Most days, our team was transported thousands of feet underground to the coal face, where we would spend hours cutting and extracting great lumps of coal with heavy machinery. At first, I was relentlessly bullied for being relatively well-spoken and much more sensitive than my peers. But, over time, I learnt to survive in this brutal world by boxing, weight training and drinking my colleagues under the table after long shifts.

As my father was a decorated ex-soldier who had served in Korea, it felt predetermined that the Army would also feature in my life. At 22, I enlisted as a reservist in the Royal Engineers, serving initially as a combat engineer, then in other units. I can’t go into detail, but some of what I experienced stayed with me for decades.

Alcohol helped me forget

Then, in 1993, my reserve service ended and I left the mining industry to became a police officer. I enjoyed my new career, but the “work hard, play hard” culture took a toll. Long, demanding shifts would end at the police bar, drinking to repress the day’s traumatic events, which could involve anything from sudden death to drug crime.

My childhood insomnia also returned, and, as time went on, I found I needed to drink more and more to relax and get off to sleep. My wife watched the strong, capable man she’d married in 1988 disappear as alcoholism took hold.

By 2001, aged 37, my addiction was so severe that I would open a can of cider first thing to stop the shakes before a long shift.

I couldn’t understand what was happening, and neither could my wife. My doctor simply advised me to cut back. If only it were that simple. My time in the Territorial Army and police force had left me traumatised – and alcohol helped me to forget.

Eventually, I stopped drinking with colleagues after work. Instead, I would drive to a pub where I knew no one, hands trembling, and drink five, six or seven pints. Returning home utterly wasted, my wife would ask why I was destroying our marriage. I had no answers for her, or myself.

The devastating effect on my three daughters was clear. They were aged 12, 10, and five at the time, and I had gone from a devoted father who spent days playing with them in the woods and bedtimes reading Harry Potter books, to a distant, negligent dad who needed their help to get out of bed in the morning.

My wife struggled to understand the change in me, and I, in my alcoholic arrogance, was angry at that, and her inability to cope with my relentless drinking, mood swings and general absence. Inevitably, we divorced in 2005.

I suppose that was my first rock bottom. At the age of 39, I moved back in with my father and left the police. Looking for a fresh start, I took a supervisor role at a TK Maxx processing centre, where I met Sue. We quickly became close friends and, in October 2006, a year after my divorce, we married.

I convinced myself that my previous habit of drinking to oblivion had just been my way of coping with an unhappy marriage and stressful job. Our social lives still revolved around the pub and drinking into the small hours once home, but I told myself that my intake was no longer unhealthy, despite regularly blacking out.

Then, six months into the relationship with Sue, I woke up close to death on the liver ward at Royal Stoke University Hospital, with no recollection of how I’d got there. Later, I discovered I had alcohol-related liver disease and had nearly died. For four or five days, I couldn’t sleep, was pumped full of Valium and other drugs, and suffered seizures. Harrowingly, the young man in the bed next to me died of alcohol-related liver failure.

Rebuilding my life

My time on the ward proved to be a turning point. One evening, a kind Caribbean nurse came to my bedside and asked if I believed in God. My response was probably sarcastic, but she calmly told me that He believed in me, and asked if she could pray for me. Desperate for anything that might help, I nodded. That is the last thing I remember before finally getting my first full night’s sleep in almost a week.

Though I’m typically resistant to religious entreaties, this woman made me consider the existence of a higher power. What was most bizarre was that she vanished, never to be seen again. When I asked after her, none of the other nurses had any idea who I was describing. My logical mind knows she was likely from another ward. But a small part of me wonders if there was something more profound at work.

When I was discharged 10 days later, I vowed never to drink again, and I kept that promise for the next 18 years. Life was good – I was happily married, received a big promotion at work which involved travelling all over Europe, and began rebuilding my relationships with my children.

Then, devastatingly, just as life started to look up for us, Sue spiralled into alcoholism. The combination of my frequent work trips and her own unresolved personal trauma led to heavy drinking. I felt incapable of intervening. As an alcoholic myself, I knew that if I tried to stop her, she would still find other (potentially less safe) ways to get her next drink.

And, then, in September 2024, feeling anxious about Sue and my inability to help her, and worried about a medical issue one of my daughters had at the time, I ordered that fateful pint of Guinness in the pub.

“Just one won’t hurt,” I told myself. Then I ordered another one. Surprisingly, I felt nothing – no overwhelming urge for more, no regret at breaking my long abstinence.

Ten bottles of cider a day

Yet, within weeks, I fell back into full-blown alcoholism, ultimately consuming 10 bottles of 8.2% cider daily. Addiction is a disease that rewires the brain, making alcohol feel like a necessity for survival, despite the devastation it causes. Once again, I would swig cider all evening, black out and repeat it all the next day. I felt I couldn’t live without it.

One Tuesday night in October 2024, I went downstairs for “one more” bottle. Instead of going to the fridge, I felt an overpowering urge to call my eldest daughter. Sitting at the dining room table at 4.07am, I finally admitted I needed help. Within 30 minutes, all three of my daughters and my former wife were at the door.

While my family arranged for Sue to go to hospital for her illness, they suggested I go to a private rehab clinic in Cheshire called Delamere. Exhausted and with no fight left in me, I agreed. And, while it cost a fair amount, I have no regrets; it saved my life.

Over the next four weeks, I bonded with the staff and fellow residents. They understood the powerlessness you feel, the pain of knowing you’ve hurt loved ones but being unable to stop. Many had similar histories of childhood or career trauma.

I finally admitted I was an alcoholic and took full responsibility for my recovery. My mentor, who I’ll call Adam, helped me confront 40 years of suppressed memories. After one session, I cried for the first time in over three decades.

Since leaving the clinic in November 2024, I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol, devoting myself, instead, to repairing my relationship with Sue and my daughters, attending weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and volunteering for Change, Grow, Live, a charity that helps addicts.

While I have no certainty of lifelong sobriety, I live by taking one day at a time. Alcoholism is fatal unless you seek help, which is the most courageous choice you can make. I strive to be a better person each day, and will forever be grateful that when I called my daughter, my family came to my rescue.

– As told to Ella Nunn