Real Talk: I Got Sober Before My 21st Birthday
Every Wednesday during my freshman year of college, my best friend Emily and I went to the Beauty Bar. We’d befriended the bartender, Eddie, who made us “sexy Eddie” shots—tequila and a splash of lime juice. We had a blast. We laughed hysterically, danced on the bar, made out with someone new every week, and met all kinds of New York weirdos. Emily and I both had the same class the next morning at 9AM. When 1 AM rolled around, Emily walked back to our dorm. I always intended to go home with her. I knew that if I stayed out longer, I probably wouldn’t go to class, would worsen my already terrible relationship with my professor, would lie in bed all day alternating between wanting to puke and actually puking. I always stayed until the bar closed. In fact, I’d even hang out with some of the bartenders and other people who drank like I did for “after hours.”
Things quieted down the summer between my freshman and sophomore years. I was living with my dad for a month, and, though we drank together (at dinner), I kept it very tame. My first month back in New York in the fall kicked my butt. I was partying 24/7. I felt a little out of control, so I decided to take a month off and resume, with more control, on Halloween. When Halloween came, I picked up right where I left off. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t drink less. I was beginning to feel ashamed and incompetent and alcohol was beginning to take a major toll on my psychological well-being. My hangovers were getting worse and worse; I was barely going to school; I began having episodes in which I couldn’t stop crying. I started to see a therapist. There was a lot of family stuff I hadn’t come to terms with, and it was definitely helpful to work through some of those issues (though that kind of healing tends to take a good chunk of time). But I kept drinking, sometimes thinking I could keep from going off the deep-end if I just tried really hard, only drank beer, set a cut-off of 3 AM… and then sometimes I just said “screw it” and went berserk.
My emotional state got worse. I was depressed and withdrawn and I had racked up eight incompletes over my sophomore and junior years. What happened to my dream of moving to New York City, writing my butt off, and making a splash? I found the artsy community I’d longed for back at Atlantic City High School (blech), but ultimately we sat around drinking until daylight, talking about what we were going to do once we got our acts together. Walking home while everyone in New York is on their way to work used to feel so cool. I thought they were all lifeless drones and I was living on the edge. But after a while, walking home dodging commuters filled me with unbearable guilt and an ever-growing feeling of hopelessness. Yet quitting drinking seemed like a total non-option. I was still only 19. There’s no such thing as a 19-year-old alcoholic! I’m not going to drink at my wedding? New Year’s Eve? Yeah, right. Plus I liked drinking. Drinking was fun. It was just the over-drinking that was ruining my life. But the more I failed at moderating my drinking, the more the brutal truth that I could not control my drinking—no matter what strategy I tried to enforce—became apparent apparent. My therapist had been begging me to try a support group. I refused. I didn’t want anything to do with that.
I finally broke down in June 2003, the summer between my sophomore and junior years. My friend put on a burlesque show in Brooklyn, and though that night was really no different than a hundred others, the next day I finally waved the white flag. I found a support group and went to a women’s-only meeting on the Lower East Side. I heard a woman talk about being in bed brutally hungover on her birthday and listening to all the messages her family and friends were leaving on her answering machine (you’ve heard of answering machines, right?). She was so sick, she couldn’t move, and spent the entire day with the shades drawn in her bedroom wanting to die. Whoa. I could relate. I’m lucky that this group met in a big city—that the room was full of women who looked just like me. (There’s even a group in New York that focuses on people, like me, who get sober before they’ve had a legal drink.) Of course I had zero intention of quitting drinking forever—I just wanted to dry out for a little bit and learn how to get the will power to stop. After four months of sobriety, I drank. I had a first date and ordered a glass of wine. The next night I had two glasses of wine. The third night I don’t remember how I got home, slept through my alarm, and missed work. But I still had more research to do. I just could not accept that I couldn’t control my drinking.
I was in and out of sobriety until July 15, 2004. My friend Sam walked me home from Orchard Bar at 7:30 in the morning. I lay in bed watching the local news and thought, “If this is going to be my life, I want to die.” I called my therapist, who said if I was serious she’d have to call paramedics, who would hospitalize me. Her other option for me was to try and get some sleep and go back to group when I got up. I chose Option B, stayed in bed for three days because I was too sick to leave my apartment, and went to back to group with three days sober on my 21st birthday. I have not had a drink since.
Only you know whether or not you have a problem with alcohol. Hitting a bottom is an inside job. I got lucky and didn’t suffer a lot of external consequences from my alcoholism. Many alcoholics lose a lot in their lives before they come to believe that any amount of booze will ultimately yield the same, awful result. People lose jobs, relationships, families, on and on, but—shockingly—none of that is what makes you want to get sober. There’s no real way to describe how you know if you need help, other than, you just know. Powerlessness is not the same thing as weakness or incompetence. No one—absolutely no one—likes to admit defeat. I hope that my story can take away some of the shame that those of us with alcoholism feel when we’re in the midst of our addiction. There is hope. Please reach out for help. You don’t have to do this alone.
For resources about substance abuse, visit SAMHSA.gov or call (800) 662-4357.
