After a wildly successful drinking career, I finally retired 11 years ago. I would love to say that it was a considered decision after mature reflection and conversations with my loved ones. But not. After another solo binge, I woke up fully clothed on the cold, hard tiles of my bathroom floor. Mornings like this had led to weeks of sobriety before. But that day felt different, and because I vowed to never self-medicate again, I knew I was done for good.
The winter after I stopped drinking, I wrote a horror script, full of betrayal and torture, a true reflection of my state of mind. Less than a year later, I moved to Los Angeles and co-wrote a sitcom, a manifestation of my enlightened spirit. Still, something inside didn't feel quite right. I had come out of my addiction alive and physically healthy. He had a supportive social circle. I moved in with the girlfriend of my dreams. I was Kevin 2.0, relaunched with energy and enthusiasm. So why did I often feel so anxious? Wasn't this the life he had always wanted?
Maybe because I'm Irish, from a culture that tends to believe that when good luck blesses you, it won't last long enough for you to enjoy it, I would never feel at ease. In America, in the midst of the endless pursuit of personal and professional perfection, was I denying who I was?
Where I grew up, men didn't talk about problems; They led them astray, joked and drowned them in alcohol. And being an extrovert was essential. Quiet children were seen as defective, in need of fixing. As the years went by, being called “quiet” became the worst insult they could throw at me.
The truth is, I had struggled with anxiety and despair since I was a teenager, a weight so heavy that I sometimes couldn't get out of bed. Playing video games for days at a time in my youth pointed to my future career as a film and television editor, locked in a dark, safe world with only problems on a screen to solve. But I also longed to belong.
Enter alcohol.
All my first relationships started at parties, bars or clubs. Soon he no longer knew how to be around people without drinking. I silenced the quiet, studious child in me by drowning it in delicious red wine.
Once I got sober and moved to the United States, I was sure that if I tried hard enough, I could control every aspect of my life. I pursued relationships with women who I thought Kevin 2.0 deserved to be with. Adventurers who move and shake. Each time I tried my best to keep up, but eventually I got tired and tired. In my professional life I modeled positivity, suppressing my natural cynicism for fear of being called a downer. My overwork would cause me to crash and burn for weeks at a time, but I would always come back for more. And despite not drinking for years, the ghosts that alcohol had once fueled continued to haunt me and began to manifest.
In 2022, I took a boat trip through the south of France with some long-time friends to celebrate our 50th birthday. I was nervous navigating wine country with enthusiastic drinkers in a confined space. So, while they relaxed on the deck, drinking, I exercised and ran around pretending to be a photographer. Several days into the trip I had exhausted myself with work and finally gave myself permission to relax and enjoy our time together. But as soon as I got home, I was back in full gear.
My family from Ireland visited me in September and I was their tour guide for a week. My extreme efforts to put on a brave face did not fool my younger sister. After a vulnerable conversation, she suggested that she ask my doctor about medications. She had always thought that taking a drug, whether recreational or prescribed, would be cheating. She had promised to never artificially alter my mental state, to never hide from my emotions or problems again. But to my great surprise, a wave of relief washed over me and I said yes.
I'm now a few months into my medication journey and I'm still learning to live with the effects. I realize that getting sober was just the beginning. Swapping Ireland for Los Angeles was just the beginning. Starting medication was just the beginning. The forward movement is what is important. For me that means letting go of the need for perfection, the need to be liked, the need to be a version of myself that is unrealistic and ultimately harmful.
But I'm starting to learn to say: Hello, Kevin 3.0, it's you. Just deal with it. And let it go.
Kevin Lavelle is a freelance writer living in Echo Park. @kevin_lavelle_origins_copy
