Alcohol, ADHD, Autism, and OCD: A Recipe for Disaster
“Two cans of Tennent’s Super and a packet of neurodivergences, please.”
It’s 1984. A world before the internet, Google, and ChatGPT. On one hand, innocent and simple. On the other, there’s me, a teenager, pretty messed up in the head, diagnosed with OCD at age 11 and then… nothing.
Just the words, “OCD, next.” No resources, no real understanding, no social death scroll. Nothing.
Four years later, a light appeared that offered hope. Not the Holy Spirit, but two cans of Tennent’s Super (crap 80s beer), a canal, a few mates (Bainy, Handy, and Tav from school), and the rest is history.
To spell it out, this is what happens when alcohol and my neurodivergent brain come together:
Reduced social anxiety: I could suddenly make small talk.
Dampened senses: The anxiety temporarily disappeared.
Reduced and heightened impulsivity: Complicated but true.
Stabilized moods: Before too much alcohol was consumed, there were a few moments of, “So this is what normal feels like.”
Sounds incredible. “I’ll have a double chaser with that pint, please. Yes, I am 18, here’s my NUS card, or would you prefer my fake driving licence?”
I felt different when I drank alcohol. Good different. I felt human, and all the confusion just disappeared for a few hours.
However, one of my traits, which may be linked to OCD, is that when I discover something I enjoy, it escalates to dependency rapidly. It happens to this day. I recently calculated that I perform at least 60 rituals a day. OCD is the worst of my neurodivergences in how it can show up.
When we think of people who are dependent on alcohol, the image of high-functioning, successful, career-oriented top performers isn’t always the first that comes to mind. More often, the visualization is of a down-and-out alcoholic who people cross the street to avoid.
I don’t gamble (I’ve always avoided that one and am very proud of it), but hypothetically, I would bet my dog (who I love dearly) that some of you reading this might see parts of my story reflected in your own. Perhaps you’re like I was several years after that first can of Tennent’s: at the top of your game professionally, career-driven, good, honest... and masking any dependencies incredibly well.
Yet, similar to how I was, you might be masking something inside that’s causing pain. It’s a vicious cycle you’d love to break free from, but the fear of what life without alcohol might look and feel like holds you back.
To this day, my wife still says that I didn’t have a problem. That’s masking at its best. To live with someone who can’t even see it, despite me hiding nothing, is proof of how skilled I’d become at masking. I am a pro—40 years of learning my masking trade in many situations.
For years, alcohol was an escape from the noise of neurodivergence and my head. It was (and is) extremely noisy there. During the day, I’d work extremely hard and achieve an incredible amount. On reflection, I was blocking out the mental noise. Work was a distraction to carry me through to the evening, where I’d do the same with drink. And repeat.
After I met my wife, I knew things needed to change. I wanted to leave the days of harm, ideation, and self-destruction behind me and look forward. Mentally, I was still as messed up as ever, OCD raging, but I had enough sense to know I needed to change what the future looked like.
With this in mind, it is both a blessing and a curse that I can be a very stubborn f*cker. Black and white, all or nothing. To the outside world, this can appear as “willpower”; inside, it is simply stubbornness.
I knew that alcohol only served as a mask. I didn’t enjoy it. I mean, I loved it, absolutely loved it, but it made me feel worse than it did better. The golden years had long gone.
In my stubbornness, I stopped overnight. No support, no external resources, just sheer stubbornness and willpower. I can hear my own privilege in being able to do that. I did the same with smoking a few years earlier.
The challenge didn’t lie in the desire to get drunk. The challenge lay in routine, social conditioning, and social demands. People didn’t get it. “But I miss fun Nick.” That line is a killer. “When will you start drinking again? I don’t want to drink on my own,” said my wife, who has no dependent bone in her body.
I turned an extremely unhealthy dependency on alcohol into several healthy dependencies. I’m the worst. Imagine being stuck with a vegan, teetotal, non-smoking, exercise-mad, mentally f*cked-up health freak at a party. Horrific prospect, so you’ll be pleased to know I don’t go to parties. I never liked them even when I did drink. I prefer to stay home, write, go to bed, and feel safe.
Today, I know that if I have one alcoholic drink, that’s me done. Game over. Kaput. End of the world. No coming back.
Dramatic but true. I will never have a drink again, and I have no desire to have a drink again. Absolutely zero. It is an immense privilege to say that. I don’t preach. We have alcohol in the house. It does not even enter my mind. Christmas. Doesn’t enter my mind. My life is full of purpose, I exhaust myself through my work, that alone is more than enough.
I put stopping drinking (and smoking) down as one of the greatest achievements in my life when everything is weighed up.
And here comes the real kicker. In 2024, I burnt out. After 20 years of masking and desperately trying to understand why I felt so f*cked up all day, every day, despite all of my best efforts to feel okay, I was diagnosed with comorbid complex ADHD, Autism, and OCD. It is about as much fun as it sounds.
And that is why I was dependent. That is why so many late-stage adults are dependent and are crying out for support. Mental health, harm, and suicidal ideation are real. They need talking about, not pushing into taboo boxes. This is a crisis. Alcohol is very often at the heart of masking and survival.
Now you.
We’d love for you to share in the comments:
Have you ever felt like you were just getting by, masking something deeper, but didn’t know how to break free?
Do you ever find yourself stuck in a cycle, knowing you need to change but afraid of what life “on the other side” might be like and feel like?
And if you found this article helpful, please tap the little heart. It lets others know there’s something useful here and will help us grow this community.
Nick Dean is the founder of Neurokindness, a not-for-profit organization dedicated to supporting the adult neurodivergent community. Diagnosed as a late-stage adult with co-morbid Complex Autism, ADHD, and OCD after a lifetime of masking, Nick now focuses on creating community-driven initiatives that provide meaningful support and connection for neurodivergent individuals. You can find Nick’s newsletter at:
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Thank you so much for sharing, that was a lovely notification. I hope it serves of value to the sober (and driving to be sober) community.
Oh man, this hits. Fellow OCD'r here. Pure O was my hidden secret growing up in the 80's with no internet and no way of knowing what I was experiencing. And there was no way I was going to share it with anyone. I suffered in silence through high school and most of college. My junior year of college my Major in Psychology and most importantly my class in Abnormal Psychology I finally got some answers about what I was experiencing. By that time I had found alcohol and the relief it brought to my ever racing and destructive mind. I tried many other modalities to help my condition or was it conditions, is it? But I never looked at or quit alcohol. Thirty plus years of snuffing out OCD and depression with alcohol and pot. Sober now coming up on 6 years. OCD is manageable, depression in check but always there waiting. This article reminds me I'm not alone in this. So appreciate you writing this. I too hate parties.