Part Six ~ Nine Months

Nine months. That is all I lasted. Nine months of sobriety and I went back out on a twelve pack of Zima. I freaking suck. I'm sick and I know it. I'm sick and everyone else knows it. There is no hiding who I really am. I can't stay sober. And why should I? If any "normal" person knew what it felt like to not drink or use then they wouldn't think of asking me to stay clean.

I didn't stand a chance in recovery. I didn't ingest intoxicants for almost nine months, but I used the entire time. I used men to get what I wanted, I used friends to get my own way, I used anybody that was available to satisfy my needs because I'm incapable of managing my own life. As I looked around at fellow college students, I was bewildered. I did not understand how they went about their days and didn't have a desire to get wasted. It was all I thought about. My days were decidedly boring without the promise of "checking out." I decided that if I couldn't get my high through alcohol and drugs, then I would have to find it in people, places, and things.

I was working again in a nightclub that could only be described as borderline unlawful. This wasn't an establishment for a young, sober, college student. But let's face it, even sober, I wanted money and thrills more than I wanted an education. I wanted things. Nice things. All the accouterments of the good life even though I had done nothing to earn them.

I am now 23 and intoxicated by the people, places, and things that surround me. Fast cars, fast men, nice clothes, late nights. Fast and high. Fast and high. And I quickly lost my sobriety. No big surprise. Although I had attended AA meetings and said all the right things, there was no way that I was prepared to be honest with myself about my condition. I made no real attempts to stay in contact with people who could help me in my recovery. Once I got my license back and finished my court ordered obligations, I started to drink again.

I remember the night that it happened. I was sitting in my room in a rental home that I shared on summer break from college. I had money due to my job at the club, I had my education back, I had a roof over my head, I had a boyfriend, and I was happy. I thought I had arrived. "Maybe I'm not really an alcoholic," I think. "Maybe it had been merely life's circumstances that brought on so much wreckage," I think. "Maybe I had just been in the wrong relationship, wrong job, wrong city, and that's why I drank so much."

Maybe I'm just looking for a reason to get drunk.

And why not? Everyone else can. And I want to be like everyone else. I'm tired of being different. Society doesn't support different. Think of how much our society is saturated with images and innuendos of all things alcohol. It is everywhere. I can't escape the ads on TV, the offers for the after work drink, the holiday party, the birthday party, the wedding party, any party, wine with dinner, cocktails at the restaurant... Every fucking place I look there is alcohol. It is everywhere. I'm tired of being different. I want back the feeling of being drunk. I want that feeling of ease and comfort that only alcohol can bring. I want to forget life's daily stresses. I want to get drunk.

And so I did.

Things were to get much worse from here. Much, much worse.

Part six in a series of ten posts chronicling my history with alcoholism and recovery. Comments may be emailed to my profile address.