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Oddly enough, the larger source of contention between me and my loved ones has often not so much been religious difference, but my not drinking alcohol. The latter, after all, is the lubricant of many a social gathering. A family meal will likely be held in a pub. When conversation runs dry it is enlivened by tales of drink, drinks and drinking. And when completely inebriated, a family member will waste no time in raising a glass to me and guffawing, “Are you sure I can’t tempt you?”

Amusing stuff, if only they recalled that my abstention from alcohol began thirteen months before I took up this path, about seven months after my first belated taste. In the intervening period I had what might be called a baptism of fire. There was, of course, the obligatory visit to A&E by ambulance to have my stomach pumped to revive me after a night of excess. A rite of passage laughs all of England.

My experience over the next six months: not so much. For whereas others would have found likeminded companions the same age to spend their time with, I ended up gravitating towards a mature student a decade older than me. No problem with that: I’ve always enjoyed older company. We were studying the exact same subjects, and we both had that very gaunt frame. Perhaps we were kindred spirits. Though, really, his spirit of choice was Scotch.

I can’t say that those months in the company of an alcoholic with anger issues were the best days of my life. He was a nice enough chap when sober. Even when drunk, I personally was spared his violent rage. But various pool cues, tables, chairs and walls were not so lucky, receiving catastrophic wounds nearly nightly. I recall the evening he flew off the rails in the student common room, snapping a pool cue clean in half and leaving a dent in a wall with his fist. That’s when all the other students stared at me. “Deal with your friend,” they told me.

So there I was, this shy, timid guy — still looking much younger than my age — counselling an older man on, you know, maybe, giving the drink a break for a while. “We can’t go on like this,” I’d say, but really by we I meant he. Together we agreed we’d try sobriety for a while. Perhaps it would help his finances, and help him submit his essays on time.

Those conversations helped him secure an emergency student loan to stop him dropping out of uni. It would tide him over until the end of term, enabling him to sit his first year exams. Only, as soon as it landed in his bank account, I just watched him blow the entire loan in one go on a weeklong binge, which ended with yet more thunderous tumult, this time at the expense of his girlfriend. And so off I went again on another diplomatic mission to try to seed peace between them. But really what was seeded was this thought in my mind: “I need to leave all of this behind.”

Yes, for I had problems of my own, which I had chosen to address by self-medicating with vodka and coke. If I was struggling with loneliness, depression and disintegrating relationships, I found that I could make negative feelings disappear by pickling my brain in a soft drink which was 40% alcohol. Hardly the wise choice of one with a weak immune system, extremely low levels of testosterone and preexisting anxiety issues, but at that point — though I was sure there was something wrong with me — diagnosis was another eight years off.

It was shortly after my twentieth birthday that I finally took those inner voices seriously. The rumination within said, “It’s time to try something else.” That was just after a rowdy birthday party held in my flat, organised for me by my alcoholic mate’s Turkish girlfriend. She made me a chocolate cake, but all I recall of the night is the sticky kitchen floor turned purple which I had to clean in the morning. I had never been more popular than that night, and yet that was the day alcohol and I parted company.

For that decision, twenty-six years ago, I have certainly been derided repeatedly: by family, friends and strangers alike. I have been on the receiving end of many a drunken taunt. I have been made to feel the wierdo and oddball, frequently mocked and sometimes castigated for some kind of imagined zealotry. Indeed, despite numerous studies concluding that it is the deadliest of all drugs, it is abstention which is most widely considered socially unacceptable.

Do I regret that decision over a quarter of a century ago? Actually, no. For one thing, it has probably saved me £20,000 over the same period. More to the point, it has likely saved my sanity, for it seems that many men with my condition abuse alcohol as a coping mechanism and frequently end up struggling with addiction. Furthermore, given many of the known health risks and side effects associated with alcohol, it’s highly likely its consumption would exacerbate the major symptoms of the condition. I would say that, for me, my coping mechanism was actually abstinence. For me, that decision was absolutely the best I could take.

In the early days, sometimes I didn’t feel that way, particularly when dealing with the reaction of my family. I resented the way my decision — based on very sound reasoning — was roundly dismissed by all. Sometimes I’d contemplate what their reaction might be if I turned up smoking in their presence; at times I even countenanced a spliff for effect, given that in most studies into the harms of drug use, alcohol sits right at the top of the chart above heroin and crack cocaine, while cannabis sits towards the bottom of the list beneath tobacco. Of course, such a course of action would undoubtedly have got me thrown out of the house.

Breaking with the norms of family, friends and society can be a really difficult stance to take. But in the end you must do what’s right for you as an individual… and possibly for your family too. That’s what I did, and I don’t regret it for one moment. For me, it was one of the wisest decisions I ever made. I have no regrets at all.