This is a record of personal experience that has been de-identified, risk-screened, and linguistically organized; the original author's identity, geographic location, or identifiable details are not retained in the text.
Respectable by day, a different person by night
At the construction site, he spoke with refinement, treated others with warmth and loyalty, and his conversation revealed an unmistakable cultural depth. At 50 years old, his body bore the marks of a life worn down by hardship. No one would have imagined that such a respectable man could become a different person the moment he picked up a glass.
Once the alcohol went to his head, he would refuse to stop until his body went numb. He kept muttering "I'm not drunk," and behind the bloodshot eyes was a weariness that could neither cry nor laugh. Others would only scold him for being addicted to alcohol and losing his composure when drunk, but no one ever asked him why he would spend money to numb himself with alcohol.
The hardest part is not knowing when the next time will happen
When sober, he often said "I was wrong," as if nothing had happened. But the next time, the same scene would repeat itself. Alcohol had made him like a plant missing its root—no support, no direction, only able to return again and again to the glass.
The doctor had long advised him to stop drinking. But for him, hard liquor was hardly a hobby—it was his only outlet for releasing emotions. The tug-of-war of his family of origin, half a lifetime of drifting without roots, all the grievances and burdens of his heart could only be pressed down inside, with nowhere to speak, nowhere to put them.
The helplessness behind "life is just like this"
He often said "life is just like this." It wasn't that he had seen through the world—it was utter disappointment and helplessness. He said he had long put life and death aside, that even dying unexpectedly in a foreign place would be fine, for every corner of the world was a road home.
But who could understand that a bottom-tier migrant worker's "it doesn't matter" was the despair of having all expectations ground away by life? In the neon lights of the city, not a single lamp was lit for him returning late at night. The high-rises in Shaoxing kept rising higher, and every brick and every tile buried their sweat.
Not degeneration, just maturity that came too late
They are not degenerate—they just matured too late, crushed by life until they could barely breathe. They struggled with all their might their whole lives, yet it seemed life had never treated them gently.
This is not the story of one person. It is a microcosm of tens of millions of bottom-tier migrant workers. Their pain is hidden in late-night glasses, in makeshift sheds in foreign lands, in corners no one sees. When life offers no way out, the glass becomes the only refuge.
But the problem is that a refuge can also become a cage. The brief relief brought by alcohol may be exchanged for a deeper predicament—health consumed, relationships torn apart, and even the last shred of dignity swallowed by drunken indiscretion.
If you or a family member are going through a similar situation, you can check the family support guide to learn how to find a real path to help without blame.
Behind drinking problems, there is often unseen life pressure and a lack of emotional outlets.