how I knew I had a problem
A Saturday morning hangover on the day before finals week can not be helped by your suite mate entering your room. It can not be helped by the eggs and home fries you barely consumed with a boy from England you had just met 12 hours before. It can not be helped from the equal cups of water and coffee, or the sirens from the Christmas parade, or the walk to his friend’s apartment in the 40 degree weather. Your Friday evening can not be put back together when your suitemate walks in to your room, with an expression on her face that your pathetic ass can not decipher, laying down on your couch. Hell, your pathetic ass could barely decipher your Friday night.
You apologize for the boy taking a shower in your shared bathroom, that might have came as a surprise to her in the early hours of the morning, but she brushes it off. She is demanding something much bigger.
“I can not take you home on Thursday. You and I both know that we haven’t been the best of friends and last night set it over the edge. I wouldn’t be comfortable taking you home for Christmas break,” she says.
“What did I say? What did I do?” you become defensive, ashen. You apologize profusely but you don’t know what you’re apologizing for. The night before comes back in flashes. You know you were at a party. You know you drank a whole 40 of beer in less than an hour. You remember apologizing to some dude who never deserved an apology from you. You remember the British boy’s arrival. Your throat remembers the cigarettes smoked, your sore muscles remember him throwing you over his shoulder and running out of the party. Your purse remembers the roll of toilet paper stolen from Ryan’s house after walking Nichole back to his place. You remember this morning with the sirens, and potatoes and walk.
But the memory of seeing your suite mate at the party? It doesn’t exist.
This isn’t the end of your drinking. It doesn’t make you reconsider that those memories you can barely forget can hurt someone. This is only the beginning of your drinking problem.
The months of my last semester of college were consumed by fear. I didn’t know what was through the doors of graduation, could not fathom what a future would look like. I never had serious hopes or dreams or goals. My resume wasn’t padded and my unsettled mind couldn’t be cushioned by the future, either. What I had turned to was wanting to make every weekend count. I wanted to have as much fun with friends as possible, I wanted to experience every emotion and weekend that college allowed. I chose to do that by getting black out drunk every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday night. It was the only way I knew how to cope.
“I feel like a freshman,” I confided in one friend. “I feel reckless and desperate. Like getting black out drunk is my only option.”
I never felt like my life or friendships were at risk. I only felt like my own well being was at stake. But during those times, it didn’t matter. I could not feel the pain, the hurt, or feeling scared if I could not remember anything.
Like the night of Lovey’s welcome back party, when I was going to someone else’s house afterwards. I took a backpack, and a purse. My friends took care of me, placing all of my valuables in my backpack and sending me on my way. But just 3 feet outside of the party, I posted on Facebook demanding someone find my purse and I had lost all of my belongings.
Patterns like these continued — drinking 2 dollar beers and dancing outside of the pizza place on a Tuesday — with homework and assignments to be done. Then, heading to the Saloon and ordering vodka cranberries and tacos, heading back to my room at midnight. It was messy, it was abusive, but I loved every minute of it.
My blackouts didn’t stop once I met a guy I was infatuated with. They got even worse. They were fueled by jealousy, insecurity, and the hatred of myself and others around me. Alcohol did not allow me to be happy in the moment, it allowed me to become paranoid about the other people around me. My friends and the girls around me turned into my drunken enemies, my ex was enemy number one. And yet, the only way to cope with this pain was drinking until I forgot what happened — drinking to remember the happiness — not the jealousy I was so accustomed to.
It boiled over on my 22nd birthday. We went to the brewery, where I had not eaten all day but continued to drink. My friends pitied me, but I thought I had lost all of my money and forgot to tip the bartender. Then the ugly came out.
My black out mind continued to repeat itself. “Did I tip the bartender?” became “I hate myself SO much.” What was funny to black out me was now the truth. I was no longer comical, I was finally beginning to show who I really was.
I was stressed. I had returned home from graduating to find myself alone and unsuccessful. My friends were much happier with their lives. I was about to see my ex for the first time in months, where the feelings I never understood still existed. I was still so jealous — these people got to happily live their lives without me.
My friends took my crying, miserable ass out of the bar, where they placed me on a bed and asked me what was wrong. I cried about everything — how much I missed them, how much I hated myself, how jealous I was of everyone and their happiness around me. it was rough but they were there. Alcohol was no longer my friend.
Admitting you have a drinking problem at 21 years old is hard. Many would fail to recognize it as a drinking problem. Going out every night and drinking heavily is part of the college experience. But drinking problems mask themselves in different ways for everybody. Drinking a case of PBR a weekend night was normal for my male friends. A whole case for me meant more than a disaster.
Not many people understand a black out mentality. It isn’t falling asleep, cold to the world. It is a condition where you’re functioning, and might appear normal, but on the inside your brain is akin to that of a 5 year old. You repeat things, half of your body shuts down. While you might be able to make it down a flight of stairs, into your building and safely in bed, come the morning you have no idea what happens.
I used to not understand girls who blacked out. People who said “oh I blacked out” but my experiences led me to understand that. I was the girl who blacked out. I was the person who people saw using that word as an excuse. I was no longer defensive, I was afraid and alone. No one could understand why I blacked out and why I was so upset. Therapy didn’t help. But alcohol did.
I look back on those photos from 2 years ago with a strange sense of longing. I miss the company of my friends, the weekday nights where drinking was acceptable, fun, and all I knew. But I look into the eyes of that girl in the photos. She was damaged, she was unhappy, she did not know how good the future would be. I am no longer presented with the opportunity to become black out drunk. And I’m grateful.
