I like to party as much as the next girl. Binge drinking in Midtown on a Wednesday night is not unusual. Blacking out and ordering ungodly amounts of food happens often. I probably surpassed that “funny drunk college story” quota sometime during my sophomore year, but I kept drinking. Never alone, and never out of anger or sadness, but I did.
Among the funny drunk college stories are a few not-so-funny tales.
I’ve managed to get drunk in my work uniform, go home with complete strangers, pee my bed more times than I care to admit, disappear from my friends and walk home alone, and rack up hundreds of dollars in bar tabs (which is pretty impressive considering drink prices in Gainesville). This is all in addition to the embarrassing texts I would send to boys and the empty pizza boxes I’d wake up to the next day.
You name it, I’ve said it, done it, broken it, taken it, lost it. Let’s talk about brutal honesty.
Via: Deviant Art
On September 6, 2014, I woke up in a hospital bed at Shands. In all my years of drinking (all four of them), I had never drank so much that I needed to be hospitalized. Or, rather, I had never been taken to the hospital because of drinking too much. My parents were going to fucking murder me.
I was so afraid of their reaction that I told the nurse in my drunken stupor to not bill my insurance company because my parents would find out. I asked to be put on a payment plan. What’s cute is that I probably had $4 in my wallet at that very moment, and another 10 sitting in my bank account. On what planet was I successfully going to pay everything off on my own? (Side note: Not all insurance companies cover alcohol-related incidences anyway, so you may have no other option than to pay out of pocket.)
Long story short, the ‘rents found out. Granted, they were pissed, but I somehow spun the story so that it didn’t seem as bad as it actually was.
Fast-forward to October 4. I wake up at Shands. Again.
I have now been admitted to the hospital twice in less than one month for alcohol intoxication. This time, I was found passed out on the side of University Ave. I was admitted with a blood alcohol content of 0.39. The thought of what my parents would do to me this time was far worse than the suicide questioning from the psych nurses and the 48-hour hangover that followed.
Needless to say, the subsequent phone call to my father was the worst half hour of my life. He gave me three options: leave UF and come home; become financially independent, which included paying for my accumulating medical bills; or sign and abide by a contract he drafted the very night he and my mom were woken up by a phone call from the police officer who found their daughter alone and unresponsive.
I chose option 3, which included immediate admission to a 12-week intensive outpatient treatment program for alcoholics and drug addicts. The contract also forbade any purchase or consumption of any drugs or alcohol from the day I signed it to the day I walked graduation.
Via: Virtual Jerusalem
Here I am, six long and hard, intense and emotional months later, and I haven’t violated my contract. I completed the 12-week program. I attended weekly AA meetings. I have a sponsor. I did everything that was asked of me, and I’m continuing down that path.
After all the therapy, the sessions, the workshops and the meetings, I can honestly say I don’t believe in my heart that I’m an alcoholic because I don’t have a chemical or emotional dependence on the substance. I do think my actions merited the consequences, though. And who’s to say where I would’ve let things escalate five, 10, 20 years from now?
It was a massive wake-up call.
Moderation does not come naturally to me, and my personality tends to be all-or-nothing. This isn’t the first time it’s gotten me into trouble.
But when I tell you I’ve learned more in these last six months than I have in all 22 years of my life, it’s because I can see the changes. I can feel it in my soul. I have two internships and a job. My grades are better. I’m actually going to class. I’ve managed to lose weight and work out more consistently because hangovers aren’t a weekly occurrence anymore. My relationship with my parents is stellar. I call both of my grandmothers on a weekly basis. My sister is my best friend. I have an incredible boyfriend who’s been one of my many guardian angels during this whole process. My friends are my rocks. And I’m in the process of interviewing for big-girl jobs at legit companies post-graduation.
Via: Drug Addiction Support
Things are looking up, and I cringe at the thought of where I’d be right now had my parents not stepped in when and how they did. I’m remaining sober until I walk across that stage on May 2, 2015. I owe that to them. I owe that to the people who let me stay at UF despite what other parents would have done in their situation.
And if I can apply even a fraction of what I’ve learned over these past six months to the next six and beyond, I know I’ll be okay.
So, to everyone I have hurt, disappointed and affected by my drinking: I am sorry. Deeply and truly. I hope that as time passes, I will prove to be a good friend, sister, daughter, student, employee and girlfriend. I hope to prove I’m a good person.
Actions speak louder than words, and I plan to continue to act according to my word.
Feature photo courtesy of: TYT Network
