Alcohol and I have always had an intense relationship. Before moving, my therapist continually warned me that being blackout isn’t cute as you become more and more removed from college and the dangers of being blackout are serious. She always told me to cut myself off after 2 drinks and embrace drinking water. She worried for my safety as I have woken up in unknown people’s beds and done other shameful, regrettable acts.
Most of the time, I deny my problem. I blackout but I always make it home in one piece. I always pick up the pieces of my life that I shatter when I’m blackout. The hangover anxieties always subside, enabling me to restart the cycle of blacking out and recovering.
Ever since moving to Boston, every time I’ve gone out I’ve blacked out. I wake up and piece together my night. I sometimes forget entire chunks of my night like getting in a cab to go to a bar in an entirely different neighborhood. I’ve gone home with a boy whose name I continually couldn’t remember until I asked my roommate on the way out of the bar. I had to check my Uber app to see where I went the night before.
It’s scary to have holes in your memory. But I also don’t fully own up to my problem because I don’t want to stop going out. I don’t want to stop having my exciting adventures and meeting new people. It’s probably the manic in me. I’m always up for a thrill and the high that comes with it.
I know if I told my therapist she would demand I be put on naltrexone. I guess sometimes you just need to let your anxieties out but let old habits die hard.