol temporarily helps them escape.

But there can also be shame for the people living alongside addiction.

I know I've felt it. Shame about what other people might think. About the things I tolerated, the excuses I made, the times I didn't speak up or the situations I tried to manage.

Looking back, I can see times when I may have unintentionally enabled someone's drinking. Perhaps by protecting them from consequences, covering things up or taking responsibility for problems that weren't mine to solve. That's difficult to acknowledge, particularly when I know how much I wanted things to change.

But I've come to understand that many of those behaviours grew out of love, fear, hope and sometimes simply trying to get through the day. Recognising them doesn't mean accepting responsibility for another person's addiction. And I think that distinction matters.

We can reflect on our own behaviour, learn to recognise patterns and make different choices without punishing ourselves for what we didn't know or couldn't manage at the time. For me, self-compassion has become an important part of that learning. Not excusing everything, not pretending that the past didn't happen, but trying to understand why I responded as I did. I was doing what I knew how to do, often in situations where none of the choices felt easy.

When love isn't enough

One of the most painful things about loving someone with an addiction is accepting that you cannot make them stop drinking. You can encourage, support, listen, try to understand and offer help. You can see the person behind the addiction and believe in their ability to change. But you cannot do the work of recovery for them.

And sometimes, despite how much you love someone, you have to consider what continuing in that relationship is doing to you. Setting boundaries can feel uncomfortable, particularly if you've spent years trying to keep other people happy or prevent things from going wrong. It may feel selfish, unkind or disloyal.

But boundaries aren't about punishing someone. They're about recognising what we can and cannot live with, what is within our control, and what we need to protect our own wellbeing.

• It might mean no longer making excuses or covering up someone's drinking.

• stepping away from situations where we don't feel emotionally safe.

• seeking support for ourselves, rather than focusing all our energy on the person who is struggling.

• it might mean leaving a relationship, even when the love is still there.

There are no easy answers to any of this. Every situation is different, and decisions about relationships, safety and support can be incredibly difficult, particularly when there are children, financial pressures or other responsibilities involved.

I would never suggest that someone should simply walk away, any more than I would suggest they should stay and keep trying. But I do believe that our own wellbeing deserves consideration too.

Making space for both stories

I don't want this blog to leave anyone feeling judged or without hope.

I know that people can recover from alcohol dependence. I've seen the commitment, courage and determination that recovery can require. Support from others, including peer groups such as Alcoholics Anonymous, can make an enormous difference. And for someone who recognises that alcohol has become their main way of managing difficult feelings, I hope there is space to ask, without shame, what might be happening underneath.

• What am I trying to cope with?

• What does alcohol give me in the moment? What is it costing me afterwards?

• Who might be able to help me find another way?

For those living alongside addiction, perhaps the questions are different.

• How has this affected me? What have I learnt to do to keep things manageable?

• Are there patterns I still carry with me?

• What do I need, rather than only thinking about what the other person needs?

Support matters for both. And for family members and partners, support isn't something we have to wait to seek until the person drinking decides to change.

I've spent much of my working life supporting people with their mental health and encouraging greater understanding and compassion. But writing this has reminded me that knowing something professionally doesn't mean we have resolved everything personally.

Even now, these experiences can bring up feelings I thought I'd moved beyond. I can feel them in my body, in my responses to situations and in the way I sometimes question myself. I'm learning to recognise those responses, understand where they came from and gradually find ways to feel more emotionally secure in the present.

I don't have a neat ending to this story. Addiction is complicated. Love is complicated. Recovery and grief can be complicated too.

But I believe there is hope in being able to talk more openly, without shame or judgement, about what addiction means for everyone involved. We can have compassion for someone who is struggling with alcohol while also recognising the pain experienced by those around them.

We can honour the people we've loved without having to pretend that everything was all right. Perhaps the starting point is making space for all those truths, including our own. Please comment below with your thoughts or stories. Sending compassion to you all.

If this blog resonates with you, please remember that support is available. Alcoholics Anonymous offers support for people wanting to stop drinking, while Al-Anon Family Groups supports those affected by someone else's drinking. You can also speak to your GP about alcohol dependence, emotional wellbeing or support for yourself.