Falling Rock
It was a typical Thursday night. Two friends and I were heading into one of the restaurants we commonly went to grab some food and drinks. But mostly the latter. As we arrived, I noticed in the area nearest the bar two women I know; managers I worked with at a corporate-run restaurant. I knew they could each hold their own in terms of booze, so I casually ditched my friends to hang out with my cool coworkers.
I joined the table, ordered a burger, but only ate half of it. I didn’t come here to eat, I came here to fucking party. Mindlessly, I chewed and swallowed enough to hold myself over until I would again walk the line of dangerously low blood sugar and have to eat again — which was usually hungover the next day.
Four beers and half a burger later, I’m laughing loud enough the other bar patrons were rolling their eyes. As I throw my head back to let out an embellished belly-laugh, I fell out of my chair. And I’m talking about a bar chair, that has its seat leveled with my bellybutton while standing up. It was not a gracious fall, but I was not severely hurt. I managed to quickly hop back to my feet and later my chair, carefully avoiding the judgemental stares from afar.
Now that I’m starting to cause a scene, I think it’s about time to leave. My original friends had long left, and it had since turned into a two-woman party at our table when we were making plans for another coworker to pick us up (Don’t drink and drive). This first spot has only been my warm-up, because where we’re heading, falling off the barstool is the best-case scenario.
The weather outside is fair, but most of our party smokes, so we sit outside. I order my drink, annoyingly dubbed The Kendall (Tequila, cranberry juice, and a splash of sweet & sour), and babble until my muscles grow weary. I don’t remember parts of the evening, I was decently drunk by this point. As a creature of habit I do a lot without thinking, and this only escalates problems when I’m drinking. After binging cocktails and cigarettes, with barely any food and enough booze to put a horse down, I decided that I need to nap.
I stumbled out to my friend’s truck, snuggled into the leather passenger seat and laid my head… For approximately ten minutes. Then I rose, aggravated and uncomfortable. I was impatiently waiting for my Dirty Little Secret (you know, that particular person that you’re absolutely not supposed to be sleeping with) to leave work and pick me up himself. I texted another friend, who’s still on the patio, casually smoking and drinking his cares away and tell him I want to go home, practically begging him to take me. He incessantly denied my pleas. Against absolutely no better judgment, I decided to take matters into my own hands, and walk home. After all, it was only a two-and-a-half-mile walk, half-past eleven o’clock. What could go wrong?
Fifty steps into my journey, intoxicatingly fatigued I laid down for yet another nap. The last thing I remember before blacking out momentarily is talking on the phone with my DLS as they pleaded with me to not walk home, and for-the-love-of-all don’t lie down in the grassy barrier that separates the street and parking lot. There’s not a clear answer on how long I was out for, long enough for my bar-patio friends to organize a small man-hunt for me — each of them rightfully concerned for my well-being.
There’s a blinding light. I’m woken up by a police officer as he signals to my friend, asking to identify me. Slowly, I sit up but that’s as far as I can go until my DLS lifts me up. As we execute my walk of shame (this is not the only time I’ve been carried to the car), my bar-patio friends are eyeing me sharply, while simultaneously celebrating my safety.
I wish I could say it was a peaceful car ride home but my emotions were an ever-changing roller coaster when I drank. Meaning I went from exciting highs to extreme lows throughout a period of a few hours. After falling off a barstool, walking out on my friends, causing a panic, somehow skirting out of legal trouble, and overall making an ass of myself, I felt smothered in shame. I couldn’t stop thinking, or talking about wanting to… maybe not die, but not necessarily live anymore. This was a common thought topic when I was drinking heavily. We talked and cried the night away, and I would live another day to confront my demons.
Just like every other drinking-fueled dramatic event in my life, I quickly wedged my concern deep down, where I hopefully wouldn’t find it again. However, physical bruises don’t disappear so easily. In the days following, I walked around and worked through aches and pain along my torso (I suffered quite the beating from the barstool). I tried to laugh it off, describing that night’s events as funnily-fucked-up entertainment, avoiding embarrassment.
In the months following these events, I was engulfed with depression and I couldn’t see my way out; Not until I finally saw my actions for what they were: Falling rock headed straight for the bottom. After countless risky situations, I realized that my lows were fatal and out-lived my emotional highs.
I’m no longer haunted by the events of this night and the plethora of similar situations. I have forgiven myself for the pain I caused myself throughout years of trying to outrun — or better yet numb — my suffering. Don’t get me wrong, I still shiver when I recall the events of this night but I’m no longer riddled with shame. I think it’s important to recognize how truly awful I was when I drank, in order to save myself from going back there. I never want to be that person again.
I remind myself of my horror stories in order to stay sober; I don’t try to fool myself with false promises of “just one, you’ll be fine” because I know, in the depths of my soul, that if I want to drink it’s because I want to get absolutely fucking obliterated. Rarely do I think about — or miss — drinking. What I (seldom) miss is being able to numb out whatever emotion I don’t want to feel, and that’s why I continue to stay sober.
