Tired of looking like a fool. Don’t want to be in “Marvin’s Room”. Want to remember what I did last night.
I’m not an outgoing person. But when I get a drop of alcohol in me, I’m all ears. Or all talk. I become a jabber-mouth, a social butterfly. Everyone loves me when I’m … well, wasted.
It’s sad. Actually, it’s really pathetic. The need of alcohol to socialize is something that I think people use a crutch for their fear. The fear of embarrassment in a sober state is transformed into center-stage attention after a couple of shots.
But that was me too. Once upon a time that was me. I spent a lot of time in college drinking. Going to parties and drinking. Chilling on weekends and drinking. Laughing at the football game and drinking.
And then I would be studying and drinking. And on my way to the movies and drinking. Alone in my room and drinking.
Alone in my room and drinking.
It was a usual night. The girls were ready to bust away from the books and head out for a night on the town. Found my tightest dress, put it on, dashed out the door. After drinking of course. I was straight buzzed when I got to the club and beyond it by the time I got through the door.
It was a usual night. Dancing to the roar of the techno music, my body swaying against some strangers. No care in the world for his name, first or last. Just thinking about the bomb of the aftermath. Smooth strangers sailing. 2 AM booty calls. No strings attached.
It was a usual night. I wobble home, giggling while struggling to stand up straight in my hills. My roomie chastising me as she always does. “You really need to slow down on the drinking, girl! I’m serious!” Vulnerability open for all to see. Making the routine stop to the bathroom on the way.
It wasn’t a usual next day. Waking up feeling shitty and depressed. Not knowing what got me into that dark place from the night before.
So I did the first thing that would make me better. I took a swig from a bottle that sat open on my common room table from the night before. I was looking for that buzz, that careless feeling that had me set from the night before. And I wouldn’t stop drinking until I got it.
I led a life like that for a while. Secretly retreating to my room when I felt down, popping bottles just to alleviate the emotional pain. It went a way for a brief second, but returned heavier than before.
Until my boyfriend caught me drinking. And threatened to break up with me if I didn’t stop.
I tried to hide it. “I only drink on occasion. Sip a little wine with my meal like the French do, you know?”
I knew I sounded dumb as hell. I wasn’t French. And he wasn’t buying it.
It took that drastic step for me to realize the destruction that I was putting myself through. And to finally admit that I was indeed an alcoholic.
That’s why I’m always weary when people say that drinking helps them to socialize. In some sense it brings me back to that fantasy world where you have this strong desire to be the star of the show, putting on your mask to play the role of someone other than yourself.
You lose yourself in the rush of things. The last thing you want is to lose yourself.
Drink moderately, ladies. And if you find yourself crouched in the corner clutching a bottle seek help. Alcoholism is real and destructive. No “living above the influence” advertisement here. Just straight truth, sisters.