Blackout One

I was 15 the first time I remember drinking alcohol. Really drinking it, not just tasting it when I was 9 because I stole my mom’s Zima or one of my family members thought it was funny to give me beer as a child. I mean full on drinking it. I was a freshman in high school and there were a lot of extenuating circumstances. A bunch of us threw a party and it was a bust. No one showed up. So we drank vodka out of a bottle because everyone was frustrated and pissed. Then the seniors started showing up. I don’t remember any of this, of course, because I was already blacked out. 

There’s a photo of me holding a bottle of vodka and chugging it, posing in some goofy split stance of power. I didn’t have any power that night. When I look back on this scene with a sober mentality, I can see so clearly it’s where my true addiction started. I got shitfaced and eventually showed my tits to a senior, who then took a photo and passed it around to the entire school. When I tried to confront these men, they all lied to my face and said they had no idea what I was talking about. Surprise, surprise. I would allow this to be the narrative of my life for a long time to come.

I had been waiting for a guy to show up at this party, one I was enamored with. I was always waiting on this guy and he almost never showed. I learned that night to cope with my feelings outwardly, to express anger by drinking or feeling entitled to my rage or upset instead of feeling it internally, not letting it overtake me. Everyone else was happy to do the same. Throughout the remainder of my 20s, this was the kind of behavior I continued to seek out in friends. It allowed me to blackout drink. It was the only truth I knew. It was my normal.

That evening in question, my friends had decided I was too drunk to deal with and dropped me off at MY HOUSE that night where my dad was asleep. I knocked on his door and said I didn’t feel well. He never mentioned anything about it the next day. I still don’t know if he was subconsciously choosing to ignore the signs or if he genuinely did not know how drunk I was. He was unemployed and drinking heavily himself at the time. It was my first realization that I could get away with this kind of behavior. The next day, the girl I had been partying with the night before posted something on a social media account about what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. This wonderful person would eventually die of an overdose years later.

I will say the most confusing part along my progression of alcoholism over the last 15 years has been that no one ever took me aside to let me know that drinking to blackout drunk wasn’t normal. People thought it was funny. When I told people, they laughed. I didn’t have parents watching over me or, really, anyone that I could confide in who had any sense of what was healthy or to admonish me. All my friends drank this way. We had a high tolerance. Plus I kept my shit together during the week. For a time.

Looking back, I think the only reason I didn’t progress more quickly into alcoholism was, ironically, because of my eating disorder. I used bulimia as a way to numb out the same way I used alcohol. I caused pain to my body to distract me from the suffering my mind was constantly enmeshed in. I created a worry cycle of scarcity, needing to eat, overeating, feeling pain, needing to not feel said pain, feeling a sense of control by giving myself relief by purging. Alcohol was no different. I just used it in secret. I drank openly and suffered through my eating disorder in private. There was no respite.

I’ve been in recovery from bulimia for three years now. It’s taken an enormous amount of introspection to heal years of malignant coping mechanisms for trauma that stayed with me. I knew for a long time I needed help but I didn’t know how to ask for it. I felt like a small child, constantly looking to others to see if my behavior was acceptable. I was a small child in a lot of ways. This behavior felt the same with alcohol. I had been circling around the idea of sobriety for many months but was too afraid and too ashamed to finally say it: I want to stop but I can’t. So one day I just looked at my partner and said it. I called my women’s circle and said it. I had been drinking champagne and I knew I couldn’t feel this way any longer.

The funny thing is, saying those words was the hardest part, both for my drinking and my eating disorder. I love everything about sobriety. Now that I’m sober, I can see that this is exactly where I am supposed to be because it’s exactly who I am. I know I will have challenges with alcohol in my future, but I love spending time at dinner parties being fully present, having no self-confidence issues, and being totally myself. I love myself. I trust myself. Don’t get me wrong – there’s so much work I have to do around this still, particularly with forgiveness and learning to hold the emotions that are really hard for me sober (anger, frustration, embarrassment), but I am willing to look at that stuff now. Because none of it is as scary as the idea of spending one more day out of control or out of my mind.


I believe women are deeply shamed for anger in our society. It’s an emotion men are encouraged to feel and one women are not. I hope in the years to come those standards change. I hope men are encouraged to embrace all emotions on the spectrum. I hope women embrace their anger. It’s healing. Anger shows me when my boundaries are being violated. But that doesn’t make it any easier to express. I preface this piece with a note that I wrote this when I was first starting to processing anger instead of ignore it. I ended the essay with a note about how much I love my cat because I felt at the time the essay was too heavy with emotion and I was concerned about making other people feel uncomfortable. My point in publishing is to convey that anger is just another emotion on the spectrum of healing. Embracing it doesn’t have to be scary. And discomfort is fine.


The truth is that I feel really angry deep in my core. I’m angry about everything and I’m angry with everyone. I’m angry my friend can’t ever fucking show up outside of our text relationship. I’m angry my ex is getting healthy while I’m still stuck in a depressive cycle. I’m angry at my family for being so fucking needy. I’m angry that old friends have moved on. I’m angry I was their sad friend they used to feel better. I’m angry that my English teacher isn’t more effusive. I’m angry about how unsure I am of myself. I’m angry that being emotionally raw is disgusting to society. I’m angry that I can’t be my most wicked self and unforgivingly so. I’m angry people are repulsed by me being the loud, outspoken feminist. I’m angry about years of patriarchal oppression. I’m angry about feeling shame around fucking everything. I’m so fucking sick of feeling shame. Fuck shame. I’m angry and I want to break things. I want to hit things and shatter windows and break mirrors and get cut and bleed all over fucking everything. I’m so MAD. I’m angry that I will never ever actually find fucking meaning in life. I’m angry that life is so useless and stupid. I’m angry that I will never find my tribe. I’m angry that I’m having to write this stupid essay about how angry I am because I don’t even have a women’s circle to be angry in for the first time. Because an angry woman destroyed the trust of the circle and of the group. Fuck anger. Fuck dealing with it. Fuck expressing it. Fuck having it take over your life. Fuck every happy, normal person who ever lived. Fuck feeling depressed. Fuck feeling stuck. Fuck feeling like I’ll never realize my full potential because I DON’T DESERVE IT. Fuck feeling bad. Fuck being told that I am broken. Fuck being broken. Fuck me for every time I’ve been a blind, oblivious, stupid fucking prick who has hurt someone. I’m angry at my fucking mother. I HATE NOT HAVING A MOTHER. I hate it so fucking much. I hate being stuck on this planet without a woman to love me and hold me and care for me. I hate having to do this work. I hate the struggle. I hate that every day is so hard. I hate fighting through it when things are really difficult. I hate that my cat is the only thing I truly love in this world and I hate that I have to leave her for two years in college. I hate being depressed. I hate abusing alcohol. I hate being poor. I hate biting my nails. I hate feeling smarter than most people and wanting to shut myself away because everyone’s stupidity and obtuseness makes me sick. I hate knowing I am stupid and obtuse in my own ways and that I cannot fully understand all of it in context. At least I have Martha. Martha, who has been through so much trauma and has barely survived, and been through so much pain, only to become the most loving, cuddly thing I’ve ever had a relationship with. Who gets under my feet when I’m walking because she knows I’ll pick her up and touch her and play with her. Martha, who squeaks at me in the morning to say hi and let me know she’s awake and wants a pat. Martha doesn’t make me angry or disappoint me. I love Martha.