My life was a disaster. I was ruining it left and right with my irresponsibility and inability to care anymore. I was barely surviving for years. I was faking it, even to myself. I was lying to myself when I said I was fine, there wasn’t a problem. There were in fact lots of problems but I closed my eyes and refused to look. Because if I looked then I would know about it and then I would have to do something about it. Ignoring it all was easier. Until it wasn’t.
I spent my teens and twenties binge drinking, drinking to excess and doing stupid shit, embarrassing myself over and over again. I would go a few weeks without incident maybe, trying to behave, trying to learn how to drink more responsibly, like other people. It wouldn’t take long though until I did a few too many shots or chugged my drinks down way too fast and made a fool out of myself again.
I would wake up after nights out with the worst hangxiety, every time. I would lay in bed, head throbbing, feeling nauseous, worrying about what stupid thing I did or said the night before. It was hell.
It would nag at me all day. I would search my photos and videos, read through text conversations, looking for any clues or evidence of doing or saying something embarrassing. I wouldn’t always find something, I wouldn’t always make an ass out of myself, honestly, most times I did.
I would hate myself for it. I would hate myself for not understanding how to behave, how to act, how to drink. I was constantly disappointed in myself. I couldn’t understand why some of my friends could drink responsibly and I couldn’t. What was wrong with me? Why was I like this?
There was so much going on underneath my inability to handle alcohol. I had developed terrible social anxiety and I would drink before going out most of the time to help put myself at ease. I thought it helped me be more sociable, more talkative, more likeable.
I remember being on Xanax, prescription anxiety medication, and I would take one or two with a shot or a drink while I was getting ready to go out. I would sit on the floor in front of my mirror with a cocktail, my meds, a cigarette, and a curling iron. I would drink for an hour, probably, before even leaving the house, but at the bar, I would pretend it was my first one. Even to myself, though.
I was completely unaware of the dangers of mixing benzodiazepines with alcohol. I never had a single prescribing doctor educate me on the dangers of mixing alcohol with any of my medications.
I experienced many blackouts over the years. I denied it, though. I pretended that I didn’t experience them, that I didn’t forget everything that happened. I knew blackouts were a bad sign in terms of drinking habits, so I was not going to admit I had them out loud to anyone.
It never occurred to me until years later that the medications I was on were contributing to those blackouts. I didn’t realize that being on those medications dulled the effects or sensations of alcohol. So I would have a couple of drinks and barely feel buzzed. I would think I was handling my alcohol well. Often I thought I was “keeping up with the guys.”
Then it would hit me out of nowhere. I would be wasted. I would struggle to stand, to walk. There were times when I didn’t know where I was, where I woke up in situations that I never would have agreed to or gotten myself into if I was sober, or at least less drunk.
At some point, I started bringing alcohol to my bartending shifts. It started with just sipping on it, just maintaining a light, controllable buzz. Something to just loosen me up, make me more fun and outgoing. It helped me make conversation and entertain the customers. It wasn’t like I was stealing booze from the bar. I brought my own, and I had it under control. So I thought, what was the big deal?
Well, it became a big deal the night I mixed so much xanax and alcohol together that my brain literally stopped functioning when I was the only bartender in charge of the bar. I long held that I had a panic attack that night, as my reasoning for my complete shutdown and lack of ability to even make a jack and coke.
Maybe I did have a panic attack that night, but it was induced by the effects of mixing together multiple doses of medication and all the drinking I did. I didn’t even realize I had that much to drink because of the effects of the medication. It was as though it all kicked in at once behind the bar, trying to figure out how to make a simple drink.
I lost my job after that night, reasonably so. I maintained for years that I was sober that night, but I think everyone knew that was a lie. I wish that had been my wake-up call. I wish that I had been honest instead of manipulative and a liar. My life could have looked so much different today, maybe, if I had admitted then that I was developing a problem.
The problem was that I kept myself in a state of denial. I brushed everything under the rug and pretended it didn’t happen or pointed my finger of blame anywhere else but myself so that I wouldn’t have to deal.
I would keep hitting these low points, lower than low points, and I would continue to deny, deny, deny. I refused to admit that I had a problem with alcohol because if I admitted it out loud that I did in fact need help, then I would have to give it up. I wasn’t ready to give it up yet. I was too scared to find out what my life would look like if I gave up alcohol.
I relied on alcohol. It was my only link to a social life. It was the only thing that make me brave enough, bold enough, confident enough. I thought it made me good enough. Alcohol gave me friends to drink with; it made me think I had a fun, fulfilling life. Alcohol told me I was outgoing and fun; it told me that I was funny, witty, and charming.
Alcohol lied to me. It lied to me for years. Alcohol burned me over and over, and yet I kept going back for more. Alcohol told me we had a healthy relationship, it told me my drinking habits were normal, just like everyone else I hung out with.
I guess I was pouring vodka into those empty water bottles with my eyes closed so that I could pretend that it wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. How did I find myself carrying secret alcohol around with me? How did I get here? When did this happen?
I refused to believe I was an alcoholic but isn’t that what alcoholics do? I didn’t wake up with massive hangovers, I didn’t wake up and shake and need a drink. I wasn’t an alcoholic. Maybe not, but I absolutely had a major fucking problem.
I either hid it very well from those around me, or they just didn’t care. I think I hid it pretty well for a while. Especially when I moved to Florida. There was only one real person around to notice a problem and he was where I learned a lot of my new habits from.
I was always very alone in my alcohol abuse. I hid how much I drank from everyone. I would sneak shots or chugs right from the bottle. I didn’t really care what it was as long as I wasn’t sober. I over-poured all of my drinks and developed a tolerance. It would take more and more for me to get to and maintain a strong enough buzz.
I was so ashamed of my behavior, but I couldn’t seem to get myself to stop. Toward the end, I remember asking for help. I asked two different people at two different times if they thought I had a problem and could they help me. Neither of them helped me. One of them continued to take me out and drive me around while I drank. The other one tried convincing me I didn’t have a problem.
I didn’t understand why they were doing the opposite of helping me. I didn’t understand why I had this problem and why I couldn’t stop or get it under control. I needed help. I couldn’t do it on my own. I felt like no one was listening. It felt like no one saw me.
I remember after I moved home from Florida, I was living with my parents when my mom found three empty liters of vodka in my room. She just left them laying out on my bedroom floor. So that I could know she found them, but she never said anything to be about it. She found my shame stash and still didn’t ask me if I needed help. I was heartbroken that day.
So I continued abusing alcohol in secret. Lying about my usage. I went back to convincing myself that I had it under control and that I was going to get better. That I already was getting better.
As mortifying as it would have been, I wish someone had sat me down and had a real conversation with me about my drinking habits. I wish someone had convinced me to get some help sooner. I wish someone saw me and saw that I needed help instead of just judging me or being disappointed in me. I wish someone helped save me.
It didn’t happen that way, though. I wouldn’t get help until I got it for myself. It wouldn’t happen until I completely fucked up my life. Maybe this is how it was supposed to happen, for some reason.
Regardless, I am so grateful that I did finally wake up, that I finally got myself the help I needed. I am so grateful that three years ago I dumped the alcohol down the drain and vowed to myself, and my parents, that I was done for real this time. I meant it. I stuck to it. I never even once considered having a drink. I know it wouldn’t be worth it.
My life looks drastically different today. I don’t drink; I don’t go out; I don’t have a social life. I stay at home. I learn; I write; I practice yoga. My life is quiet and drama free. I don’t wake up with or walk around with anxiety constantly. I feel calmer. And even though I am not 100% free, I feel freer than I did before.
My life is no longer a total disaster. I still struggle, but I manage it better. My life is improving every day. I know I will get where I want to go and I am only getting there because I finally gave up my crutch, my “medicine,” my social safety blanket. Saying goodbye to alcohol three years ago will always be the best decision I finally made.
Brittany Netzband 