"Drinking to numb the shame of drinking to numb the shame of being."
If I could hand you one sentence that explains the loop so many of us get caught in, that’s it. It’s the trap. The cycle. The hamster wheel in hell. And if no one has ever said it to you this plainly before, then hear it now: this is what’s been eating you alive.
I know what you’re thinking — you didn’t come here for a TED Talk on shame. But hear me out…
You start with shame from the past. You drink to numb it. Drinking gives you brand new shame. Now you drink to numb that shame, too. And the wheel just keeps spinning — shame on top of shame on top of shame — until you can’t tell where it started or where it ends.
And if you’ve been there, you know: it’s not just exhausting — it’s suffocating.
Let’s Name the Beast
Shame isn’t just “feeling bad.” Feeling bad is stepping on a Lego. Shame is believing you are the Lego. And everyone’s bare feet are your fault.
It’s that deep, soul-level conviction that something is fundamentally wrong with you. Not that you did a bad thing, but that you are the bad thing.
And for us — the drinkers, the users, the masters of self-destruction — shame isn’t a side character in the story. It’s the lead role. It’s both the reason we drink and the result of drinking.
We “drink at” the shame from our past, we drink at the shame we create while drinking, and eventually we drink at the shame of the fact that drinking is our thing.
The cruel twist? When you stop drinking, all that shame you’ve been numbing comes rushing to the surface like it’s been waiting for this moment. And it feels unbearable. That’s where the trap springs shut — the urge to drink again just to make it quiet.
Drink → shame → drink at shame → more shame → drink at that shame. And on. And on. And on.
The Shame We Start With
For most of us, shame didn’t start with a bar tab. It started long before that — with trauma, neglect, abuse, humiliation, rejection. Psychologists break it down into big T trauma (abuse, violence, death, catastrophic events) and little t trauma (embarrassment, disappointment, sadness, etc. — the chronic, quieter wounds that still carve you up inside). Both feed shame.
For me, the first time I drank wasn’t about “numbing” — not consciously, anyway. I was 13. Peer pressure. A hot Milwaukee’s Best from the trunk of some dude’s car. Smelled like cat piss. Tasted worse.
But five minutes later, I felt the greatest thing I’d ever felt: numbness in my head and a loosening in my chest.
For the first time since the devastating abuse I suffered at nine years old — abuse that planted deep roots of shame in me — I felt release. I felt the pain scatter.
I didn’t know the word “self-medication” yet. I was still a child, only I was carrying adult-sized shame. I didn’t know alcohol was a liar with a good opening line. I just knew that for a few minutes, I wasn’t carrying that crushing weight.
And here’s the dangerous part: once you know something works, you don’t forget it.
The Shame We Add
Fast-forward a few years, and alcohol wasn’t just my off switch — it was my only switch. But it came with receipts.
Shame receipts.
You know the ones:
Saying something cruel or stupid and replaying it in your head for years.
Missing important events because you were passed out or “couldn’t make it.”
Blackouts — the Olympic gold medal of self-loathing.
The sinking feeling when someone starts a sentence with, “Do you remember last night?” and you already know you don’t.
This is the “shame hangover” — worse than the pounding head, worse than the stomach flips. Those are nothing compared to the pounding in your chest when you remember what you did… or worse, when you can’t remember at all.
It’s waking up and thinking, “What did I do? What did I text? Who did I call? Who did I hurt? Let’s be honest: hungover CSI sucks. The yellow tape surrounding last night’s events reads “Crime Scene. Again.” You are both the coroner and the crime scene detective. And Lord only knows who the victims are yet.
As you put your pillow over your red, swollen face, you ask yourself, “How far back did I set my own life this time?”
And the answer is usually: farther than you wanted to admit.
Shame About the Drinking Itself
Then it gets meta. You start feeling shame about being a drinker.
This is where identity and addiction shake hands. You’re “the fun one,” “the partier,” “the hot mess express.” People expect you to drink, and you oblige.
It’s easier to keep playing the role than to admit you hate it. So you decorate your cell and call it freedom.
But deep down, you know. You know this isn’t who you’re supposed to be. And that knowledge? That’s more shame for the pile.
Sobriety Makes the Shame Louder (at first)
This is the part nobody warns you about.
Early sobriety is like finally evicting the drunk, obnoxious roommate in your head… only to find out they left all their garbage behind. It’s like slamming on the brakes and all the sh*t from your past comes crashing into the front seat, smacking you in the back of the head at 100 miles an hour.
Alcohol was the buffer. Without it, you feel everything. All at once.
Every mistake. Every regret. Every buried memory.
The stuff you drank to forget comes back with interest.
You’ve been turning the volume down with alcohol for years, and suddenly the dial gets ripped off the stereo. Every ugly thing you’ve been running from is now right in front of you — and without the numbness, it feels unbearable.
If you’re in that place now, listen to me: you’re not broken because it feels worse. You’re not doing sobriety “wrong.” This is the detox of the soul.
To be blunt: it’s brutal. But to be candidly optimistic: it’s normal.
The Shame Spiral to Relapse
Here’s how the trap works in real time:
You get sober.
Shame resurfaces — old and new.
You feel like you can’t breathe under the weight of it.
Your brain reminds you: “Hey… alcohol fixes this.”
You drink.
New shame gets created from breaking your promise, your streak, your sobriety, AND from what happens while drinking.
Repeat until you can’t tell where it started.
That’s the shame trap. And once you’re in it, it feels like quicksand. Every move you make just sinks you deeper.
Why Shame Feels Impossible to Escape
Shame is a master manipulator. It doesn’t just make you feel bad — it rewrites your story:
“You’re not just someone who did bad things. You are bad.”
“If anyone knew, they’d leave.”
“No one could understand.”
Biologically, shame hijacks you. Heart rate spikes. Cortisol floods your system. Your thinking brain goes offline. And you’re left with a survival brain that just wants relief — now.
Relief is the one thing alcohol is very, very good at delivering. At least temporarily. Which is why shame and drinking form the most toxic buddy-cop duo in existence.
Shame on Top of Shame on Top of Shame
This is the avalanche. The emotional hoarder’s closet.
You start with one layer: the original shame from whatever hurt you.
You add another from the drinking behaviors.
Then another from being “a drinker.”
Then another from relapsing.
Before long, you’re not carrying shame — you’re buried under it.
And here’s the awful part: the only “shovel” you think you have is the very thing that’s making the pile bigger. It’s like trying to dig out of a hole by making it deeper.
Breaking the Trap
You want out? First step is calling it what it is.
Shame can’t survive well in daylight. Name it. Out loud. Write it down. Tell someone safe.
Then, separate it from you. There’s a massive difference between “I am bad” and “I did something bad.” One is an identity. The other is an action. Actions can change.
Finally, find safe connection. Isolation is shame’s oxygen. Connection starves it. This doesn’t mean blasting your business all over social media. It means finding someone you can trust enough to say, “Here’s the truth. Please don’t run.”
And when you feel that familiar pull — the one that says “a drink will fix this” — pause. Ask yourself: “Am I about to drink at shame?” That question alone can be enough to break the pattern in the moment.
The Long Game of Self-Forgiveness
Self-forgiveness isn’t one-and-done. It’s a daily renewal. It isn’t a one-time lightning strike — it’s a slow erosion of shame’s foundation. And the way you chip at it is by keeping small promises to yourself. Show yourself you can be trusted, and over time, you’ll start to believe it.
You might have to forgive yourself for the same thing 200 times. That’s not failure — that’s practice.
Every time you keep a promise to yourself, you loosen shame’s grip just a bit. Every time you choose not to hide, you weaken it further.
It’s not linear. Some days you’ll feel free. The next day, the old shame will show up uninvited. That’s okay. Show it the door again.
If You’re There Right Now
If you’re stuck in the shame trap, here’s the truth:
You are not the sum of your worst decisions.
You are not too far gone.
You are allowed to stop digging.
Drinking to numb the shame will never work — because drinking is the shame factory. You can’t dismantle it with the same tools that built it. It’s like playing emotional Jenga. Take a block of shame from the bottom, drink at it, place it on top. The tower grows until it topples and spills all over the table and floor with a soul-piercing crash.
The drinking-to-numb loop is a lie. It doesn’t make the shame go away — it makes it multiply.
You can step off the hamster wheel. You can lay the shovel down. You can push away from the shame game table. And you can start walking out — today.
Because shame thrives in the dark.
And you? You don’t have to live there anymore.