Can drinking alcohol be a form of self-harm?

By Jessica. Jessica talks through how drinking was a form of self harm for her in her past. Content warning: this blog contains references to excessive alcohol consumption and addiction.

For me, drinking was self-harm.

“What hobbies do you have?” was a question I used to dread.

Because the only thing I had outside of my demanding job, was drinking.

I liked white wine and lots of it. I would drink 2-4 times a week, only having a break to nurse my hangover in between. And I would binge drink, downing 5+ glasses of wine, and usually losing count and staying up into the wee hours. I went to work still drunk. I went to work on no sleep. I would spend hundreds of pounds a month on booze even though I had no savings. Alcohol had its cold damp tendrils wrapped around my life. And my drinking was more than imbibing a social lubricant, it was a form of self-harm.

I drank even though it destroyed relationships. I drank even though it sometimes put my job in jeopardy. I drank even though it gave me two, sometimes three, days of paranoia of suicidal thoughts. I drank even though it harmed me. I drank even though it seemed to bring only toxic relationships with other drinkers into my life. I drank like a fish. I smoked like a chimney – I smoked more than double the amount I’d smoke normally once I’d got a few bevs in me. I drank and I drank and I drank some more.

For the most part people talk about booze in a positive way. It is often portrayed as glamorous and celebratory. But there’s nothing glamorous about throwing up into the toilet at the end of the night. Nothing celebratory about the morning after the night before: days post-night-out on the town spent in bed feeling like people are out to get you and you want to jump off a bridge. There’s nothing fun about losing friends because of things you said that you didn’t mean. There’s nothing joyous about mistakes you made while drinking that you can’t undo.

I used to justify it to myself that I was young and having fun, but as I started to get older, and experienced the slow dawning realisation that it wasn’t fun at all, it became harder for me to understand and to justify why I kept finding myself in the pub.

I felt trapped by my drinking. The idea of having a week without alcohol made me feel afraid. As though I’d stumbled across something brilliant and someone was trying to take it away from me. But it was anything but brilliant. Looking back, I’m not sure drinking had any positives. Even the upbeat attitude I had at the start of a night just led to risk taking. It kept me going back for more and trapped me in a cycle of nights out that I couldn’t escape. When coworkers asked me what I’d done that weekend I usually had to make something up. I’d been out on Friday and then spent the rest of the weekend in bed with only a takeaway pizza for company.

When I got arrested for being drunk and disorderly, I still kept drinking for years afterwards – it might have been a sign that my drinking was out of control, but I didn’t feel I was capable of giving up alcohol.

I never thought I would be able to get sober. I thought that I would potentially die young from alcohol related complications and I accepted that. I went to the doctor with problems such as excessive sweating, abdominal pain and rosacea, it was always at the back of my mind that it might be because of drinking. Whether that’s true or not, it’s hard to tell. But as my face lit up bright red on nights out and hangovers, to the point other people would comment, even make-up couldn’t help me and I knew that it was at least, connected to the glass in my hand. My drinking was leaving emotional and physical scars. I dread to think what my liver looks like.

I never went to a support group to stop drinking, although I know this can be really helpful for others, and I never considered myself an alcoholic. It was more that drinking was a problem for me and always had been. I stopped drinking over lockdown. First limiting my alcohol intake and then stopping completely. Typically I drank in the pub, not in the house, and this meant that all the pubs closing was the ultimate deterrent for me, although I know that many others found they drank more in lockdown. I started to ask myself why I drank at all. What was it for and how was it affecting my life? It started to seem like a burden and had lost its lustre.

I’d also been diagnosed with a severe mental illness by this point in my life: Schizoaffective Disorder and it was recommended that I didn’t drink on my meds. As well as my odds of relapsing improving without alcohol in my life.

So, in March 2021 I had my last drink and I’ve never looked back.

Not drinking has given me so much. Calm. Stability. Control. It’s given me friends who spend their weekends on adventures instead of in the pub downing pints. For 15 years I let alcohol control me, and now I’m free.

The longer I give up alcohol, the more negative I feel towards it.  Alcohol is, in essence, a poison. I hate the way that people talk about being sober too – I’m not “stone cold sober”, how about “I’m sober and it’s refreshing as hell”.

But being sober can be hard. A US study from the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism showed that as many as 90% of people with alcoholism relapsed within 4 years of completing treatment. Alcohol is everywhere you look, and so are its supporters, quick to ask accusatorially why you have an orange juice instead of a Prosecco in your hand. Let’s normalise NOT asking people why they choose not to drink.

Although I know my drinking could have been much worse, from my experience it was a serious problem that hugely affected my life, career and relationships for many, many years.

I’ve finally found the miracle hangover cure I’d been looking for all these years: not drinking in the first place.

If you’re looking to cut down your alcohol intake or get sober, consult with your GP first, especially if you drink heavily. This article is not advice, just lived experience.

Published 13th February 2026.