Four years ago, I woke up in an ICU in Thailand. My liver was failing. I was drinking three bottles of wine a day, chasing it with whiskey, and swallowing handfuls of Valium. I wasn’t trying to numb the pain anymore — I was trying to kill myself. I just didn’t have the guts to do it all at once.
Moving to Thailand was supposed to be my big fix. Back in Ireland, I’d built and sold a successful media company with 40 staff members across three cities. On paper, I was doing well. In real life, I was a wreck. I’d been a functioning alcoholic for years, hiding behind client meetings, late nights, and a culture where drinking hard was seen as normal. I was burned out, lost, and clinging to the hope that sunshine and distance might change something.
It didn’t.
In fact, Thailand made it worse. The freedom, the quiet, the time — it gave my addiction space to grow. With no structure around me, I lost the plot completely. I drank until I blacked out, every day, for months. I was surrounded by beaches and blue skies, but I wanted to disappear.
The ICU stint scared me straight. It was rock bottom. I left the hospital and never touched a drink again. I woke up and realized I had two options: keep going and die, or stop and face everything I’d been running from. That was the day I quit. I haven’t had a drink since.
