Becoming a prisoner to alcohol was one of the last things I thought I'd ever do; yet for a full year, it had its chains wrapped around me, and pulled me further and further away from reality.
Let me start by explaining why I never thought this would happen to me.
As a child, I learned that alcohol was a very bad thing. My father has drank for all of my life; let me clarify by saying that, I'm not positive he is an alcoholic. I can't say one way or another if he is; he drinks beer every single day, quite a bit, but very, very rarely gets drunk, or even tipsy. It's just his evening beverage of choice. It seemed, however, that he got drunk more frequently when I was little: camping, at parties and events, when my parents had friends over... and my mother despised it when he did.
My mom's own father is, without a doubt, an alcoholic. Her childhood was rough because of this; it pains me to think some of the things she went through. I can completely understand why she would detest my father getting drunk.
Seeing how much it upset her when my father would get wasted, and knowing what had happened during her childhood made me very angry towards alcohol. I vowed I would never let it consume me, if in fact I ever did decide to drink it at all. I had no interest in it whatsoever until much later...
...but now that I think about it, my first experience with alcohol was for the wrong reason in itself. It wasn't a pleasure drink, or because I was curious. Enter The Ex. (Ah, The Ex. He "deserves" his own roast post, that jerk >:/). Anyways, we were hanging out with some friends. I was not having fun; The Ex was being a complete asshole to me, like always, so I was feeling very low and depressed. I felt like he would parade me in front of his friends to show what a cute and wonderful girlfriend I was (all of his friends just thought I was such a good girlfriend), but he was borderline emotionally abusive, and I was too naive to think I could do better. When everybody went outside to go smoke a joint, I wandered into the kitchen, and sitting on the counter were several freshly made glasses of screwdrivers. Angry and hurt, I thought why not? I'm depressed, he's being an asshole, why don't I see what it's like to get tipsy? Maybe it'll make me feel better. So I chugged one down. And then another.
Up until this point, I had never had anything more than an occasional sip of wine cooler or margarita, just for taste... so I'm sure you can only imagine how hard the screwdrivers hit me. Within 10 to 15 minutes, I was so drunk I couldn't even walk. The rest of that night is patchy; I remember The Ex actually being mildly amused. I know we left, stopped by his house so he could pick up his sister (to help him get me into my house), and then they took me home. And I was SO SICK. I remember waking up the next day still feeling pretty damn drunk; I somehow made it to work, but my manager, laughing at the realization that I was experiencing my first hangover, told me to just go home (she even offered to call someone else to follow me and make sure I got home okay, but I declined). So there it was: a month shy of my 19th birthday, I had my first true experience with alcohol, and it was as a coping mechanism.
Over the next several years, I managed my alcohol intake well. I rarely drank; sometimes Vuni and I would buy a bottle of wine to share in my parent's hot tub, or I'd get a margarita when going out to eat, but this didn't happen too frequently. Of course, when Vuni and I went to Vegas, we spent about half of the trip wasted... but hey, that's Vegas :D It was a blast, and I wouldn't have changed it for the world. (Wait- the one thing we would have done differently was paid a small fee to get into the adults-only pool at our hotel, which included a free drink, rather than buy $24 daquiris at the regular poolside. RIP-OFF).
My problems started several months after our Las Vegas trip (which was in July of 2009). I noticed that when I'd drink at Vuni's Ska shows, it would loosen me up and my level of social anxiety would decrease dramatically. I would dance and talk to other people. The more I drank, the better I felt. Still, this didn't seem like a big problem; this is what people in their 20s do. But it opened up a door for me; a realization that alcohol made me feel good. It numbed my anxiety, and after a night of drinking and dancing, I could literally fall into my bed, asleep.
In mid November, I was frustrated. I loved my job as an elementary school tutor (although I was not making much money), and was sad that I could not continue this job in the Spring semester, due to my class schedule. School, the anticipation of having to find a new job, the holidays, and very little money in my bank account was scaring me; not to mention the fact that I had mounting credit card bills, and was terrified of this. I wasn't sleeping and things just felt shitty... and that's when I thought to myself, why can't I drink at home? If alcohol took my anxiety away in a bar, surely it could help me escape my spinning mind at home?
I obviously wanted the most bang for my buck, so I picked up a cheap bottle of flavored vodka. It was a Friday night, Vuni was out with friends, and I remember drinking... then suddenly it was the next morning. No anxiety keeping me up for hours.
Over the next several months, I would sip the vodka as my night cap on nights that just seemed too much to handle. I had to escape from the thoughts. I had to switch myself off. Although it didn't seem like problem, I knew that what I was doing was very wrong. Slowly but surely, I was needing more, more frequently. However, I kept telling myself that things were okay, because I was still functioning fine; the couple of times I ditched school were due to anxiety, not hangovers or because I couldn't get up or was skipping out to drink. I got a temporary job as a waitress, and I never missed or was late to work. It never interfered. Each time the guilt would creep up, I'd rationalize it with well, I'm doing okay. I really am. I'm not an alcoholic; I just need it to help me escape when I can't sleep.
Then I got a job at Joann's Craft and Fabrics.
Working retail terrifies me. Working with the public terrifies me. I absolutely despise how cruel people can be, the sense of entitlement they seem to feel, in regards to people working in a position of customer service.
The first month wasn't horrible; it was a new store, so all of the employees were merely setting up the store. But I was terrified of some of the management; one lady in particular was very condescending and treated the employees like we were stupid. I just avoided her as much as possible, knowing that once the store was up and running, she'd leave to another state, to set up another store. But that also meant the store would be opening. And this meant customers :(
On opening day, I was assigned to cashiering for the first portion of my shift, and the very first customer I had chewed me out. The store was absolute mayhem; it was packed, and people were furious that we only had three cash registers and four people at a time who could cut fabric. My managers saw just how anxious I would get. They also knew I was a hard worker; they tried to keep me away from the cash registers and cut table, instead doing merchandising and receiving, but there were times when it was unavoidable. And I still encountered customers while merchandising. Although some were very nice, the ones who truly stood out, who were branded into my mind, were the rude ones.
Before long, I was having panic attacks every time I went into work. I'd get dizzy, couldn't breathe, would get the shakes and fevers. I was sent home many times. I'd dread going into work, not only fearing the customers, but also, the debilitating panic attacks. Management was getting frustrated with me. I missed work twice without calling in, once due to a severe hangover, once due to crippling anxiety and sheer terror of calling in.
I was miserable; it was early September 2010 at this point, and Vuni and I had been living together only a few short weeks. Things were not going at all as planned. I hated and feared work, and I felt a constant cloud of overwhelming anxiety hanging over my head. So I drank. I skipped school to drink. Finally, I unknowingly missed work a 3rd time, going in on a Thursday instead of a Wednesday (which, I had listed Wednesday mornings as one of my unavailable times, so I had no idea why I was scheduled). When I got there, the store manager said he had to talk to me; I held up my hand, knowing that I was probably going to be fired, and said, "I just can't do this anymore. I can't. I'm so, so sorry." He was an understanding, kind man; I could tell that he realized the agony I was in, so he did not lecture me or get angry. His face was filled with sadness, with pity for me; he let me leave, and I have not been back since.
I was jobless once again. Jobless, when I had just moved into my own home. Jobless, when I had rent to pay, an internet bill to pay, the ever-mounting credit cards, groceries, and, because I was suppose to graduate in December, this meant I'd also soon have student loan payments. Life looked hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. I had no idea how I'd find another job, with the market looking so pitiful and my obvious inability to work in a customer service position.
So I drank. All the time. I stopped going to school. I stopped visiting my parents. I stopped leaving the house; except to make another run to the liquor store. I'd only stay sober longer enough to make sure I could drive okay, to the liquor store. Our house looked like a disaster. My relationship with Vuni was falling apart without me even realizing it. My therapist and psychiatrist refused to see me until I did something about the alcoholism. I thought I was being sneaky, hiding my bottles from Vuni, but I was just too fucked up to realize that he was very aware of what was going on, and was scared shitless. In mid October, he talked to me and told me that I had to get help. I made a call to AA, and was set to go to a meeting that night... but I chickened out, and drank even harder the for the next week.
A Thursday night turned everything around. This part of the story comes from very vague memories, with the details filled in by what Vuni later told me, and evidence I later discovered.
On October 21, 2010, Vuni came home from a long day at a job he hates, to find me wasted on the couch. He immediately changed and got ready to leave, wanting to get the hell away from my drunken ass. I apparently screamed at him, me sitting on the couch and he on the coffee table in front of it. I guess I was angry that he was trying to preserve his sanity (obviously didn't see it this way at the time), as he was leaving me home alone yet again. I ended my screaming at him with a "fine then! GO!" and kicked him. Hard. Hard enough that I knocked him clear off of the coffee table. I then apparently stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and began slicing my arm. I don't have any memory of that; the next thing I remember was Vuni desperately trying not to throw up as he cleaned and bandaged my arm. After that, he retreated to the music room, while I slowly started to come around. As I did, it began to dawn on me- I was going to lose him. If I didn't get help, NOW, I was going to lose this amazing, beautiful person to alcohol. I couldn't handle this. I couldn't. This was the last straw; I couldn't lose this man.
After he went to bed, I drank myself to sleep, a last drinking binge as I promised myself that the following evening would be the evening; the evening that I would get help.
To be continued...
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