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I grew up in a household that discouraged drinking. That same household, however, was a strict, religious environment located in the Bible Belt of the deep south. Me, being a brow-skinned little girl in the rural south, had to deal with many challenges no child should ever face. I had to face down racism, colorism, sexism, isolation, dysfunctional family dynamics, and a cultlike religious community rife with pedophilia. As the traumas piled up, I had become all but completely withdrawn by age 14. Binge-eating comfort food became my sole source of relief. Throughout my later teen years, I tried many healthy ways to heal myself, such as yoga and spirituality. I heavily relied on spirituality to keep me mentally stable, and, by 18, had become completely content with my mission to remove myself from my dysfunctional environment. Due to my parents’ need for control, unfortunately, I was still very much emotionally and financially infantilized, and by age 20, I had begun to abuse marijuana to soothe my anxieties. Around this time, I’d had a handful of friends who liked to get drunk at parties. At first, I was more of a social drinker, and mostly preferred to be sober at events. Then, one time I got drunk at a condo party and haphazardly filmed the whole thing. People were offering me drinks and I was on the floor, high and drunk out of my mind, scrambling away from them. At the time, I thought it was pretty funny that I was sober enough to refuse drinks that were pressured onto me. In retrospect, I had not practiced restraint at all. I was an absolute mess for a while, and it was fun. We were laughing and singing. One guy had climbed onto the kitchen counter and used it as a piano to dance on while I pretended to bang on some keys. I laughed so hard that I fell off of the kitchen stool. We performed DUI tests on each other and cackled wildly at our failures. We cursed our bosses for being politically incorrect. It was a really great time and we all were in a safe enclosed space.
Then, more people arrived, heavily drunk. We asked if they’d gotten an Uber, but they declined, admitting they’d driven. I was very worried because they were not very physically functional. I asked a couple of questions about their state of mind but stopped when they became visibly uncomfortable. I wished them safety but didn’t think much of it. I thought high functioning alcoholics was a common phenomenon. I know those people got home safely, because later in the year, one of them – my coworker – showed up to our job visibly drunk. This was when I realized that the drinking scene in university was much bigger than I’d thought. Of course, I’d seen movies about college students making bold decisions during spring break, or your typical sorority house parties. I hadn’t, however, actually lived them a little until this moment. I continued to make friends who were stoners and alcoholics. At drag shows, movie theaters, even restaurants around my university, there were always people drunk out of their minds. Some, I would see stumbling home all alone. I would ask if they needed to call someone or needed a ride home, and most of them would decline. I still regret leaving some of them alone.
I kept limiting my alcohol consumption to parties. That is, until I studied abroad for a year, all alone. This was a challenging time, as my parents often fought to keep control of me; they insisted I wasn’t ready or responsible enough to live alone, and one family member even took thousands of dollars from my fund that was meant to keep me fed and housed overseas. This led to me completely isolating myself from many group events overseas, save for 3 friends I’d met in the foreign country. Drinking was far more normalized there. I remember one of the very first international student group events I attended was to go barhopping on a Tuesday night. I drank two drinks and woke up with a hangover the next day. I’ll never forget the helpless embarrassment I felt as I vomited into the bushes outside of my dorm after class. Throughout that year, I went through a debilitating adjustment phase and began to drink way more than usual. I am also eternally a lightweight, so I experienced quite a bit of disorientation throughout the year and don’t remember many details. Alcohol seemed to be stronger there. Moreover, alcohol was the easiest thing I could get my hands on, as marijuana was illegal and could get me expelled if I was caught. I drank and smoked hookah very often and did very little to quell my fears about life. This constant struggle within myself to forget while fiercely holding on to my traumas led to me making questionable decisions that negatively impacted my safety.
I put myself in so many dangerous situations. Once was when a stranger invited me to a party about three miles from my dorm. I remember being very cautious around him because he kept bringing me very bitter and very strong beer. He was a little frustrated by my behavior, of course, which led me to wander off and dance on my own. He followed me and tried to touch me any way he wanted on the dance floor. I kept communicating that I didn’t want to be touched, and he scoffed, saying I needed to drink more to lighten up. I just stopped dancing completely and looked at him, realizing he seriously had an issue. He tried to scold me on the dance floor as if I was some child, and I left him. He kept finding me, however, and insisted I stay in areas where he could see me. I kept wandering off anyway. In my tipsy brain, I felt I had a much better chance of getting home safely in a European country than the USA; not to mention, I’d traveled to this country alone, so I knew how to take care of myself. Despite this, I still found myself walking across a dark bridge with this guy and his friend. The guy who’d invited me to the party kept trying to wrap his arm around me, and I kept communicating to him that I didn’t want to be touched. He scowled. That was the moment I realized that I was on a dark bridge between two strong men, borderline drunk. I immediately went into survival mode. I tried to laugh off the situation, saying that if he was cold, he’d better wrap his arm around his friend. They laughed and I began to walk a little faster. Once we reached the well-lit train station, I stated I was going to take the bus home. The men both looked at each other, then at me. Not wanting to hear their response, I walked towards the bus stop. The guy who’d scowled at me insisted he pay for a taxi to get me home. I obliged and stood near a group of other people in an effort to feel safe. When the taxi arrived, I got in alone, and proceeded to lie to the driver about who I was, where I was from, and how many people knew me in the city. I didn’t want to take my chances. That night, I slipped the money the guy used to get me home under his dorm door. He later messaged me, asking why I’d done that, and I told him I owed him and didn’t want him to think that I owed him anything more than the money. The next day, he texted me, saying that he was day drinking and I should join him. I said no. I realized he had an addiction, and I didn’t want to get wrapped up in it. I met that same guy in the mail room of my dorm. I said a brief friendly “hi” because I was running late for class, and he got very upset. He grabbed my arm and demanded to know why I was being so short with him. I snapped. I snatched my arm away from him and told him not to grab me. I stated I had errands to run and a life to live, and that he had no right telling me what I could and couldn’t do. He said “whatever” and walked away. This experience was only one month into the year I would spend overseas. Since it felt way too much like home, I began to isolate myself and engage in self-destructive behaviors even more than I already had.
I’d all but stopped socially drinking altogether, due to anxiety, and would go down to every weekend bar party in the basement of my dorm to have one-euro shots all night. Then I’d stumble into my room and fall into a stupor. When I did hang out with friends at hookah lounges, I’d drink, go to the bathroom to throw up, come back, drink again, repeat. I had stopped caring about my life so much, that I eventually found myself wandering through the streets of Amsterdam at night, alone, high, and drunk, lowkey hoping to be kidnapped and trafficked so I wouldn’t have to return home. Yeah…things got that bad. I had really convinced myself I had a better chance escaping foreign captors and living peacefully off-grid in Europe, than escaping my dark past. I now know that no one can run from the past. I was fortunate enough to get an Uber while my phone was on 1%. I don’t even remember how I got to the bus stop where my Uber would be waiting. I do remember, however, being hopelessly lost, and just telling myself to keep walking. Somewhere between my immense self-loathing and self-victimizing, I found the survival instinct I needed to get home safely. The Uber driver was much younger than me and very kind. We shared music and I felt worthy enough to keep going. I spent the rest of my solo trip in Amsterdam blacked out in my Airbnb. When I look back on these days, I remember how I had made plans to go there and die, but failed. I’m glad I failed.
Shortly before my trip to Amsterdam, I started engaging in weekly therapy sessions with a graduate student who was in training. I knew I needed to take some sort of initiative if I wanted to get better, and therapy was a logical first step. In my very first therapy session, I almost immediately broke down in tears. When she – let’s call her Sabina – asked why, I choked out that I felt so much fear around opening up because I’d always been ridiculed or shamed for my feelings. I was terrified Sabina would use my words against me in an effort to make me feel crazy. She listened and passed me tissues. She told me that she’s known for being a “friend of tears” and praised me for being brave enough to come to her. She assured me it was her occupation to listen. Looking back, I really appreciated her kindness and patience, and knew sessions with her were things I could look forward to every week. As a couple of months went by, however, this feeling would be short-lived.
I was getting closer to my time when I’d inevitably have to return home. Naturally, I was very distraught because home felt hopeless. My drinking increased so much that I’d developed a ritual. I’d make a concoction of creamy whiskey and oat milk, and dip cookies into it each evening. I would experience intense stomach cramps almost every day, and with each menstrual cycle, I would throw up. These feelings and physical symptoms were new to me, but I chalked it up to stressors making me ill. I didn’t realize I contributed to the stressors. When my time to move out was just a month away, I fell into a sort of daze. It was very numbing, but also peaceful. I told myself that this feeling didn’t come from my suicidal ideation. I had felt like I’d finally accepted that I was indeed going home, and, with the tools Sabina gave me, could learn to lead the life I desperately wanted to live. I even remember one of the last entries of my journal I’d brought with me that year, expressing how I was nervous about revealing to my therapist of the suicidal ideation I experienced. But I was determined and proud to admit that I had gotten past those feelings and plans and was ready to take charge of my own life. I wrote that I could trust her with this knowledge now and was ready to let go. Unfortunately…during our last session, something must have gotten lost in translation. She began to look very uncomfortable, and her foot began to tap rapidly. I was nervous but determined to say everything that I had wanted to say to her. Eventually, she cut me off and admitted that my situation was out of her area of expertise. She kept persuading me to check into a psychiatric ward for evaluation and assistance she could not offer. I remember being in a state of shock, unable to find the words to defend myself. The only phrase that kept playing in my mind was “Am I crazy?”. I sat like that until the taxi arrived. She wished me well and said I could always contact her.
That day was very sunny and warm. There was no cloud in sight, and the cherry blossoms were in bloom. I sat, mute, grimly acknowledging all of the beauty around me, but unable to appreciate it. I resented the driver for attempting to make light-hearted conversation when I clearly wasn’t happy. He, of course, couldn’t have known. But he had to because he knew my destination. He said something encouraging that I couldn’t quite translate. Something along the lines of “good luck” and “these moments don’t last forever”. In retrospect, I appreciate his efforts. During evaluation, I was very reserved and vague. I was tired of being misunderstood, so, in English, I stated the details of the session that brought me to where I was with them. I stated I didn’t even know why I was there and acknowledged that my childhood circumstances led to my depression and self-sabotaging behaviors. I was trying to prove to myself that I was mentally healthy enough to manipulate them into not holding me against my will. And my wish was granted. They encouraged me, however, to visit the psych ward often to engage in their wellness program that my insurance qualified me for. I agreed and walked home. Once I got in my dorm room, I crawled into bed and cried the rest of the day. Looking back, I am glad I took the time I needed to forgive Sabina. I understand she was in training and panicked. She wanted to do what she could to ensure my safety because, quite frankly, she admitted she didn’t want me going back home either, and gave me several resources to try to stay in the county. I was still blaming myself for all of my sorrows and didn’t put much effort into staying. I had convinced myself that I needed to grow up and reject my family face-to-face. I stopped drinking, after this therapy session. Consequently, having a few drinks and marijuana on my last day in the country with a friend would contribute to my relapse.
My relationship to alcohol would only grow worse when I would eventually return home. When I came back to the states, I moved in with two family members in a big city. They both came from the same cultlike environment as me, and we were all dealing with our traumas in different ways. One of them – let’s call her Amy – was undeniably an alcoholic, whereas I had vowed to cut back on drinking because it negatively impacted my physical health. Unfortunately, I would be judged as snooty or, surprisingly enough, a psychopathic threat for not wanting to drink as much when we were all hanging out together or attending events. In my youth, I was the most resistant to the dysfunctional dynamics in my family, which caused them to accuse me of being crazy. So, it was no surprise that I would be pinned as an unhinged psychopath when I wouldn’t give in to peer pressure. However, this time was different. I was in desperate need of connection if I wanted to remain alive. Due to that social pressure, I began to drink more and more. Every time we got high together, I drank. Every time we attended an event, I drank. Every time I embarrassed myself with my awkward behavior, I drank. Every time my family members ganged up on me…I drank.
I drank so much and suffered from disorientation, that I even accidentally opened Amy’s beer because I was too drunk to realize I had already drunk my own beer. I remember this mistake vividly because the next day, I apologized to Amy for sipping on her beer. I had thought it was mine, and I promised to buy her another that weekend. I had even shared a funny story of how my dad drank my soda, despite it being open in the fridge, and remembered the betrayal I felt, not to mention the germs we shared. But two days later, Amy blew up on me for drinking her beer because she felt I had passive aggressively blamed her for drinking the rest of her own beer. I was very emotionally distraught because I was actually quite remorseful of drinking her beer, but defending myself was only mocked as me being manipulative. This was when I realized how damaging the impact of addiction had on relationships: I was drunk and careless, which hurt someone I loved; Amy was so reliant on alcohol, that anyone who threatened her supply was seen as an enemy. Once again, I had vowed to stop drinking again, but still occasionally drank in social situations. This restraint, however, didn’t last long. Life both at home and my job was becoming extremely overwhelming. I had begun to drink at work because my supervisor, an alcoholic, would sneak cocktails to me. We worked in a fast-pasted, high-stress environment, and since we both suffered from anxiety, she though alcohol would calm my nerves. Instead of politely refusing these cocktails, I accepted them because I though the drinks were a part of her love language. I couldn’t even comprehend the danger of operating machinery with alcohol in my system. Additionally, I can’t tell you how many times I drove home in big city traffic either tipsy or drunk. One New Year’s Eve night, my supervisor brought out strong spirits from the company storage unit to celebrate with us during the last hour of our shift. I drove to a New Year’s party after work, very tipsy. Later that night, as I was driving home from a hookah lounge, I had to pull over to throw up. Fortunately, I got home in one piece, after swerving on dark back roads. I ended up sleeping on the floor next to my bed, fully clothed. This type of behavior at work led to our general manager storing all alcohol in his office and locking it, which should have been a sign that my supervisor, other coworkers, and I needed help.
Despite all these daunting experiences throughout the years, I didn’t have my true wake-up call until I went to a river floating event with my two family members, and a couple who was a friend of Amy’s. The couple liked to drink too, so as we floated down the river in our inner tubes, we passed around a floating cooler filled with beer and played music. The whole event, which was meant to be relaxing, soon became stressful because the boyfriend was consistently negatively commenting on how drunk his girlfriend was getting. He felt he could handle his beer, but it was obvious he was dreading having to take care of his girlfriend, as if he had done it several times before. It was also obvious that he was very anxious, as he was constantly worried about being arrested. At the time, I didn’t know how to separate others’ issues from my own; therefore, as his anxiety rose, so did mine. I tried to go above and beyond to ensure everyone was comfortable, which only made things worse. Eventually, I became tipsy enough to stop caring, which…isn’t the best mindset to have while floating down a wide river. We kept floating until we happened upon a small island party. There was a DJ, dancing patrons, and LOTS of drinks. We finally landed on the island shore and immediately hit the sand, dancing. I remember being tipsy and not really aware of the state of my family members. One family member – let’s call her Sage – was very tipsy, but coherent enough to keep an eye out on us. She had become fed up with the couple’s antics and decided to distance herself and dance on the other side of the island. She encouraged us to do the same. By then, the boyfriend was very upset we’d decided to dance and have more drinks at the island party. He insisted the cops were going to swim to the island and make several arrests, but we ignored him. He kept berating his now drunk girlfriend and threatened to continue floating down the river if she didn’t come with him. She stayed with us but was visibly disappointed in her boyfriend’s behavior. At this time, I was analyzing how her boyfriend’s anxieties had caused a rift between them; it reminded me of how my own anxiety had impacted my relationships with Amy and Sage. I was sober enough to self-reflect on the island, but tipsy enough to accept unopened cans of beer strangers were offering me. I kept drinking to forget my feelings, which, in hindsight, didn’t work. Soon enough, however, I started to dance and laugh again, even when Sage judged me for my awkward social behavior. This judgement encouraged me to have another can of beer.
Then, a very tall man with a large mysterious bottle danced seductively towards us, offering free waterfalls of his concoction. Amy immediately rushed to him and opened her mouth wide, receiving a big gulp of the man’s drink. If I had been sober enough, I would have noticed that the way she was standing underneath the bottle, with some of the alcohol running down her neck, was a clear sign that she had already reached her limit and definitely did not need any more spirits. The enigmatic man then danced away. Amy became very lively and started talking about how much she loved us. She was stumbling into us and hugging us, saying that she knows she’s not the most communicative of her love for us, but her feelings were true. This was when I realized she was most certainly drunk. She was all over the place, telling us heartfelt things and tripping over her words. Sage noticed this too, so we gathered her and the girlfriend of the couple – let’s call her Renee – back into their inner tubes and resumed our journey down the river to where we parked our cars. The boyfriend was far ahead of us now, and for the rest of our trip, I listened to Renee complain about how she felt abandoned by her impatient boyfriend. She repeated things like “I can’t believe he just left me like he didn’t care,” and “he took my phone, how am I supposed to call him?”. I knew she was speaking from a place of discombobulation, so I just listened. I also held onto her tube so she wouldn’t tip into the water, as she had done earlier in our journey. I was drifting towards the back of the group, when I noticed a small stream of some substance in the water flowing past me. I looked ahead and saw Amy hunched over her innertube, head submerged underwater, as she vomited into the river. The trickles of vomit were ebbing and flowing my way. I freaked out, but realize there is nowhere to run, paddle, or swim. So, I accepted my fate and allowed myself to drift through the massive amounts of vomit. Everyone was silent. Sage, who’s the oldest, was clearly uncomfortable, but immediately took the role of babysitter. She paddled to Amy and lifted her head above water, comforting her as she was sobbing. I don’t remember everything Amy said, but I do recall hearing her berate herself for being irresponsible. “I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself!” she cried aloud, sobbing, and vomiting into the river. She apologized to us for her behavior, and we assured her that she’s forgiven. Once we reached shore, a security guard helped us out of our tubes, complaining about how he was going to have to fish a lot of drunks out of the water due to the island party upstream. Any other day, I would have been offended at such a statement, but this day I hung my head in shame and thanked him. The short walk uphill was long and grueling. Sage and Amy disappeared ahead while I helped Renee carry her things. I let her wear my flipflops because her boyfriend had taken hers with him. Watching her slowly and haphazardly walk up the hill was a triggering learning experience for me. She was behaving very childishly, in a way, very much like I had many times before. She couldn’t really stand on her own or hold her things. At times she would stop and stare into space, which kept me having to consistently nudge and gently encourage her. She was still groaning about her boyfriend. By the time I reached the top of the hill, Amy was passed out, face down in the grass. She had fallen chest-first into an ant bed between a fence and the back of our car. I gave Renee’s items back to her, who was spacing out on a bench while getting chewed out by her sobered boyfriend and return to help Amy into the car. I didn’t even notice she wasn’t moving at first, and quickly rolled her over, to fortunately find she was still breathing. We cleaned her up and put her in the back seat. Since Sage is somewhat sober, she becomes the designated driver, and I provided support because…I suppose two tipsy heads are better than one? While Amy is in the backseat, I take the passengers.
Travelling home wasn’t very nice. We were driving about 60mph, when Amy opened the back door, without a seatbelt on, and began to hurl. I remember the extreme terror I felt as I jumped through the small crack between the seats and wrapped my arms around her waist. I was holding onto her for dear life. With her body hanging halfway out of the car, she kept yelling at me to let her go, insisting that she’d be fine. I held her the entire 30min journey home. We had to stop a few times at green lights, too afraid to drive because Amy was trying to wriggle free of my grasp quite a bit. I kept attempting to strap her in without hurting her waist and nothing was working. Lots of angry drivers beeped at us, and Sage put on her hazard lights, motioning for them to go around. When we finally got home, I helped Amy into the house, cleaned up as much sand, dirt, and vomit as I could, and cried in my bed as Amy cried into her toilet, in the room next to me. I haven’t been drunk since.
For the next year, I still drank 1-2 drinks at parties. I’d purposely drive myself to these parties and concerts, so I’d have the responsibility of getting myself home safely. By this time, I had moved out on my own and spent several months away from my dysfunctional family members and relationships. This was a challenging, but good goal I had finally reached, because it helped me to raise my self-esteem. I was in the real world now; a world where I could earn a decent life for myself, thus proving that I cared about myself in the right circumstances. I lost several friends over time as I tried to sober up. The less I drank and smoke, the more people with addictive genetics drifted away from me. I made an effort to not take these separations personally, as I understand what it means to suffer from addiction. It’s a lonely journey in a massive group of people who only pay attention to you when you can support their fix. It’s convincing yourself that you can numb your pain with substances that only make your pain louder. It’s experiencing physical ailments that you know how to remedy but can’t figure out if you even deserve to try. It’s a brutal killer of relationships that makes your actions personal and not personal at the same time. It makes you forget who you are, and worst of all, it keeps you from remembering that you’re worthy of receiving help. We deserve a chance to thrive in life, even if our addictions have hurt those we love, including ourselves. It’s not our fault that our life’s circumstances led us down this dark path; this isn’t the only path we can take.
I stopped drinking altogether 6 months ago. I can’t describe how much I don’t enjoy the feeling of not being in control of my body anymore. My mood and attitude towards life has improved trifold. I also don’t suffer from menstrual cramps that arise from alcohol consumption anymore, which is a big plus. Energy drinks are my new party drinks, but even now, I have one energy drink a week, if even that. Nowadays, I rely on occasional sativa gummies and herb-based energy capsules to get my “fix”. I know I still have a ways to go, and I am miles ahead of where I started.
We are not hopeless cases. We are everyday people who need the right conditions to grow. We need relief from the circumstances that we had no control over in our past. We need self-acceptance, self-love, and healthy ways of channeling and processing anger. We need things that bring us peace, and these things must not be the cause of our demise. I am not saying that this journey is easy, just that it is obtainable. I was given many chances to try again, and I am very grateful for that. You can try again too.
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