Each day nearing its end, few things rise to the forefront of my mind. Halfway through the month, halfway through the semester, I’m left to ponder all but crucial things. “I need a drink,” I think out loud, nothing more prevalent attracting my attention.
Laying on the couch, I flip through People magazine, seeing advertisement after advertisement, presenting me with the beautification and simplification of cosmopolitans and dirty martinis. I get up and grab my coat.
Skipping down the stairs, I make my descent to my car and furthermore to the realization that the drinks in the magazine are further from my reach than I thought. Burying my head in my hands, I can’t understand why I’m suddenly in tears.
“I’m sorry,” is all that ever emanates from my flashing cell phone screen. I wonder if that’s the same response I would get if I sent pictures of myself in this state, pictures of cartoon cocktails surrounding my somber image. “You’ll be fine,” is the only response ever told directly to my face; my façade is strong. I need a drink more than I did just five minutes earlier.
Hiccuping from crying so hard, the tears stream faster and warmer, and I’m at a loss for both words and actions. I get out of my car slowly, not wanting to make my ascent into my dry apartment – not sure if I physically can. There is no rationalizing my behavior, no bettering my actions, and no normalizing my drinking habits.
“Come out just for one,” flashes three or four times as every one of my best friends tells me to meet them at the bar tonight. Best may be a loose term. One is absolutely a loose term. “No one ever has ‘just one,’” I think to myself. “Or maybe some people do…” I begin to wonder if I can conquer that.
I flash back to the other night, waiting for my ride, I decided to have “one beer.” Eight minutes later, I took two shots and chugged two IPAs. A montage flashed through my mind – a montage of toilet bowls, regrettable text messages, and one night stands. I finally get inside my apartment, and lock the door behind me.
Staring aimlessly into the fridge, I grab a sprite and crack it open. Chugging it, I do my best to fill my mind with every thought I need. “Vodka/soda! Gin and tonic!” My mind races as I try to taste the liquor on my tongue, but as I pull the can away from my lips, I realize the tears have not dissipated, and the sprite making its way down my throat tastes like nothing more than the soda my mother used give me when I had the flu.
Montage still flashing through my mind, suddenly seeming quite distant, I climb into bed, knees to my chest, and I sniffle back more tears. “You’ll be okay,” I promise myself.