I remember

Scene 1: Shame

The first time I remember encountering alcohol, I was four. I remember watching a man hold my mother down as she kicked her legs and cried, the sound of shattering glass and screaming. I don’t remember if this man was my father. I remember leaving our room to make sure my mother was okay and to remind her that my brother was still hungry- she screamed at me with tears in her eyes: “Go back to your room, right now!” When I tiptoed out of our room again in desperation, I found my mother crying naked on the carpet. I told her I didn’t like it when she cried. She comforted me assuring me she was going to drink “her medicine” and she would feel better soon. For some reason I knew that “her medicine” would only make things worse. She instructed me to let her finish drinking “her medicine” so she could take a nap. She reminded me, I knew where the kitchen was, and she directed me to get some food for my brother, adding one final warning, “Do not make your brother cry. Mommy is really tired. And that will only make her more sad.”

Pro-tips for not “making” a two-year old cry: Know how to tie their shoes (not too loose; but definitely not too tight), let them spill their milk on the carpet repeatedly, and if you really don’t want them to throw a tantrum and wake up your mother-- Let them climb on the counter and play with the knobs on the stove.

I remember believing that it was my fault she was so angry and so sad, and promising myself I would behave better the next time, so my mother wouldn’t leave us again. Little did I know, one day I would be crying on the floor kicking and screaming, as my mother lay in the room next door taking another one of her all day naps.

Scene 2) Shame-er

The first time I smoked a cigarette, I was eleven. I had been adopted almost six years. I was sitting behind my cousins' friend's four-wheeler in a wooded area in the mountains. The three of us smoked the whole pack together. I proceeded to vomit a colorful blend of Superman ice-cream and hot Cheetos. I remember thinking I would paint my room that color. I remember asking myself, "Why do so many people smoke these?", before soothing my throat with a Budweiser my cousins' friend passed my way. This was also the first time I willingly took my clothes off for a boy. And reluctantly allowed him to push his tongue down my throat. I remember walking back home, covered in dirt and guilt. I showered for two hours that night.

Scene 3) Shame-est

The first time I blacked-out from alcohol, I was at my best friend's aunt's apartment in Memphis. I was fifteen. My last memory was lying in the bathtub with her, fully clothed, the hot water showering upon us, as we laughed uncontrollably. I remember feeling like I never felt so connected to another human. We then kissed, and I remember thinking how beautiful she was, and seriously questioning my sexuality. As this thought passed, I was filled with intense shame and fear. I remember waiting for God to strike me dead, bracing myself for the lightning to strike our porcelain coffin. Instead, I let the hot water wash away my sins, as these thoughts and my memory faded into a black hole. It would take me years to find out how deep and inescapable this black hole really was.

Waking up the next day I felt a sickness I had never felt before, and the shock of being unable to piece together memories from the previous night. More than that, I remember thinking "I can't wait to feel this way again. My mind just shuts off and I don't feel anything!" I sought out any opportunity to acquire that feeling from that day forward. The nights I couldn't remember became a normal weekend routine. And my preference of drinking alone, grew into a relationship I came to know as love. Thus, my “I remembers” grew increasingly rare as I sought out this new love and inched closer to my legal homecoming.

Scene 4) No shame, no game

On my 21st birthday, I remember my friends surrounding me in my dorm's common living space, showering me with gifts and hugs, the room filled with genuine smiles and laughter. We then proceeded to the bar I would soon think of as my second home. I had 8 shots of Patron (buy 1 get 1 free) within the first 20 minutes. I remember sipping (inhaling) a gin & tonic as I signed up for multiple karaoke performances. I remember tripping up the stairs and staring into the spinning audience. I stood on the stage, placing one arm on my best friend's shoulder and wrapping the other around the mike's stand for balance purposes. I don't remember anything after that. I do know that I never touched Patron again. And that I rocked the stage that night. 

Bars would become my nightly (and eventually, daily) refuge.

Final Scene) A shame that slowly suffocates

 

It wouldn't be five more years until I even entertained the question of whether I was an alcoholic. Yes, both of my biological parents were, but I was nothing like them. What I couldn't see then, was I had the perfect recipe inside me for addiction: Genes, plenty of trauma, and a brain that wanted to kill me. And of course a paralyzing fear of everything inside me and around me.

The moment I remember officially accepting this identity, came a few days after my MSW graduation, (the best [sober] day of life). It was 11am and I was sitting alone at the bar, whiskey in one hand and beer in the other. I had fresh stitches down my arm, yet another black eye, and could locate a new bruise or scratch every time I had to pee. Which was pretty often. I remember observing the couple a few seats down from me at the bar, as I was finishing my last assignment--twenty-three tortuous pages. As usual, I used my fail-proof technique of drinking a glass of wine for each page I finished. Moving on to more effective liquids, as I finished the final paragraph. I remember watching this couple get up and leave with a glass “half-full” of beer and being equally shocked and horrified that they could just walk away and waste such precious alcohol. I thought about that pint of beer for days to follow. I remember asking myself, “do others spend as much energy thinking about things like this?", and realizing it was unlikely anybody would obsess to that degree about a lipstick stained, almost empty, pint of craft beer. I continued to drink in the subsequent days, a steady stream of blurred blackouts and stoned slumber. I checked into rehab a week later.  

         Forthcoming realizations:

• I could rarely limit my drink intake, even when I seriously tried. And I was willing to try almost anything once I had enough drinks in me. 
•  I almost always ended my day or night in a black-out, ideally after finishing the tasks that were required of me, but this was never guaranteed.
•  I ended almost every night/morning crying on the porch or on the couch or in someone's bed. No matter what the setting was, I always ended up crying uncontrollably. And doing things I couldn't remember but would always regret.
•  During my last semester, I frequently drank during class breaks, sitting on the floor in the handicap bathroom of the basement of the school of social work. I kept my wine and whisky bottles in the “closet” I found in the corner of the stall, filling up my thermos of coffee with Whiskey or my Starbucks Venti cup with a bottle of wine, so I could fully take in my lecture. Towards the end of the semester, I  often sat in class for half of the three-hour session, and then honestly decided I needed to go to the bar or get high before returning back to class, so I could really make the most of it.

My name is Natalie and I am not my mother, and I am not my father, but I am an alcoholic.

Today I am four months sober, or as I sometimes need to count:  178,560 minutes sober. I am committed to facing the pain and shame that I’ve drowned out for years with alcohol and other drugs, with sobriety, therapy, and vulnerability. I have alcoholism, but I also have a Master’s degree and a light up turtle that makes ocean sounds. I am broken, but not unfixable. I can do this, but not without help.