There isn’t any cure, besides just stopping. And how many of them can do that? They don’t want to, you see. When they feel bad like this fellow here, they think they want to stop, but they don’t, really. They can’t bring themselves to admit they’re alcoholics, or that liquor’s got them licked. They believe they can take it or leave it alone – so they take it. If they do stop, out of fear or whatever, they go at once into such a state of euphoria and well-being that they become over-confident. They’re rid of drink, and feel sure enough of themselves to be able to start again, promising they’ll take one, or at the most two, and – well, then it becomes the same old story over again.
The Lost Weekend is a 1944 novel by Charles R. Jackson that’s been described as “obviously semi-autobiographical.” Jackson himself struggled with addiction after tuberculosis left him with a single lung and he struggled to find work during the Great Depression. He was closeted about his bisexuality until the end of his life, when he had become estranged from his family and began living with a male partner in 1965. Throughout his life, he struggled with mental health and especially depression. His death was ruled a suicide by barbiturates.
Still, to his credit, Jackson did maintain sobriety for extended periods of time. He joined Alcoholics Anonymous in 1953, eventually going on to speak to large audiences about his experience with alcoholism.
In 1945, the book was adapted into an Oscar winning film.