How I Survived Alcohol, Liver Disease, and the Loss of Everyone I Thought Was My Friend

If you told me five years ago that alcohol would destroy not only my liver but also my entire life, I probably would’ve laughed in your face. At that time, I was invincible. Or so I thought. I drank hard, worked hard, and thought my problems weren’t any worse than anyone else’s. But that was all a lie. It wasn’t just alcohol that almost killed me—it was the shame, the judgment, and the mental toll of realizing I was alone in my fight.

My name is Vael, and this is my story.

I didn’t always drink. When I was younger, alcohol was just a weekend thing, a way to unwind after a long week. But gradually, it became a daily necessity. At first, it was a beer with dinner, then it became a couple of beers after work, and before I knew it, I was downing a bottle of whiskey every night, sometimes more. I wasn’t some guy staggering down the street, shouting at strangers, though. No, I hid it well. I drank at home, where no one could see how far I was falling.

"The cracks started to show, but I ignored them."

I wasn’t stupid. I knew I was drinking too much. But it was easy to ignore it. I had a job, I paid my bills, and as far as anyone else knew, I was just fine. Occasionally, friends would make comments—“Vael, you’ve told that story four times already” or “Dude, you’re living off of oranges and vodka.” I brushed it off. Sure, I wasn’t eating properly, and sure, I’d sent some embarrassing texts after a bender, but who doesn’t? Everyone has their vices, right?

But when my mom came to visit one Christmas, I couldn’t hide it anymore. I kept falling. I couldn’t keep my balance, and my words came out all wrong. It scared her, and it scared me, but I still didn’t stop. I didn’t know then that my liver was already starting to shut down, that I was close to developing something called hepatic encephalopathy—a brain condition caused by liver damage.

"I was dying, and my friends disappeared."

Fast forward a few months, and I’m in the hospital. My skin was yellow, my stomach was bloated, and I was barely able to walk without assistance. The doctor came in and gave me the news that changed everything. “You’ve got severe alcohol-related fatty liver disease,” he said, and he didn’t sugarcoat it. I was looking at cirrhosis if I didn’t stop drinking immediately. My liver was failing, and if I didn’t change, I wouldn’t see another Christmas.

I thought my friends would rally around me. After all, we’d been through thick and thin, right? Wrong. One by one, they started to fade away. They didn’t call, didn’t visit. The few times they did, they’d say, “Vael, you didn’t sound like yourself last time we talked. It freaked me out.” Yeah, it freaked me out too, but that didn’t stop me from needing support. The people I’d known for over 20 years just disappeared, as if my liver disease was contagious.

"Stigma is a silent killer."

What no one tells you is how much stigma can hurt. The whispers, the judgment—it’s a slow, invisible death of its own. “You did this to yourself,” people would say, not out loud, but I could see it in their eyes. Every time someone learned I had liver disease, the first question was, “Is it because of alcohol?” As if that somehow made it less worthy of concern. It wasn’t just strangers either. Even family didn’t know what to say. I could feel them pulling away, not wanting to talk about the real reason I was so sick.

There’s something isolating about liver disease, especially when alcohol is involved. People see it as a moral failure. “You poured the drink,” they think. “You brought this on yourself.” Maybe I did, but that didn’t make it any easier to face.

"My life became a fight—not just to survive, but to be seen."

In the years since my diagnosis, I’ve learned that staying sober is only half the battle. The other half is mental. It’s dealing with the loss of friendships, the isolation, and the judgment. I’ve heard all kinds of ignorant comments. One person even joked, “We’re meeting at a bar, but that’s no good for you, right?” It was like someone kicked me in the gut. I wasn’t asking for pity, just some understanding.

The worst part is trying to start over. When people find out you don’t work because of a liver condition, the walls go up immediately. It’s like I’ve become a cautionary tale—someone to avoid rather than someone to help. Dating? Forget about it. One woman told me, “You seem nice, but I’ll think about it,” as if I were a used car she wasn’t sure she wanted to buy.

But not everyone has turned away. I’ve met new people through support groups, and they’ve shown me what real friendship looks like. They know the struggle, and they don’t judge. For the first time in years, I feel like I’m part of something, not just some lost cause.

"I’m still one drink away from disaster."

Today, I’ve been sober for over three years, but I know I’m never safe. Every day is a challenge, and I’ll always be one bad day away from falling back into old habits. But I’ve come too far to give up now. My liver’s not perfect, but it’s better than it was. And more importantly, I’ve found ways to live again, ways to fill the void that alcohol used to fill.

I’ll never be the man I was before all this started, but maybe that’s a good thing. I’m still fighting, still here, and for that, I’m grateful.