Why I went to alcohol rehab


By Stephen Costin
2 July 2026
Next review due July 2029

Stephen Costin is 48 and lives in Unsworth, Manchester, with his partner Katie and their two children, aged nine and 19 months. He has been free of alcohol addiction for three years and eight months. Here, he talks about hitting rock bottom, going through detox and rehab, and rebuilding his life without alcohol.

I had always known I drank too much, but I justified it. There was always a reason. My mum wasn’t well, so I’d have a drink. I’d had a bad day at work, so I’d have a drink. I always had an excuse ready, and after a while those excuses became the way I lived.

The thought of losing absolutely everything was what finally broke through my defences. My little boy, my girlfriend, the life we had – I got so close to losing it.

People don’t get up in the morning and drink a bottle of wine because everything is fine. But that’s what I was doing. By then, I was at proper rock bottom. I now know there was an illness behind my behaviour, but that didn’t make it easier to admit.

Everything had started to disappear

When I wasn’t drinking, I was having panic attacks. Days were blending into one. I had no concept of what date it was. Somehow, I was still blundering my way through work, as functioning alcoholics do, but there was no joy in it.

I went quiet on WhatsApp. I went quiet on social media. I didn’t want interaction with anyone, mainly because in my own mind I knew I was a mess. I was hiding, really – from my friends, from my family and from myself.

In the end, Katie came round and said, “Listen, you’re going to A&E.” One of her cousins worked at Prestwich Hospital, near where we live, and told her I could be taken in. I would be admitted overnight and then moved to an NHS facility for a seven-day detox.

Alcohol detox and withdrawal

Even then, the devious alcoholic in me was still working. I was sat in hospital with Katie, thinking she would have to leave at four o’clock to pick up my son from school. I thought I could slip out the back door, have a couple of pints and come back. Then one of my best mates turned up. Katie had spoken to him. He looked at me and said, “You’re not going anywhere.”

I remember sitting on a ward in A&E, going through withdrawals, my body shaking. I was crying to him, saying, “There’s a pub down the road. We’ll go for two pints and I promise we’ll come straight back.” He refused me point blank and said, “You’re killing me, mate. Stop it.”

I can still remember looking around and thinking, “How on earth have I got myself into this absolute pickle?’ A private ambulance turned up and took me to the NHS detox unit.

By that stage I was still shaking a lot, so I was on medication. I did seven days there. It was strange because you were not made to do therapy. It was all, “Do you want to do this course?” If you said no, they didn’t force you.

But I knew this was my last chance to learn. If it didn’t work now, nothing would. I had responsibilities. I had a young boy. I had already done the hardest bit, which was admitting I had a drink problem after years of lying about it.

Rehab was not what I expected

After detox, Katie had been doing a lot of work behind the scenes to get me into the Priory in Altrincham, Manchester. I went there for 28 days as an inpatient. I remember packing my swimming shorts and Katie saying, “What are you doing? You’re going to a mental hospital.” I thought surely there will be a pool.

That shows the stigma, really. People think rehab is where stars go and it is a bit of a jolly. You get fed well, have a rest and come out fixed. It was nothing like that. It was absolutely intense.

About ten days in, I thought I was in a good place. I had said goodbye to Katie and my little boy and thought, "Right, I am going to smash this.” Then came one of the therapy sessions which were always tough. For this one, I had to write down what I had done to everybody.

They didn’t even let you type it. You had to write it by hand because it means more. It makes you think more. They called it ‘my story’. There were gaps because I had been drunk for so much of it and didn’t remember everything. But what I did remember was enough.

People who had only known me for a few days said, “That letter doesn’t sound like you.” But it was me. I was a horrible drunk. A snide, nasty drunk. I said horrible things to people for no reason, because that was what alcohol made me.

They take you as low as you can go, and by that point I was on the floor thinking, I have ruined everything. Then they start to build you up. You learn you need self-care. You need to respect yourself a bit more. And when you have that, you start appreciating other people more too.

Living with recovery

There’s still a massive stigma attached to being an alcoholic. People hear the word and think park bench, brown bag, tramp. But there are lots of people who hold down good jobs. I did. I was functioning, but I was still ill.

When I came out, I didn’t hide it. If someone asked why I wasn’t drinking, I’d say, “I’ve got a problem with drinking. I don’t drink anymore.” That is my business. If someone doesn’t like it, they don’t have to stand with me.

Recovery is not a case of doing two years and then deciding you’re okay. It’s constant. I have to keep practising. I have to keep myself busy. I do things now I would never have done before. I’m a big Manchester City fan, but I would never have taken my lad to football because it would have disrupted my drinking on a Saturday. Now I take him whenever I can. I used to pretend I was doing things for him, but really everything revolved around me being in a pub. I would pick somewhere with a play area and tell myself it was for him. It wasn’t. It was so I could drink.

Life is better, not perfect

Life is good now, but I am not going to say stopping drinking makes everything brilliant. Life is still hard. A couple of weeks ago I found things tough. I didn’t want to see anyone. I had no motivation. My mates were saying, “Come out” and I was saying no. Katie could see it in me straight away. The difference now is that when I have those downs, I don’t turn to what I used to turn to. My luck hasn’t changed. I’m just in a more capable place to deal with what comes at me.

So now, when good things happen with my job, or with our children, it’s not because the heavens have said, “You stopped drinking, here you go.” It’s because my head is in gear and I can do something with my life.

I have good days and bad days, but I’m here for them now. I’m here for Katie. I’m here for my children. I’m here for the football, the ordinary Saturdays, the things I used to miss while telling myself I was fine.

If there’s anything I would say to someone who is where I was, it’s this: admitting it is the hardest bit, but it is also the start. You don’t have to have lost everything before you ask for help. I nearly did. I’m grateful every day that I got the chance to stop before alcohol took the rest.


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Co-author

Anna Loizos, Multimedia Content Producer at Bupa UK

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