At a very young age, I learned that alcohol was the cheapest, and easiest to obtain, anxiety medication. From the first sips I had with friends in high school to taking shots before a date, alcohol helped pull me from the non-stop hamster wheel of my mind and turn me into the person I wished I could be. Once paralyzed by the idea of new situations and new people, with a little alcohol running through my bloodstream, these stressful events now became exciting opportunities.
My body relaxed. My mind quieted. My heart slowed. My eyes felt heavy. I felt peace. I felt confident. I felt like I couldn’t think past this moment and, why would I want to, anyways? Drinking was a release, a letting go of emotions, a way to be anyone but myself for however long the feeling would last.
I drank with friends, I drank alone, I drank on weekends, I drank at my desk doing homework in college. I kept it in check, it was nothing more than a helpful crutch, a pathway leading to a dark road that I knew I’d be able to keep myself from wandering down any farther. Then, something happened that turned my world upside down and I started to venture down that dark road, slowly, cautiously, but without looking back.
My head held too many emotions, too many dark thoughts that to drink was to feel numb. To shut off my own voice and not think anymore. To empty my mind. I started drinking most nights, then every night. First I’d start drinking around 7, with dinner, but as the weeks went on that time inched up slowly. Eventually, I was having my first drink at 3 PM.
The thought of feeling sick in the morning was no match for the release I’d get every night. I snuck swigs of Jack Daniels while my boyfriend was showering. I googled “how do you know when you’re an alcoholic?” just to feel my body go rigid when I read the answer: “if you’re asking this question, you probably already know.”
After months of living like this, I developed some scary unrelated (or perhaps related, we’ll never know) symptoms and decided to put the bottle down. I often wonder what path I would have gone down had that not happened, where I would be now if that external factor hadn’t forced me to prioritize my health over pacifying my mind.
Letting go of alcohol in that moment was terrifying. I was forced to be alone with my thoughts again. There was no more quiet, no more peace, no more numbing. Everything was loud and everything hurt and I felt helpless. I was scared. I was desperate for a drink but terrified of the effects it would have on my body.
As time went on, not drinking became normal. My noisy brain became something I had to deal with, rather than something I had to avoid. I began waking up feeling alert, no longer spending mornings feeling sick and vomiting, nor feeling inexplicably and uncontrollably sad. Eventually, I got enough of a handle on it that I was able to have a drink with dinner or with friends without falling into old habits. I worked hard to get to the point I’m at now where I feel like I’m in control.
But it never leaves you, this craving. For the same reason I tell people to never smoke a cigarette even once, now that you know how good it makes you feel, you’re always going to have that gnawing voice in the back of your mind telling you it’ll be just this one time, just this one moment, and then you’ll quit for good.
At the end of one of the most challenging, draining weeks I’ve ever had, as I sit here exhausted, burnt out, and upset, a little voice in my head tells me that a few swigs of whiskey is going to solve all of my problems. It’ll shut off the anxiety and quiet the hurt. It’s so hard not to give in. It’s exhausting having to fight that little voice, and knowing I’ll need to do it nearly everyday for the rest of my life. But I’ll carry on, knowing this life isn’t worth living if I’m numbing myself to its challenges, and therefore its beauty.