I’ve never really been one for drinking.
Growing up around a family of extreme alcoholics left, thankfully, a more negative imprint that kept me from following in their footprints and consuming my life. Hell, only recently did I learn from my mother (a recovering alcoholic, thank god) that she doesn’t know really anything about who I am as a person and can’t remember most of my teenage years.
My parent doesn’t know me because of alcohol. That’s crazy.
It isn’t like I never drink, though… I just never get drunk. Shit, I don’t even get to the point of a buzz because of what I think it might do to me or how it might impair me. Honestly, I feel that it’s also a pretty big problem:
I’m twenty-four, and I’ve been drunk once in my life.
I was fifteen, and I was at a house warming party for my cousin with most of the staff from my families vocational college, all of which I was friends with.
At first, I started drinking a beer… my family was practically livid to indoctrinate me into their cult. One beer turned to two, four… it’d only been an hour since I we got there, and I can remember having downed seven beers… I was a champion!
What a fool I had been, I had no clue that this is what drinking was like… how exciting! Seven beers, and I wasn’t even remotely buzzed. I was laughing and yelling and joking and contemplating how all this time I had thought alcohol was the enemy, and how wrong I had been… how amazing I felt and how I fit in with everyone else.
Eventually, Captain Morgan joined the party, and as I poured a fifth of rum down my throat faster than the rest of the hyenas around me I felt… invincible.
I was fifteen, though, and although it wasn’t my first time drinking… it was my first (and last) time nearly drinking myself to death.
I hadn’t understood what alcohol did to you, I hadn’t understood why the hours leading up to me losing my mind I was completely in control of my thoughts and actions. I didn’t understand that the impairment wasn’t immediate… and that wasn’t a good thing.
It is funny, though… looking back at it all, the last thing I remember clearly was telling someone how much I had drank and how it hasn’t effected me yet. I remember his surprise and worry at the number, as well as his acknowledgement that I was still in control.
Then I remember, minutes later, him telling everyone around that “he was fine just a few minutes ago!“
Everything else after that is a blur. I remember being told grab our receptionists breasts, lying down next to her on the floor while she was being told to grab me back.
I remember throwing up on their balcony, in their plants, and bathtub.
Then I remember the sink. I remember there being candles around the faucet, and the dire need to wash out my mouth. I remember feeling my head feeling hot, and leaving the bathroom and hearing “What is that smell!“
“I think I lit my hair on fire!” I said back to the voice.
To be honest with you, I have no idea how I knew that I lit my hair on fire. Not a single clue. I can remember the image and feeling there clearly, but I can also remember just saying that as a response with no real context behind it.
Then, thank god, someone saved me. My cousin’s husbands mother came to the party and saw how absolutely fucked up I was and took care or me.
She also bore the wrath of every explicative in my young vocabular arsenal. Which, due to the extreme nature in which I gamed, was a lot.
So, that’s my story.
Truthfully, I wish I could feel comfortable getting drunk. I wish the thought didn’t terrify me, or that I could be a more social drinker, but I guess it’s just another area of my life that seperates me from feeling like I’m not awkward or strange.
Thanks for reading!