Losing Friends while losing myself to Alcoholism

Not only did I lose family — the only family in my life — I also lost two best friends.

Both things are difficult for me to talk about.

Because friendships carry memories.

History.

And versions of ourselves we no longer fully recognise.

Losing friends during addiction is something people rarely talk about openly.

We talk about alcoholism damaging health.

Relationships.

Families.

Careers.

But friendship grief is real too.

And while alcoholism was changing me, it was quietly changing the people around me as well.

The loss of family and the loss of friendship are different kinds of grief.

But both hurt.

And losing friends while losing yourself is a strange kind of heartbreak.

I have always kept my circle small.

Very small.

School taught me early that friendships could be complicated.

There were betrayals.

Drama.

People who smiled in front of you and spoke differently behind your back.

So when I loved people and trusted them, it mattered deeply to me.

And there were two friendships that shaped my life.

Two people who knew me before addiction fully took over.

Two friendships woven into my story long before alcoholism became the centre of it.

The Friend I Met In China

The first friendship began on a school trip to China.

And strangely enough, it began through loneliness.

At the time, I had fallen out with the people who were supposedly my friends.

And looking back now, the reason feels almost ridiculous.

We were in China and they wanted to go to McDonald’s.

I wanted to explore China.

Actually see it.

Experience it.

We had been told not to walk around in groups smaller than four.

But I was curious.

Independent.

And probably slightly stubborn.

So I wandered off by myself.

And instead of laughing about it or covering for me, they dobbed me in.

I still remember how disappointed I felt.

Not because I got into trouble.

But because something about that moment made me realise they were never really my people anyway.

Unfortunately, I still had to share a room with them on the trip.

Which made things awkward.

Uncomfortable.

And lonely.

School friendships can be complicated like that.

People form groups.

Fall out.

Switch loyalties.

And suddenly you realise the people surrounding you may not actually be your people at all.

I remember looking across the coach and seeing him sitting alone too.

And something about that moment felt familiar.

So I decided to sit with him.

And that simple decision quietly changed years of my life.

That was where our friendship really began.

And once it started, it moved quickly.

We had the same humour.

The same banter.

We liked the same things.

And we could talk and talk and talk without ever becoming bored of each other.

The conversation never felt forced.

It was easy.

Comfortable.

The sort of friendship where silence never felt awkward and laughter came naturally.

We made so many memories together.

And perhaps that is why writing about this friendship still feels emotional now.

Because it was never surface level.

It was woven into important years of my life.

School, Belonging & Chosen Family

At the time, neither of us were particularly happy at the school we were at.

It felt bitchy.

Gossipy.

Judgemental.

The sort of environment where people watched each other too closely and you never fully felt able to relax or be yourself.

I did not know it at first, but he had already decided he was going to move schools.

He was a year below me.

And when he made that decision, something in me started thinking too.

Because truthfully, I hated the school as well.

So I made a decision that changed everything.

I decided to retake the year and move too.

And honestly, it was one of the best decisions I ever made.

Because suddenly I was starting fresh.

And I was doing it with my best friend beside me.

Looking back now, that became the happiest year I ever had at school.

Not because school had suddenly become perfect.

But because my best friend was there with me.

We were inseparable.

We went to parties together.

Ate out together.

Had constant sleepovers.

Shared routines.

Shared jokes.

And built a friendship woven into everyday life.

The sort of friendship where plans never really needed organising because you were already together most of the time.

That year gave me some of the happiest memories of my school life.

And over time, he became far more than simply a school friend.

His family became like a second family to me.

There were Christmases spent together.

Memories built inside his home.

And during one of the hardest periods of my life — when my relationship with my mum had broken down — I even lived with him and his family for a period.

That sort of kindness stays with you.

Because when life feels unstable, people who open their homes to you become part of your survival story.

When Friendship Feels Like Family

We travelled together too.

Not once.

Repeatedly.

And perhaps travel tells you more about a friendship than almost anything else.

We travelled to China, Germany, Turkey, Cyprus and the Netherlands together.

Just us.

Holidays.

Adventures.

Stories woven into our friendship.

When we were at university, we even visited one another in different cities.

Life was changing around us but the friendship still travelled with us.

And perhaps that is what made it feel so rooted.

I was there during some of his biggest coming-of-age moments.

I remember when his partner proposed to him.

And I was there.

That stayed with me.

Because I realised how much of life we had witnessed together.

We had grown up alongside each other.

Shared milestones.

Different chapters.

Different versions of ourselves.

I shared everything with him.

And I trusted him with the intimate details of my life.

The embarrassing parts.

The painful parts.

The personal things you only tell people when you feel emotionally safe.

That level of trust is rare.

And perhaps that is why friendship grief feels so confusing.

Because when somebody knows you deeply, losing access to that closeness feels strange.

Almost like losing a version of yourself too.

When my dad died, he was fully there for me.

And I still think about that now.

My father’s funeral was in Thailand.

And at the time, my mum was not allowing me to go.

I remember feeling conflicted.

Confused.

Heartbroken.

And faced with a decision that felt impossible.

Whether to go to my own father’s funeral or not.

And he helped me make that decision.

He supported me.

Talked things through with me.

And eventually encouraged me to go.

Sometimes we remember friendships through photographs.

But I think we remember them most through who stood beside us during our hardest moments.

And he did.

How Alcoholism Changed My Friendships

Alcoholism changed my friendships in ways I did not fully understand at the time.

For a long time, I only saw my own pain.

My loneliness.

My fear.

My feeling of abandonment.

But recovery forced me to sit with something uncomfortable too.

Addiction affects the people around us.

Not just ourselves.

I became emotionally chaotic.

Less reliable.

More unstable.

And often living in survival mode.

While I felt like I was simply trying to survive, the people around me were often trying to understand what was happening to somebody they loved.

And that is difficult.

Because addiction rarely destroys friendships overnight.

It changes them quietly.

The Distance

Concern becomes exhaustion.

Support becomes distance.

And sometimes the people who care about us begin protecting themselves too.

At the time I felt hurt.

And in many ways, I was hurt.

But recovery has taught me to look back more honestly.

Not with shame.

But with accountability.

Because not every friendship survives survival mode.

And perhaps what hurt most was that there was never one dramatic ending.

No explosion.

No single betrayal.

Just something slower.

Quieter.

A friendship gradually changing while my life became louder.

He never actually told me he was distancing himself.

Those words were never said.

But I felt it.

The phone calls became less frequent.

The texts slowed down.

And gradually I noticed I was no longer invited to certain places where he was with other people.

Life was changing.

Friendship circles were changing.

And perhaps I was too.

I remember noticing how different things felt.

Not dramatically.

Just quietly.

Like standing outside something you once belonged inside.

And then one day I noticed we were no longer friends on Facebook.

And strangely, that upset me more than I expected.

Because social media can make distance feel suddenly real.

Almost official.

A quiet confirmation that something had changed.

Looking back now, I think perhaps we were living on different timelines.

He was focused on building his future.

Creating his life.

Moving forward.

And I was not focused on building anything at all.

I was trying to stay alive.

And those are two very different places to meet somebody from.

Life eventually took him abroad too.

He moved to Australia for a period of his life.

And somewhere between countries, adulthood and completely different paths, years passed.

I have not seen him in years.

Which still feels strange to say considering how intertwined our lives once were.

But recently we reconnected through social media.

And if I am honest, that made me happy.

Because despite everything — distance, time and life moving in different directions — part of me still hopes to see him again soon.

Perhaps that is another truth about friendship grief.

Sometimes it is final.

And sometimes it feels unfinished.

Not fully closed.

Just waiting quietly somewhere in the background.

The Big Man

The second friendship feels different.

And perhaps harder to explain.

I met him at university during Freshers week.

He was around six foot six.

And honestly, nobody even knew his real name for at least a week.

Because of his height, everybody simply called him The Big Man.

And somehow the nickname stuck before the introduction ever really did.

It still makes me laugh now.

Because it genuinely took me about a week before I learnt what his actual name was.

But once I did, the friendship moved quickly.

We bonded through something painful.

We had both lost our fathers.

And grief has a strange way of creating closeness between people.

University became fun because of him.

Truthfully, university itself was never really for me.

But he made it feel lighter.

More entertaining.

More survivable.

We did so much together.

Badminton.

Conversations.

Laughter.

And the sort of friendship that felt dependable and safe.

We made university fun.

And looking back now, that is probably what I remember most.

Not lectures.

Not assignments.

But friendship.

When he left during second year, part of me thinks I should have left too.

Because if I am honest, university was never really where I felt I belonged.

But despite that, I do not regret going.

Because I met him.

And sometimes people become the reason a chapter mattered.

He did so much to try to help me afterwards too.

Little things that stayed with me.

When I lost my driving licence, he bought me a bicycle.

Which I still think was incredibly sweet.

Practical.

Thoughtful.

The sort of gesture that quietly says:

I am trying to help you keep moving.

He would buy me flowers too.

And I still remember that.

Because flowers are not really about money.

They are about thought.

About somebody thinking of you.

And during difficult periods of my life, those gestures mattered.

Especially because at the start of addiction people often try to save you.

They encourage you.

Support you.

Hope you will get better.

During one detox in hospital, he travelled over three hours just to see me.

And he stayed for barely two.

That still stays with me.

Because three hours is commitment.

Three hours is care.

Three hours is somebody making the effort when you are not at your best.

And perhaps that says more about friendship than words ever could.

He was supportive.

Probably my biggest supporter for a long time.

We watched the same television shows together even when we were living in different places.

And I smile thinking about that now.

We would hover over the play button.

Three.

Two.

One.

And press play at exactly the same time so neither of us missed an episode.

It became our little ritual.

A strange kind of long-distance friendship.

We watched Suits, The Real Housewives, Vanderpump Rules and The Originals together.

Different places.

Different lives.

But somehow sharing the same episode.

And when I first went to rehab in Thailand, he sent flowers.

I still remember that.

The kindness of it.

The feeling that somebody still believed in me.

And perhaps what made that period harder was that around the same time I lost my relationship with my mother, I felt like I was losing him too.

I remember the sentence he said to me.

“Kimberley, I don’t know where your journey is going to go anymore.”

And that stayed with me.

Because if I am honest, neither did I.

My life was chaotic.

Uncertain.

And frightening.

I ended up under psychiatric care.

Something I never imagined would happen to me.

And looking back now, I understand why people around me felt scared.

Because I was scared too.

His words hurt.

Not because they were cruel.

But because they felt painfully honest.

And perhaps that is why they stayed with me.

Not as judgement.

But as concern.

There was another moment that stayed with me too.

After I moved to London, I remember driving to his house unannounced.

And if I am honest, I expected him to be excited to see me.

I think part of me imagined things would feel how they used to.

Comfortable.

Familiar.

Easy.

But they did not.

And I remember feeling hurt.

Confused.

Almost rejected.

Because in my head, this was somebody who had once felt safe.

Somebody who had once felt like home.

And I had not yet fully understood something that recovery would later teach me.

Healing relationships takes time.

It is not instant.

Trust does not automatically return simply because we want it to.

And closeness cannot always pick up where it left off.

At the time, I still viewed relationships through the lens of my own hurt.

My own loneliness.

My own need for comfort and familiarity.

But looking back now, I understand that people need time too.

Time to process.

Time to rebuild.

Time to feel safe again.

And perhaps that moment taught me something difficult but important.

Love and friendship can still exist even when closeness has changed.

And healing relationships, much like healing ourselves, is rarely immediate.

Healing After Friendship Loss

I still think about both friendships.

And perhaps I always will.

Because grief is not only reserved for death.

Sometimes we grieve people still living.

Versions of relationships that no longer exist.

And versions of ourselves that disappeared alongside them.

Recovery taught me something difficult.

Not every friendship survives addiction.

Some people return.

Some do not.

And perhaps friendship grief deserves more conversation than it receives.

Because losing people while losing yourself is painful.

But healing taught me something too.

Relationships can evolve.

Distance does not always mean hatred.

And not every ending is permanent.

These 2 people remain part of my memories.

And perhaps part of my healing too.

It still lingers somewhere between gratitude and grief.

And maybe that is the strange thing about friendship loss.

Sometimes closure never arrives dramatically.

It simply softens with time.

And perhaps rebuilding trust — both with other people and ourselves — is one of the quietest forms of healing there is.