But rather than talk about it and be honest about feeling terrified, I made jokes and pretended everything was fine. Behind closed doors, I buried myself in the bottle and my alcohol intake went through the roof.
About five years ago, when Marcus was 14, I was really struggling. I’d previously split up from Marcus’ mum but we’d always co-parented, and my relationship with Marcus had been extremely close. Before my drinking problem kicked in, I was the kind of dad who rang him every day; we went regularly to rugby together, and we loved being in each other’s company.
But when my booze intake accelerated, I went from drinking bottles of wine and beer at night to necking more than a few in the afternoon. By the end of 2020, the first thing I’d think about waking up was having a drink. By that point I was on vodka because it got me drunk more quickly.
Because I was running my own legal business, even though I was out of it much of the time, I could just about keep my professional life together. But, later, when I eventually hit my rock bottom, I had to be honest with my management team and ask for their help. That was tough: being upfront about how bad things had become.
I was always very clever at hiding my addiction. I’d sneak off to have a glug when no one was looking, and because I had a high tolerance, I could still be around Marcus and function. Even so, Marcus was no fool and he picked up that I wasn’t being the dad he’d known and loved. It’s hard to admit, but he did find me asleep in bed once, surrounded by empty bottles. Not my proudest moment.
Things progressively got worse and I started letting him down. I forgot to pick him up, didn’t show face at the rugby and was distracted most of the time by the thought of the next drink. Marcus had always been my main priority but now it was alcohol.
One day his mum intervened and told me I had to seek professional help. Although I agreed to go to rehab, crazy though it sounds, I didn’t really believe I had a problem. When I came out, I immediately started drinking again. This became the cycle – in total, I’ve been to rehab five times.
And so it went on. I was drunk at all hours of the day. Marcus stopped seeing me, and the sadness I felt around that pushed me even further towards the bottle. We were both stuck in our own bubbles of pain. I obliterated myself with drink; Marcus cut himself off from his feelings. He never blew up or rebelled, but he did shut down. We’ve talked about it since, and he realises it was his way of managing how overwhelming it all was. We both know now that it’s better to let those tough emotions out in the open and try to deal with them.
But back then, the more I drank, the more I didn’t care about anyone or anything. I got to the stage where I was in a pit of drunken misery and it seemed no difference, in my mind, whether I lived or died.
Then one morning in September 2022, a kind of miracle happened. I was sitting with Marcus in the garden at my parents’ house, and he turned to me and said: ‘Dad, you are 42 years old and you still need your mum and dad. I am 17 years old and I need you.’