Lying sprawled on the living room floor. My wife, her face deep with worry and incomprehension, staring down at me. “You need to get help”. Next morning being taken to an AA meeting like a small, unwilling child to school. Saying, “My name is Marcus and I’m an alcoholic”.

It didn’t matter, it seemed calming and safe.

At some point I plucked up the courage to say “Hi, my name is Marcus and I’m an alcoholic”.

There it was done, I’d admitted defeat.

It was a huge relief, a turning point, that allowed me to take that help I needed to rebuild my life, sober a day at a time.

The moment of complete defeat was not some great calamity, rather a final admission that everything was not “all ok” as I had increasingly, shakily, in all senses of the word, tried to pretend it was.

The reality was my world had become a dark, tightening spiral downwards into a personal, private hell completely dominated by alcohol. I was trapped. I knew I was an alcoholic but completely incapable of admitting it to anyone. Afterall who wants to be married to an alcoholic, or employ one? As long as I could keep pretending it was “all ok” I would keep wading my way from one alcohol soaked day to the next.

I was resigned to drinking myself to death, which to most normal people would sound like utter defeat, but in my twisted reality that defeat would be asking for help to stop the inevitable.

When the facade finally shattered and I walked shaking and unwilling into an AA meeting I found I did not so much need to ask for help as it was being freely offered to me.

It was a Traditions meeting. It made no sense.