It Was All a Pregame…

The first time I tasted alcohol I was twelve years old. What is that, sixth grade? I remember being at a friend’s house and after I had fallen asleep on the living room floor, she poured Wild Turkey in my open mouth. I jolted awake to her giggling at my bewildered face. We proceeded to “just try it.” That was the first time I’d ever gotten drunk. It’s also likely the last time I slept with my mouth open, save for being sick (or on an airplane…IYKYK). I thought it was just a typical rebellious kid thing then, when in 7th grade my friend and I snuck her parents’ bottle of Amaretto and felt it burn all the way down the hatch.

I wasn’t entirely surprised that by the time I was a teenager, drinking was a typical high school party activity. Most could handle themselves, while I would be on the sidewalk at 10pm with a few girlfriends flashing the cars passing by. Random makeouts, mouthing off to people I didn’t know, and avoiding getting caught quickly became the norm. The summer after senior year, though, something scary happened. I went to a pool party with a big group of friends from high school and it was a blast talking about what everyone was going to do next. The next thing I remember is a guy friend driving me home and putting me to bed. He slept on my couch and told me the next morning that I’d been roofied by one of the older alums that was at the party. One would think that was scary enough to wake me up. Alas, there were way too many 21st birthday celebrations and countless trips to Vegas or Rocky Point, Mexico that only amount to a blurry blip in the memory bank.

My twenties were no different. I had two long-term relationships that covered about half of this formative period of life, one involved heavy drinking on the regular, the other I was completely sober…until I wasn’t. The ending of that relationship in my late twenties seemed to revive the party-girl in me. Newly single, I met my now-bestie through a mutual friend and was introduced to this enormous group of party friends. And damn did we party. Happy hours, nights out and subsequent hangovers became the norm and I essentially lived off of vodka and quesadillas. But it wasn’t just drunk…it was can’t-remember-how-I-got-home drunk…it was kicking-out-a-random-guy-the-next-morning drunk. Mondays rolled around and it was back to work as if I hadn’t tossed my dignity right out the window with my last bit of money till payday. Sounds kinda bad when you really spell it out like that. Ahh well, onward. No lessons were learned and I continued to convince myself it was normal and that everyone partied like that into their thirties.

I thought I would be better as I inched closer to 40…you know, your friends get married, start families, move away and move on from the party scene, so you should follow suit. Get your life together and all that. Instead, my thirties were a dirty duality of trying to do and be better and active self-sabotage in the way of making bad decisions. After a brief bumble relationship that ended on New Year’s Day 2020, everyone’s favorite panorama began. At a distance, I would’ve thought this would be more of a deterrent from heavy drinking, since nobody could really go anywhere, but not a chance. The early days of quarantine were interesting…zoom calls with friends that lived just a few miles away or across the country, but always with a drink in hand. In true Bri fashion, I decided to write a book about my childhood traumas that year…you know, since I had so much time at home. The writing came fairly easy to me, as those memories still seem so vivid in my mind…all that time passed and no healing had begun. That Christmas I drank four bottles of champagne because I was home alone. Four. Bottles. I’m surprised I didn’t need my stomach pumped after that, but good ole hangxiety sure did rear her ugly head the next day.

2020 was a doozy, to say the least. I can’t count how many times I planned my suicide that year. There was something soothing about making a plan, envisioning the least impactful way to carry it out, careful to make sure no one I knew would be the one to find me…convinced everyone would be better off without me. There were a few times in the next year or so that I proceeded to drink to excess, drive myself home with one eye closed and convince myself that hey, I made it home and put my jammies on, so I couldn’t have been that bad. Only to cringe when I heard the next day how mean or obnoxious I was, as told to me by the offended friend or annoyed neighbor. I still had the “dark thoughts” quite often, replaying the previous plans I’d schemed up and feeling a sense of relief at the idea of executing one of them someday. At least for me, in my mind it served as the final way I could take care of myself. To finally give myself the peace I’ve been digging in the dirt to find for most of my life.

This brings us to the tilt-a-whirl that is 2022. I’m sure it’s been obvious to others for years (decades, even), but I can openly admit I am a problematic binge drinker. Pushing friendships to the brink, drunk-dialing my parents to tell them how fucked up I am because of my childhood, turning into a mean and unforgiving person I didn’t even recognize. That next day hangxiety is no joke and I never want to feel that way again, questioning whose feelings I hurt or which bar I stumbled out of…or how I got home. From the outside, perhaps it didn’t seem so bad. I have no DUIs, I haven’t lost a job or romantic relationship as a result of my drinking, but there have been, on several occasions, that I’ve come pretty damn close. Over the years, I’ve definitely had my fair share of “wake up calls” – I air quote them because if nothing changed, does it even qualify? It doesn’t. I’m still lucky enough to have a solid group of friends that I feel most myself around, a few girlfriends I trust with my deepest, darkest secrets and a job I love working with people I actually like.

I don’t yet know if “getting it under control” or “just having one or two” is an option for me. I’ve tried that before and it hasn’t worked, so I think we can see where this is going. It’s long overdue, but I am ready to make a big change. I don’t know what sobriety will look like for me, but I also know that I don’t want to live like this anymore. I am afraid that it will change some friendships, but my hope is that it will be for the better. If there are some that fall away because I’m no longer drinking or available to join them in that type of camaraderie, then perhaps that’s not a friendship I can hold onto. Ultimately, I’m doing this for myself, so anyone else’s opinions or emotions on this are not my responsibility. For the first time, I am actively working on becoming the best version of myself. I feel almost stuck between wanting to get to know who I am without this dark and vicious crutch…and being terrified to face my life without it…