A couple of weeks ago, at half 1 in the morning, I awoke filled with regret for the bad choices I’d made yet again. I wasn’t hungover, although this time I had consumed enough comfort food and alcohol for my stomach to eject its shameful burning contents down the toilet when I’d sooner have been writing. It had been years since I’d eaten and drank enough to throw up, although I was ashamed about the almost daily habit of one or two glasses a night I’d progressed to (with one or two days alcohol free). Not to mention what it was doing to my bank account.  That evening, I lay…