Ten years ago, I found myself in a psychiatrist’s office begging for a drug I hoped would stop me drinking so much.
I was 35, the mother of a three-year-old, with a successful job, a nice husband, a lovely house in south London.
But despite these trappings of respectability, I was drinking a bottle of wine a night, sometimes two, and I was miserable.
I was experiencing almost constant episodes of OCD, which I’d had since childhood, and bouts of depression. Wine was the only way to switch my brain off after a long day, but I could never stop at one glass.
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