By Helene Waters — first published March 1, 2026 by Cheese & Jam

Compassion Without Collusion

As a child, I had personal experience with an alcoholic who was both abusive and extremely violent. Men that fit into this bracket are not included in this article. Men like this give those who struggle with addiction an unfair and misplaced societal stigma.

This article is about men who have experienced deep trauma and drink to numb the pain. Men who own their shit. Men who want to face their demons head on.

There is a difference.

And we need to be brave enough to say it.

Alcohol does not create violence out of nowhere. It lowers inhibition. It exposes what is already there.

If a man becomes cruel, controlling or physically violent when he drinks, that cruelty was never caused by the alcohol. It was simply unmasked.

        This piece is not about those men.

This is about the men who sit alone with a glass because their nervous system will not settle.
The men who wake at 3am replaying old memories.
The men who feel like their chest is caving in but cannot explain why.
The men who were told, explicitly or subtly, that crying makes you weak.

These men are not monsters.

They are often traumatised.

The Jekyll / Hyde Split

In The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, written by Robert Louis Stevenson, a man splits himself in two — one socially acceptable, one darker and hidden.

Many men describe their relationship with alcohol in similar terms.

One man put it like this:

“When I don’t drink, I’m Jekyll.
When I do, I’m Hyde.
I drink to feel better. I feel better, then I don’t — so I drink more to feel that feeling again.”

That isn’t villainy.

That is a nervous system chasing relief.

At first, alcohol softens the edges:

The shame quietens.

The anxiety dulls.

The self-criticism fades.

The mask feels easier to wear.

For a moment, Hyde doesn’t feel darker. He feels freer.

But relief built on numbness has an expiry date.

When the effect wears off, the original pain is still there — often heavier. And now it’s joined by guilt. Sometimes fear. Always self-judgement.

So the cycle repeats.

Not because he wants to self-destruct.

But because he hasn’t been taught another way to regulate what’s inside him.

Fear, Shame and Internal Conflict

Men who drink to numb trauma often carry layers of conflict:

“I should be stronger than this.”

“Real men don’t fall apart.”

“If anyone sees how bad it is inside my head, they’ll leave.”

“I hate that I need this.”

There is a constant internal war.

Jekyll wants control.
Hyde wants relief.

Jekyll judges Hyde.
Hyde resents Jekyll.

And the man in the middle feels like a fraud.

That split is exhausting.

Particularly in cultures where male stoicism is praised and emotional vulnerability is quietly ridiculed, men learn early that pain should be swallowed — not spoken.

So they swallow it.

And sometimes they wash it down.

Compassion Without Collusion

Here is where the line must be drawn clearly.

                 Trauma explains behaviour.                                         It does not excuse harm.

If a man drinks because he is hurting and says,
“I need help. I don’t want to keep doing this.”
— that is accountability.

If a man drinks and says,
“This is just how I am. Take it or leave it.”
— that is avoidance.

I will advocate fiercely for men who are trying.

I will not advocate for men who use alcohol as a shield for cruelty.

Hurt people hurt people.
But grown men are responsible for deciding whether they continue that cycle.

Healing requires ownership.
Not shame.
Not self-hatred.
Ownership.

If You’re Reading This in the Dark

If you’re reading this with a drink in your hand and a war in your chest, I want you to hear me clearly.

You are not broken beyond repair.

You are not weak for struggling.

But you cannot keep outsourcing your pain to a bottle and pretending it isn’t costing you something.

You don’t have to become Hyde to survive what happened to you.

The trauma was not your fault.
But the healing is your responsibility.

And that might feel unfair.
It probably is.

No one handed you the tools.
No one taught you how to sit with grief without numbing it.
No one showed you how to cry without shame.

But you are not a boy anymore.

You are a man.

And real strength is not in how much you can suppress.
It’s in how much you are willing to confront.

If you are trying — really trying — I will stand beside you.
If you fall and get back up, I will respect you.
If you admit you need help, I will never call you weak.

But if you hurt others and hide behind alcohol, that’s where my compassion ends.

You are allowed to be traumatised.
You are not allowed to be dangerous.

There is a version of you that doesn’t need Hyde to cope.

           And he is worth fighting for.