Addiction doesn’t have to hold you back: A Christmas story

1. The ghost of addiction past

 

It was Christmas Eve in the Drunk and Tank pub, and Tom was sitting at the bar, rolling a betting slip between his fingers like a cigarette. He ordered his fifth double Christmas spirits and coke and told the old barman to add it to his tab. The barman passed it across the bar and watched Tom down it in one.

 

“I’ll pay it off in the new year,” said Tom.

 

The old barman nodded.

 

“How’s it going, Tom?” he asked.

 

“Not bad.”

 

“You don’t seem very full of Christmas cheer.”

 

“Eighteen to one,” said Tom, showing him the betting slip, “A horse named Comet. Seemed like a Christmas sign.”

 

“It lost?” asked the barman.

 

“Dead last,” said Tom, “But I didn’t just lose the bet. It was my last two hundred pounds. I lost all the money we had saved for the presents.”

 

The barman sighed.

 

“You know, I remember your father sat in the exact same spot thirty years ago. Your mother used to send you to bring him home.”

 

Tom froze like the winter frost, his hand tightening around the glass. 

 

“He never came though,” he said.

 

“No,” said the barman, “You were just a boy too. Do you remember…?”

 

Suddenly, the room around them seemed to shift, and the cosy warmth of the pub gave way to a cold, cramped living room. 

 

There was Tom, a small boy, just like the old barman said, sitting on the floor by a bare Christmas tree, watching as his father stumbled through the door, reeking of booze, his pockets empty. His mother was in the corner, wiping away silent tears. 

 

There was no Christmas turkey, no presents – his father had gambled away every penny they had.

“Your dad,” said the old barman softly, “He struggled with addiction, didn’t he?”

Tom nodded, his throat tight. 

“But you never drank, did you?” said the barman.

Tom smiled bitterly for a moment.

 

“I didn’t want to be like him,” he said, “I wanted to be a good husband. And a good father.

The scene shifted again and now Tom was standing in a small but cosy flat. There was a tiny tree in the corner with cheap twinkling fairy lights wrapped around it.

Tom saw himself and his wife sitting on the sofa, her hand resting on her pregnant belly. He watched himself open a gift from Claire and laughed when he saw the small wooden frame with a picture of the scan of their unborn child. 

“You had hope back then,” said the barman.

“It was a fresh start,” said Tom, “And a family of my own.”

The cosy flat disappeared, and suddenly, Tom found himself standing at his father’s funeral. The day had been cold, grey and unforgiving – just like the man they were burying. He stood in the rain, numb to the words spoken over the grave. 

“That was the day it all started again, wasn’t it?” the barman asked quietly.

Tom nodded. 

“I’d held it together for so long. But when Dad died… it all came back. The memories, the anger, old wounds that I thought had healed long before. I started…you know…a drink here and there, the occasional flutter – just to take the edge off, just to forget. Before I knew it, I couldn’t stop…”

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year!” said a voice beside him.

 

2. The ghost of addiction present

When Tom looked up, the old barman was gone, but there was a young man sitting at the bar next to him, drinking some kind of Christmas cocktail with a sparkler in it.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” Tom asked him.

“A Cranberry Carol,” said the man.

“What’s in it?”

“Cranberries.”

“Any alcohol?”

“No,” said the young man.

“Humbug,” said Tom.

“Christmas isn’t about drinking,” laughed the young man, “It’s about fresh starts and new beginnings! Take me for example. This time last year, I was in hospital after overdosing. My mum spent all of Christmas watching over me while the doctors tried to keep me alive.”

Tom looked away from the young man, a little embarrassed.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” said the young man, “I’m not. Let me show you something.”

Again, the bar around Tom seemed to dissolve, the warm lights dimming until he found himself standing in a dining room, tinsel strung up along the walls. Laughter filled the air and as Tom turned, he saw a family gathered together.

There was an older woman setting the table, her face beaming as she hummed along to the Christmas carols playing softly in the background. A man sat in an armchair, smiling at the children playing all around him with Santa hats and antlers on their heads.

“They’re waiting for someone,” Tom said, noticing the empty chair by the table.

“They’re waiting for me,” the young man beside him said softly. 

“Your family?” 

The young man nodded, watching the scene with a quiet smile, “They didn’t know if I’d even make it until this Christmas. After I overdosed, I checked myself into rehab, trying to get clean after years of struggling.”

The man in the armchair told a cracker joke, causing the kids to burst into giggles. The older woman, clearly the young man’s mother, shook her head, smiling as she prepared the food. It was such a simple moment, but Tom felt its weight. This was what Christmas was supposed to be – family, warmth, love.

“They don’t look like they’re waiting for someone who’s been through all that,” Tom said, feeling a pang of envy. “They look… happy.”

“That’s the thing,” the young man replied, his eyes still on his family. “They are. Because I made it through, I didn’t think I could but I did. And now, being here with them – it’s the best gift I could give them. Not presents or turkey. Just… being here. Being clean. Being me again.”

“My wife’s not going to feel like that if I come home with nothing,” Tom said bitterly, glancing at the betting slip still crumpled in his hand. “Nothing to show but more disappointment.”

The young man turned to him, his eyes serious now. “What your wife wants, Tom, is you. Not a tree full of presents. Not a fancy meal. She wants the man she married. The man who’s trying, even if it’s hard. She’s had enough of the man letting her down.”

The young man stepped closer, lowering his voice. 

“What’s the worst that could happen, Tom? If you go home tonight, you tell her the truth – no more lies, no more hiding. You tell her about the bets, about the drinking, about everything. It surely can’t feel worse than this.”

“I don’t know if I can do it,” Tom whispered, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know if I can face it.”

“Face what?”

 

3. The ghost of addiction future

Tom froze. The voice sent a shiver down his spine, one he hadn’t felt in years. Slowly, he turned. The young man was gone and standing beside him was a figure he hadn’t seen in over a decade. It was his father, pale and gaunt, the same as the last time Tom had seen him as he lay in his coffin.

“You?” Tom whispered, his voice trembling. “You can’t be here.”

“I’m here, Tom,” his father said softly. “I spent an awful lot of time right here.”

“I know you did!” said Tom angrily, “Until I had to bury you!”

“How was that day?” asked his father.

“How do you imagine?!” said Tom, standing up, his fists shaking.

“Something like this…” said his father, with a sigh.

The pub disappeared again and they were standing in a churchyard. It was cold, the sky overcast, the winter wind howling through the trees. 

Tom’s eyes widened as he saw a group of mourners gathered around a fresh grave. His heart sank as he recognised Claire, standing beside a young boy – his son. 

“Whose… whose funeral is this?” Tom asked, though he already knew the answer.

His father nodded toward the headstone. 

Tom Harris
1979–2024
Beloved Husband and Father

“You’re dead, Tom,” his father said, his voice rough but steady. “Drank yourself to death. Left them with nothing but broken promises and a mountain of debt.”

Tom’s heart dropped as he read the inscription.

“Your son will have his first drink at the wake,” said Tom’s father, gesturing to the small boy, hugging his mother’s legs, “The first of many, maybe. My illness passed down to you and to your son and on and on.”

“No,” Tom whispered, feeling his heart shatter. 

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Tom,” said his father, “This is what happens if you don’t change. But there’s still time. Do you understand? Time for you to do things differently.”

The scene began to shift again, the bleak churchyard fading away. In its place, Tom found himself standing outside a rehab centre. He watched the doors open and out walked a familiar figure – himself. But this version of Tom was different. He looked healthier, stronger, with a light in his eyes that had been missing for years.

“That’s you, Tom,” his father said quietly. “After you’ve been through rehab. After you’ve done the hard work, the therapy and faced your demons that have been haunting you.”

Tom watched as his future self walked down the steps, greeted by his wife and son. They hugged him tightly, tears of relief in their eyes. Their son wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist and both were crying.

“This is your future, son,” his father said gently. “If you choose it. A fresh start, one where you get to come home, be there for your family and rebuild your life. You can give them the Christmas they deserve. Not with presents, not with money – but with you.”

His father was gone, and Tom was once again sitting on the stool, the crumpled betting slip still in his hand.

But something had changed. The weight of his past was still there but now there was something else – hope. The future he had seen, the chance for addiction recovery and the life he could have with his family was still possible. 

With a deep breath, Tom walked out of the bar, the snow falling lightly around him. It was time to go home.