Playing football in a park somewhere by about midday. I, on the other hand, would spend the next forty-eight hours curled up in bed with the duvet over my head, racked with an all-consuming and inexplicable guilt. (I say 'inexplicable' because hedonism and debauchery are the done thing at that age, ain't they? In theory, I had no reason to feel guilty.) But, in spite of that, I couldn't stop. And would get on it every few days, repeating the cycle of binge, followed by suicidal comedown, followed by hollow vows never to do it again, followed by binge ... and you get the idea. That went on, the severity and frequency varying, for a few more years, before an older friend (herself a recovering addict) who'd watched me descend into dependency, eventually took me to a twelve-step fellowship meeting. I was twenty-one. By that time I'd developed anorexia and was using coke daily as an appetite suppressant. In order to help keep my weight down I'd also become fanatical about exercise, and would run ten to fifteen miles every day without fail.  I can vividly remember that first fellowship meeting. It was in a dank, poorly lit church hall in Hampstead. 

I can still smell the odd and distinctive mix of must, cheap instant coffee, and stale cigarette smoke. A combination that was to the nose what a cacophony is to the ears. The moment sobriety and God were mentioned (both concepts were equally alien and elusive to me at the time), I decided twelve-step recovery wasn't for me, and four years elapsed before I attended another meeting. During that time, I continued to drink and use drugs in a similar vein. Alongside the ongoing substance misuse, eating disorders were always there, lurking, waiting to pounce every time I thought I'd regained a modicum of dietary normality. Slowly morphing into slightly different eating disorders, or suddenly metamorphosing into completely different eating disorders. But always there, in one form or another. All equally injurious and impossible to vanquish.  There was, however, a sweet-smelling paisley-shaped petal amid all of that shit; I became a father to my beautiful daughter, Paisley Anastasia. 

Her arrival should've been the impetus for me to change. But it wasn't. In fact, I got progressively worse until my behaviour eventually forced Paisley's mum to take action that prevented me from seeing my daughter, which definitely was the impetus for me to change. Not playing a part in my girl's life was unimaginable. I started to have regular counselling sessions, and I started to go to meetings again. This time under the guidance of an incomparably compassionate sponsor; someone who has become a very good friend of mine. I've been clean since. Recovery from addiction is a daily battle. I always have to be vigilant and take measures to guard against complacency. 

As for the industry I work in ... drink and drugs, and people who drink and take drugs, are ubiquitous. What I do for a living doesn't change what I need to do to stay clean. My behaviour did irreparable damage. I hurt people I love and became a person I despised. No drink or drug is worth that price.