Sane Again (Alcoholism), 2000s, by Molly
From MemoryArchive
Who: Molly What: Alcoholism When: 2006 Where: Los Angeles, CA
I never thought that I would be an alcoholic. I knew that alcoholism ran in my family--five generations back, actually--and that my granmother, grandfather, and two of my aunts suffered from it. But to me, it was an abstract disease; it was something that could be cured and fixed by simply going to AA meetings and making new friends, and it was something that I knew that I was much too informed, self-aware, and responsibile to get.
Even with all of this arrogance, I should have known something was off the first time I drank alcohol. I got drunk with police chief's daughter, off her father's liquor. I remember begging her more, and keep trying to take more from her father's stash when she wasn't looking. Even though my surroundings became blurry, I didn't feel like I had had enough yet. For the first time that I can remember, I felt what would soon become a common feeling: an uninsatiable thirst for more and more liquor. I blacked out that night, but I vaguely remember dry humping the ground, trying to get with my friend, and telling my friend that all I wanted to do was go down on someone. I woke up the next day in my friend's bed, knowing that I should be embarassed but not knowing exactly why. After she refreshed my memory, I was so mortified that I could not handle being friends with her any longer.
This would become a common theme with my drinking: experiencing black outs or having vague memories of extremely inappropriate and highly sexual behavior; never feeling like I had had enough to drink; knowing that I should be humiliated, but not knowing why. Whenever I drank, this pattern seemed to follow me. I didn't drink that often in high school, but when I did, I would be the drunkest of my friends with the most "entertaining" stories. Like the time I got drunk before a church youth group sleepover, and ended up breaking into the bathroom while my friend was on the toilet and puking all over her and all over the floor, the walls, and the sink.
I decided that I would not drink when I became a senior in high school. I had become a "born again" Christian, and I reasoned that God would not want me drinking. I decided that I wouldn't ever drink or smoke again.
I went away to college, and stayed dry for my first year. I was trying to continue my relationship with God, despite being in a new environment and being surrounded by Christians I didn't like. The urge to drank and be like everyone else was building up inside me, though, but my pride would not let me drink around them. When the urge didnt seem like it was worth fighting anymore, I drank with another group of friends. The same old patterns that had happened before reappeared: I couldn't stop drinking once I had started because I didn't feel like I had had "enough." I kept going back for more and more, driven by this anxious feeling that the numbness would subside and I get get sober again. I also had an emotional meltdown, blacked out, and embarassed myself. I wondered to myself if I was crazy.
Despite this, I was proud of myself for drinking and being drunk again. I bragged about it to my friends and aquaintences in a off handed way. That summer, I swore off religion. When the next year started, I was drinking on a regular basis. Black outs and demoralizing situations--like having sex with some guy in the shower and having it videotaped--were common. I would often drink too much because I didnt know when to stop. I was banned from enetering parties because I was too drunk.
This happened with increasing frequency as time went on. I would not be allowed into clubs or parties because I was too drunk; I would be kicked out of clubs or bars because I was too wasted; I would wake up, in a strange place, and be pissed off because I would have missed the party AGAIN due to me being too wasted.
During this time, I had a seizure and was diagnosed with epilepsy by my doctor. Even though epilepsy is a serious condition, I was not worried about it. I was most concerned and upset by the fact that he told me I couldn't drink anymore. My doctor warned me that I could only drink two or three drinks at the most, and that if I had anymore than that, I might give myself a seizure. I complained about this terrible fate to all my friends, emphasizing how impossible it would be to have fun without alcohol. At first, I tried to follow his advice. I quickly realized that two or three drinks would not get me drunk, even if they were drank within close succession of each other, and decided to increase the amount to four, immediate shots of vodka. But my uninsatiable thirst was still dissatisfied, and soon, I justified that my doctor cpouldn't possibly know what he was talking about.
Sooon after this, I went on a camping trip with some friends. While drunk, I climbed a fence to break into a nearby pool. Due to my intoxicated state, I fell off the 10 to 12 foot fence and landed on my feet. Unfortunately, I was not wearing any shoes, and the concrete beneath me seriously injured my feet. I didn't feel the pain, and walked on them for the rest of the night. The next day, I was sober, and I could barely walk three feet. I couldn't use crutches, since it was both of my feet, and I was too proud to use a wheelchair. For the rest of the school year, I hobbled and limped around, unable to walk more than twenty feet without extreme pain. Even though my mobility had decreased, my drinking did not. I continued to drink heavily, and during these times of intoxication, I found peace and solace. When I was drunk, I could walk like anyone else. The next day, my feet would hurt more than ever.
A year and a half later, I was still drinking, despite the advice of my neurologist and the pain in my feet. My alcohol intake was progressing steadily, and the embarassing incidents were occurring more often with more severe consequences. In the beginning of my drinking, I would slowly begin to sober up, and realize that I had just slept with one of my friends. A year and a half later, I would slowly sober up to realize that I had just had anal sex with a strange man that I had met at a club. I would honestly need a babysitter when I was drinking, or else it would be fairly guaranteed that I would not come home alone that night.
I tried to pretend that it didn't bother me, adn that these sexual exploits and embarassing adventures were all in good fun. Inside, though, I felt awful. I had extremely low self-esteem, and couldn't understand why I couldn't control myself. I was convinced that I was crazy. Normal people don't do this. Friends had told me to drink less--and I would mean to. But once I had had a couple of shots, that never seemed like enough, and all my will power quickly disappeared.
After puking all over my room mate in a drunken escapde, I received an e-mail from Nick, a man she was dating. Nick introduced hiumself to me--since we had only met briefly before--and told me that he was in AA, and from what it sounded like, I should be in it, too. I laughed at his offer. I wasn't like him. And like I had mentioned before, I had family members that were alcoholics, and God only knows that I was not like them.
Over the next few months, I tried to prove to myself that I could control my drinking and that I didn't need to go to Alcoholics Anonymous. But I couldn't control it. Once I had rationalized one drink to myself, I would end up getting wasted.
I finally agreed to go to a meeting with Nick. At my first meeting, a woman approached me and welcomed me. Without meaning to or realizing it, tears welled up in my eyes and I told her that I had some problems with alcohol and controlling myself. The woman nodded empathetically and said, "Me too."
That understanding was all that I needed. I have kept coming back to AA ever since that day. Outside of AA, people didn't understand why I drank so much when I said I wouldnt and why I did things I wouldn't do sober. Outside of AA, people judged me. I felt ashamed and guilty.
But inside of AA, people understood me. They helped me understand that I wasn't crazy; I was just an alcoholic, or someone who couldn't control their drinking. I wasn't a bad person, but a sick person. The only solution for an alcoholic like me would be a spiritual one.
