My Experience Navigating the Ups and Downs of Drinking with Depression

Drinking used to be one of my coping tools, but with time I realized that it wasn’t helping. This is my journey figuring out how to balance alcohol and my mental health.

Raise your hand if you’ve ever uttered the words “I need a drink.” Now, keep your hand up if you’ve ever had one too many cocktails while out with friends or family.

What about waking up with a major hangover? And has that hangover then quickly spiraled into hangxiety (feelings of shame or regret after drinking too much)? Oh, your hand is still up? Cool. Mine, too. 

I don’t think it’s breaking news to say that drinking and depression have a parasitic relationship. People with depression may feel a sudden burst of energy when drinking, as well as reduced anxiety.

Alcohol lowers inhibitions, but once those effects wear off, the chemical changes in the brain can lead to worsening depressive symptoms. It’s a cyclical effect: Alcohol increases depression, but depression can drive someone to alcohol.

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Entering a drinking era

Seven years ago, I graduated from the University of Michigan. I loved my college experience and am so thankful for my time in Ann Arbor. U of M introduced me to lifelong friends, critical thinking skills, incredible professors … and a lively culture of partying and drinking.

They say you work hard to play hard. In college, it seemed the mentality was to work hard and play harder. My alma mater is consistently ranked as a party school in the United States (in 2024, it was ranked #29.)

Friday nights were spent at house parties, and Saturday afternoons were spent on frat house lawns playing beer pong before a big game.

Gone were the worries of my GPA or future career plans. Instead, for a few evenings, my concerns were focused on which guy(s) I wanted to make out with at a party and which Taylor Swift song the DJ might play.

When alcohol met my depression

Upon graduating, I noticed that my relationship with drinking began to change. Transitioning to postgrad life proved to be difficult. I realize, in hindsight, that I experienced mini-bouts of depression in my college years.

But it was only when I was in my early twenties that I had my first conscious run-in with a depressive episode. I developed several destructive habits during that time, most notably excessive drinking.

During my first depressive episode, I was neither on medication nor in therapy. I had a constant drive to distract myself from my feelings and ultimately became a walking whirlpool of emotions — I was unhappy everywhere, irritable to everything, and sensitive to everyone.

Teasing comments from friends would send me into a hysterical spiral. A glass of wine led to a sobfest. A night out was guaranteed to end with me crying on the subway or in the backseat of an Uber.

“One drink” was not in my vocabulary; I drank too much and got drunk too often.

I felt chaotic and unhinged and messy, messy, messy. I constantly looked to a night out with friends or a couple of drinks to help me temporarily forget about my unhappiness. I found that I had no control over my emotions when sober and felt completely overwhelmed by them when drunk.

How addressing my mental health affected my drinking

I’ve since been introduced to therapy and antidepressants. Though I still experience many lows, my feelings are a bit more stable and I’ve become more able to recognize the symptoms of an upcoming episode.

My telltale signs no longer involve excessive drinking, and I can’t say for certain why that is. Perhaps it’s because I’ve surrounded myself with people who don’t self-medicate, or maybe it’s because I absolutely hate being hungover and try to avoid it at all costs.

But now, my biggest signal of an upcoming depressive episode is when I have a disinterest in listening to music because I find that placing my AirPods in my ears expends too much energy. Is it the slightest bit pathetic? Sure. But it’s at least safer than trying to get blackout drunk every weekend.

As I’ve matured, I’ve become more aware of my decisions (and motivations) to get another drink, to take a shot, to stay out, or to go out in order to get drunk. This isn’t to say that I never engage in those behaviors — I have a few times in the past 6 years. But I’m at least conscious that I’m doing it.

Evolving into new habits

I find that now, as a 29-year-old woman, I’m not a big drinker. I rarely drink on weekdays — in fact, I don’t even have alcohol in my home. I’ll indulge in a drink or two on the weekends, only when I’m with friends. I rarely go to parties or go out (the last time I did, I regretted going almost immediately after showing up).

I absolutely hate taking shots. My tolerance is much lower than it was in my college days, and I’d rather be in bed by 10 p.m. than out on the town. I prefer sparkling water to vodka sodas and cozy pajamas to dolled-up outfits.

Sometimes, this makes me feel ancient and boring. Am I no longer fun? Am I wasting my youth? But then I think of how messy I was in my early twenties.

Five years ago, I spent many Saturday and Sunday mornings hungover in my bed, hating myself for having blubbered in the arms of some stranger at a bar. Now, I spend most of my weekend mornings at the gym or at a cafe, enjoying a cup of coffee.

Don’t get me wrong: I can still be messy, especially when I drink while in the midst of a depressive episode. In fact, just 2 months ago, I drank two margaritas and found myself sobbing at the bartop of one of my favorite restaurants (shout-out to the waitstaff there for their kind words and lack of judgment).

Embarrassed as I was the following day, I tried to show myself a bit of kindness and later made time with a friend to have a deeper chat about how I was feeling.

Finding moderation

At this time in my life, I feel that I’ve nurtured a healthy relationship with drinking, especially in relation to my depression. When I’m feeling down, I try not to turn to alcohol. I avoid keeping it at home and will treat myself to a bubble tea instead of a glass of wine.

I suggest activities with friends that don’t involve drinking. And if I do go out and choose to drink, I have a three-drink maximum.

I look back on my early twenties in New York with conflicting feelings. I had a lot of fun — I found new bars, met new people, and took advantage of a new city.

But I am saddened that I was hurting so deeply. I’m ashamed that I turned to substances to try to numb that pain. I’m embarrassed that I was such an emotional mess. And I’m thankful that my relationship with alcohol did not morph into an addiction.

The takeaway

I wish I could hug 23-year-old me. I’d like to console her and inform her that all the pain she’s feeling, as horrible as it is, will ultimately lead her to an incredible journey of self-discovery within the therapy room.

I’d tell her that, sure, she’s a bit chaotic, but aren’t we all? That there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. That 6 years from now, things will still be hard, emotions will still be overwhelming, and yes, unfortunately, she’ll still be a bit messy.

And I’d like to tell her then — as much as I need to remind myself today — that the beautiful thing about messes is that they get cleaned up.