I think I need to go sober (again).

I'm giving up alcohol and sex, here's why.

Realising you have depression is a tough pill to swallow. Or rather, realising all the toxic coping mechanisms you have to mitigate your depression are actually having a profoundly negative impact on your quality of life, is a punch to the gut. It’s gotten to the point where my mental health is so shambolic that it calls for drastic action, so I’m trying my luck at a second attempt of going teetotal and, for the first time, trying celibacy. Let me explain.

This epiphany all started a few months ago whilst doing my weekly shop in Lidl when, as most poets are, I was struck by inspiration in the fruit isle. Squatting next to the kiwis, this poem poured out of me:

I forget I have a body
when it’s not being touched 
I forget I have a mind 
when its not being crossed
I try to 
fuck my feelings 
in hope that 
absorbing other people's
rhythm will help me
find my own
but I still trip
over the profound
nothing 
I feel under my feet
I try to 
become someone 
someone will want to love
make my self worth 
a motion sensor light
that only illuminates
when someone else is near 
it’s so dark here
in my head
and in my heart 

…yeah… not ideal. This cry for help dwelled in my notes app for a while before I had the courage to re-read it, because it saddened me to see that I wasn’t doing as well as I’d thought. It wasn’t until I came back from a recent trip to South America filled with binge drinking, drugs and sex, that what I thought was a typical 20-something’s wild and carefree way of life, revealed itself to be a desperate need to escape and, ultimately, to feel something.

I thought that numbness being your baseline state was normal, because that’s how I’ve always been. My life has been a constant search of stimulation and excitement, manifesting itself in a quest for adventure, creation and beauty. But every rose has its thorns, and when my brain learnt that quick fixes of dopamine can be found through unhealthy means, it was hard not to latch on. I was introduced to MDMA when I was 16 years old and did drugs at least every other week from that day. I distinctly remember doing pills on a Wednesday night at a gig, and then sitting in my A-Level English class at 9am the next morning, being eaten alive by both a comedown and a mild concussion from being kicked in the head by someone crowd-surfing. I was also a smoker during this time, a disgusting habit picked up through the indie music scene in London. It wasn’t until a terrifying accidental overdose at a festival that I had a wake-up call to the ways I was literally killing myself, and thankfully reigned it in.

Early adulthood was a somnambulism of boredom and disassociation (read about it in my last post here), but after a big break-up and the realisation that I had no idea what I was doing with my life, I began to spiral. I think many of us would recognise the ‘post-break up hoe phase’—a desperate need for external validation and confirmation that you are in fact desirable after the security of a long term partner is ripped away from you. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say a year of my life was spent getting blackout drunk every weekend and, more often than not, going home with a random person without giving myself the chance to decide if I actually found them attractive. The entire week after I would be drowning in shame, recovering physically and avoiding at all costs dealing with the root cause of my chaotic lifestyle: I was depressed.

If I’m anything, I’m self aware. I am the best at intellectualising my problems and speaking openly about them, and in theory know exactly when I need help. I am also a very impulsive person, and once I make a mental decision about something it is hard to make me budge. Almost overnight I decided I was going to try sobriety; a close friend of mine who I admire a lot had been sober for a while, and with the novelty of sex and alcohol wearing thin, I felt it was time for a new hyper-fixation that put a bandaid on my crippling self-worth. I stopped drinking in February 2023 and lasted a solid 12 months, and I have to admit I absolutely loved it. The time spent investing in empty connections with people in bars and clubs were reallocated to my friends, and my relationships blossomed. I had more energy and felt physically healthier, I was thriving at a new job, I was creating more than I ever had, I had a major glow up and can confidently say this was the year I got hot (this has also been confirmed by many external sources, just take my word for it). Yes, I did rely on alcohol as a social crutch so yes, when I was sober I did go out less, but this was a blessing hidden in disguise. Not only did I save money, but it was revealed to me the people I liked hanging out with and the things I enjoyed doing without a substance that tricked my brain into believing I was having fun. I didn’t smoke, because I discovered I only liked smoking socially when drunk. I did have less sex, but the sex I did have was significantly better and with people that I had a genuine connection with. I was living a life more authentic to me, and I felt so much better for it.

So if sobriety was so great, why did I start drinking again? I naively thought that my sober stint had somehow healed my relationship with booze and my body for good. I missed having a bottle of wine with friends and the freedom to enjoy a summer pint in a beer garden, and was going on a trip to Japan and wanted to experience the insane nightlife and drinking culture I’d heard so much about. I made the decision to start drinking again and at first everything seemed fine. Hangovers were significantly worse than I remembered, but drinking didn’t immediately become a focal point in my life as it once had. I didn’t drink to excess and knew my limits better, and only occasionally made really poor decisions when intoxicated. I’m cured! I thought. Wrong.

My relationship to alcohol is by no means as bad as it once was, and in silos I don’t have a drinking problem. What’s driven my decision to revert back to abstinence is the hard truth that I have a lot of toxic habits in my life driven by a need to escape and feel something. If my life was a bucket of water, I’ve been plastering the holes in my self-esteem with casual relationships, drinking, spending sprees, tattoos, trips, amongst other things, without actually looking at where those holes came from in the first place. I get caught within the narrative of being young and having a hall pass to being chaotic, that overlooks how deeply harmful my lifestyle is to my mental health, and how it deters me from being fully present, grounded and in tune with my body and its needs. These short-term hits of excitement distract me from the glaring lack of satisfaction I have with my life and myself, and keep me in a cycle of numbness and overstimulation, without a healthy homeostasis.

Now I know what you’ve been waiting for: why I’m giving up sex. I’m going to be honest, my relationship to sex and intimacy is messed up. Behind a mask of being open-minded and care-free, I have a desperate need for validation and external approval. This is very difficult, and feels almost embarrassing to admit, but it’s true. I don’t think I’ve ever fully given myself the space to heal from past sexual traumas, or to build up my self-esteem to a level that means I can give myself the love and affection I so desperately crave from others. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had great sex with people I really like, it’s not always been driven from a place of impulse, but if I’m being honest, most of my sexual encounters have been with the intention of filling a gaping lack of intimacy in my life. I have a tremendously avoidant attachment style, so whilst emotional intimacy is painfully difficult for me, I try and fill that void with fleeting casual encounters that, like a drug, give me an easy hit. Ultimately, I don’t feel like I’m good enough or worthy of a deep emotional love, so I stay stuck in a cycle of chasing the vacant connections and sabotage anything that requires even the slightest emotional vulnerability.

A facade of the ‘chill girl’ that is unattached and disposable by choice pre-empts the rejection to make it hurt less, but really, the visceral feelings of jealously, shame and longing echo every empty relationship I’ve had. I hyper-sexualise myself because deep down I believe that’s all I’m good for; if I give myself even a glimmer of hope that someone may want me for more than just my body, I’m going to be left broken-hearted. Fronting myself as the ‘chill girl’ is a defence mechanism that attempts to convince myself that I won’t care when the self-fulfilling prophecy actualises and I am once again left alone. I am attached to the role of the chaotic crazy friend with wild promiscuous stories that people around me live vicariously through, but really, that’s not me, it’s just the illusion I put into the world to hide the fact that I feel really fucking lonely. I might regret putting this on the internet, but if one person feels seen or can relate to this, then my goal as a writer will be achieved.

I really hope the no drinking (and smoking) sticks this time, because I cannot think of one positive effect it has on my life. However, I am not saying that I’m never going to have sex ever again because that would be both unrealistic and counter-intuitive. What I am saying is I need space to really evaluate my relationship to physical intimacy and figure out where these impulses come from, and what parts of my life are lacking, so I can learn to fulfil these myself. I’m hoping that this will enable me to show up more authentically and to engage in relationships that are healthier and built on a foundation of trust and genuine connection. I don’t have any of the answers yet, but as soon as I do, I’ll be sure to share them with you all.