Adding to yesterday's post.
I drink two bottles of red wine a day. That’s 1.5 litres, give or take. In clinical terms, I’m overconsuming. In cultural terms, I’m normalised. In personal terms, I’m surviving.
I’m 57. I’ve lived a full life by some standards and a hard one by others. I’ve built a business, led teams, advocated for change, and kept moving forward in a world that often leaves disabled people behind. But in the past year, things have unravelled.
Since December 2024, I’ve had no income. Government contracts I relied on were cut. Disability support funding I qualified for was suddenly “under review.” I’ve been left hanging, with little correspondence or clarity. My wheelchair cushion—meant to last two years—is now five years old and giving me pressure sores. Everything feels uncertain.
Except one thing. Wine.
Wine keeps me steady. Not gloriously happy or unaware—just tolerably functional. Even though I drink “too much” in the eyes of our moral society, I’m still working, still thinking clearly, still capable. If there’s ever been a “functional alcoholic,” I might just be the poster child.
Let me be clear: I’m not romanticising this. I know the risks. At my age, alcohol hits harder. My liver isn’t 27. My sleep is fractured. My memory flickers. I worry about my heart. But I also know this: I drink because it works. Because it softens the sting of abandonment. Because it's a response to stress and institutional neglect—not a defect of character.
Alcoholism or overdrinking is not a personal weakness. That’s a lie society tells. It’s a public health issue—a consequence of loneliness, loss of purpose, and lack of meaningful support World Health Organization, 2023.
So before you tell me to stop drinking, ask yourself if you’d rather deal with the reasons I started.
Until someone offers a better answer, I’ll keep pouring. And I’ll keep talking about it—because silence is far more dangerous than Shiraz.
