This is my story of alcoholism.
TW: rape, alcohol abuse
Underage and of age binge drinking is pandemic
in the college experience. It is an “epitomal” part of the experience. 2 out of
3 college students have admitted to binge drinking. Binge drinking occurs when
someone drinks 4-5 drinks in less than 2 hours.
I attribute this to the tremendous
pressures to center the college “experience” on these activities. I didn’t have
my first sip of alcohol until the summer of 2015, the summer before I turned
21. I had always wanted to drink when I was legal (which I did; technically in
England I was legal). But before then, I was told numerous things, all of them
built on the premise that I disrespected them if I didn’t drink. One of these
statements coming from a senior whom I had admired: “You’re no fun, Ka.”
To be honest, I came to parties to have
fun. I did have fun. I enjoyed dancing. I enjoyed being surrounded by people
who were enjoying themselves. I enjoyed being a designated driver for my
friends, whom I cared about deeply and immensely.
I look back at those days with a deep
fondness and a pity for the naivety that I was. And I wish I could return to
that to make peace, to be at ease with myself.
The summer after I returned from England, I
began to attend regular parties. My consumption was minimal, it was exciting,
filled with laughter. I was a lightweight and it felt great to feel a high,
feel completely immersed with the people around me.
I drank with people I cared about; I drank
with people who I had deep, emotional, painful conversations with. People who
had sacrificed to be here. People who put their lives on the line. People whose
activism extended beyond themselves, to future generations, to love for
themselves and their own people. I was in a circle of care and carelessness,
the recklessness and exhilaration of activism. These people held me
accountable. These people grounded me.
These people graduated, and the torch they
lit inside of me was supposed to carry on its roots, its histories, its love,
its grace, its burden.
Months after my 21st birthday, I
began to drink more (one could argue, leading up to my 21st
birthday, I drank almost that entire week—the normalcy of this occurrence had
desensitized my friends. To me it was abnormal, to others, it was normal...).
It was after the summer of 2016. I drank
excessively. You can think about the ways in which our political climate may have
contributed (HEAVILY) to this. I don’t wish to get into that. All I know is
that it was painful watching the spiraling of the nation, the explicit hate and
the fear. The fear for me, the fear for people like and unlike me, and the fear
for my family.
I was stressed, I felt burdened and like a
burden, I used school as a means to escape—I did assignments weeks in advance
in fear that I would spiral into depression one week and be unable to move out
of my bed for days, I was afraid that my professors would hate me, I was afraid
that my love for my friends was fading and that they were noticing, I was
afraid that the love for my brothers was withering away and that I wasn’t being
the daughter my parents raised me into being, I was planning protests and
attending rallies, I was emotionally exhausting myself and putting my dying
flame into the only art I knew—serving people and burning myself out through
activism. I learned to hate the term ‘self-care.’ I couldn’t afford it; neither
could the rest of the nation. We screamed for justice and we were met with
promises of walls and the overt cry of violence against people whose skin didn’t
meet the standard.
The election was what really sunk in the
reality of the nation; it was the last blow to my crumbling tower. I cried for
two hours. I apologized to my brothers; I had let them down. I had not changed
history, I had not done anything extraordinary to change the course of history.
I drowned out my pain through alcohol. God
damn, people fucking warned me about it, and still, I did it. I pushed away all
the people I cared about and I just fucking drank.
It wasn’t the “shutting myself in my room
for days at a time and drink until I pass out” kind of alcoholism. It was
coming home from school, having a few glasses of wine, and going out to the
bars or parties and drink until I couldn’t feel anymore and come back home and
pass out. At first, it was just once a week, until it turned into almost every
other day.
The culture that surrounded me made it seem
so normal. Social media laughed at my pain, made memes out of excessive
drinking, my peers encouraged it as a means of forgetting, or just as a means
of “having fun.”
I forgot what it was like to have fun
without the presence of alcohol.
According to the National Institute on
Alcohol Abuse and Alocholism, 696,00 students are assaulted by another student
has been drinking. 97,000 students have reported alcohol-related sexual assault
or date rape.
I became a statistic that fall semester. I came home the next morning, threw my clothes
into a bag, shoved it into my closet, and took a shower. (Months later, when
moving out, I would find this bag and cried for hours until my partner came to
throw it out for me.)
But as I resumed my normal school behavior,
my nights were filled with even more alcohol. I blamed myself, so I drank
myself into darkness and silence. I’ve spent my entire life screaming the words
“It is not your fault” when it comes to victims of sexual assault, harassment,
and rape. Yet when put in the situation, I could not feel anything but.
I did not tell anyone. Months later, my
partner found out. I remember the “I told you so” and the “I should’ve been
there.”
I blamed myself even more. I became a shell
of myself and I was on autopilot for the end of my fall semester and going into
my spring semester.
I had a panic attack on my 22nd
birthday. I was used to panic attacks before, induced more often after a night
of drinking, typically done by myself, in my bed. My panic attacks varied from
simply staring at one place for hours on end, hyperventilating, crying, and
complete loss of muscle function. I had a lot of bruises on my body. I had a
lot of puffy eyes.
On my birthday, it had begun so happily. I
was high on the presence of my friends. It was filled with laughter, people I
loved. But tensions were high amongst friend groups that existed beyond our doors,
pressures had increased, the reality of everything that had happened in the
last year settled in, the pain I had tried to hide came full speed, crashed
into me, and I convulsed in front of the group of friends that I had tried to
be so happy, so calm, so strong for. To show weakness is strength. But this was
one I had not prepared them for.
I remember my heart, my chest, my stomach,
my legs, my arms, aching. I felt like I was dying, like I was going to die. I
remember the hands on me, the sound of my friends voices, repeating my name
over and over again. I remember the crying, the screaming, and the fact that I
couldn’t breathe. I remember the corner that I stared at as my friends
surrounded me.
All I remember after staring at the corner
is waking up the next morning in my bed. Alone. The door was locked from the
inside. If I asked my friends what happened that night, I’ve forgotten what
their responses were. I’ve hidden that night from my consciousness.
The panic attack on my 22nd
birthday was what made me stop. I think. Honestly, I don’t remember when I
decided to stop drinking excessively. I just remember my summer was filled with
less and less frequent trips to the store for alcohol, to the bars.
I caved in on myself, and I became, what we
call, yet another “buzzkill.” I go out less often. This letter is a revelation
of myself, but it is also an apology to my friends. My absence has shown, and I
know my presence has been missed, but is no longer necessary. I am trying to
disappear. I am no longer the person I was. I only show up for a few drinks; I
don’t get wasted anymore. I drink, just enough to be cautious. Just enough to
make sure I can drive myself home. Just enough to make sure no one hurts my
friends. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that my body has gone through so
much violence, both self-inflicted and otherwise.
I’m sorry that I’ve been disappearing. I
will keep disappearing.
I’m sorry I’m not the person I thought I
was—that you thought I was.
But most of all, this letter is meant for
you, the reader to understand something.
I was a straight A student, and I did this
shit and maintained my grades. I did this while I maintained a composed image
of myself. Most people did not suspect that I was dying. Because it was normal.
We were (and still are) in pain.
Everything was not fine.
And if something within this letter has
struck a similarity with you, I ask you to do something. To please let yourself
heal from whatever demons haunt you for just a moment, to please let your body
heal from all the violence it’s seen.
We have a tendency to see our pain as
strength. Toxic masculinity and the engrainment of its qualities has taught us
the value of ourselves, only when we destroy ourselves in what we feel, in what
we become. Mixed with alcohol, these qualities are toxic—emotionally,
physically, and mentally. Please allow yourself to heal from toxicity.
Please be good to yourself. Self-care is
bullshit. But caring for yourself is necessary. It is survival, it is
existence. I want you to exist, to be good to yourself.
