Recently, I overheard someone who clearly knew little about addiction say, “If you have a problem with alcohol, just stop drinking.”
If only it were that simple. People wouldn’t be revolving through treatment facilities, finding support in sobriety groups for years, and wrestling with the relentless pull of addiction if stopping was just a matter of will. This week, I had the chance to share a piece in a writing class led by author Marion Roach Smith, where I spoke candidly about how consuming and difficult it is to live with alcohol addiction.
Check it out below.
After five weeks in rehab, there I was, facing my dismissal day tomorrow. Deep down, there was that familiar, sinking feeling. I felt it every time I tried to convince myself I was heading back to “normal.” I tried to replay everyone’s kind words, but I couldn’t find any comfort in them. Reaching into my bra, I pulled out the sleep meds I’d stashed there, swallowed them quickly, and hoped sleep would take me away from the gnawing sense of impending doom.
The next morning, my friend who’d been looking after Cruz since I’d gone into treatment was there, waiting to take me home. I stepped into the sunlight, and we hugged tightly. It felt so good to be held by someone from the outside world again. We went straight to the grocery store, where the smell of cilantro in the produce aisle made my mouth water. I filled my basket with bright fruits and healthy snacks, determined to keep up the balanced eating habits I’d learned in treatment.
But the drive back to my house was a blur. Though I was sober, my mind felt foggy. My friend came in with me, did a quick sweep of the house to make sure there were no hidden bottles, then hugged me and asked, “Alright, girl, you gonna be good?” I hesitated, my mind spinning, but I forced a nod. “Yeah, it’ll be tough, but I’ll be good.” As I shut the door behind her, I turned and looked around my house, my supposed sanctuary. All I could see was emptiness, the painful echo of broken dreams.
So, it’s just you and me, I thought, staring at the silent rooms. Just me and this house full of ghosts. I went to turn on the TV, but it was dead—I’d fallen into it drunk one night, breaking the cables. I opened my laptop, but immediately shut it again at the sight of a picture of my late boyfriend, smiling and carefree. I moved around the house, from chair to couch, but everywhere I sat felt hollow.
Then, like the first drop of a storm, the thought of drinking slipped into my mind. It quickly spread, filling me with a fiendish desire I couldn’t shake. I knew I shouldn’t, knew it was dangerous. But the rationalizations came fast. I can order a bottle and just hold it, I don’t have to drink it, I told myself as I scrolled through the alcohol delivery app, adding a bottle to my cart. I can pour it down the drain after a few sips, I reasoned as I completed my purchase.
I reactivated my old routine of pretending everything was fine. I called my sister, my voice upbeat. “Hey! Just letting you know I’m finally home … Yeah, it’s definitely weird … I promise I’ll call if anything … Yeah, I’m going to bed early, I’m just so sleepy…” I texted a few friends, letting them know I was “good” and going to “bed.” It was only 7:30 PM. I was not going to bed.
The bottle was in my hands, then at my lips. The burn of alcohol slid down my throat, making me gag; I’d forgotten the sting. I drank straight from the bottle as if I’d stumbled upon water in a desert.
I had left the protective cocoon of treatment—a so-called fortress meant to shield me. I was supposed to emerge as a butterfly, ready to soar, but my wings were still crumpled. I crashed hard. Lying flat on the floor, “Nights in White Satin” by the Moody Blues played on repeat, each verse carving deeper into my soul:
Never reaching the end
Letters I’ve written
Never meaning to send…
I took one last breath, closed my eyes, and let myself slip back under, drowning once more in the dark waters of my addiction.
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