*play me*

Of all the substances I’ve tried, alcohol is my favorite. Coke, ecstasy, weed, or psychedelics can’t compare to the drowning under a bottle of wine. The way vodka slowing seeps into your bloodstream warming you from the inside out. A weighted blanket for my mind. Feeling my thoughts muddle, my body humming, a heavy head yet light as a feather. I often found myself grateful to be pulled under and hoped to be forgotten about. For as long as I can remember alcohol was something I was enamored with. As a child I was enticed by how care free the adults became and craved that escape. As a teenager there was a voice in my head, “just go drink a little and you can fall asleep” not letting up until I complied. This wasn’t something I did for fun or to connect with peers. No this was all mine. In fact my preference is to drink alone, to drink until I’m swaying with not a soul in sight.

It’s funny now, seeing how I’ve grown and healed. Watching the other, over-25-somethings, who never had a party phase try now to cling onto any shard of youth. Or to see those that were always there with me, refuse to let it go. “Why don’t you drink anymore Ali?” “Come on take a shot!” “You’re such a grandma” I started putting vodka in my hot chocolate in the morning in high school. Around a shots worth, strategically taken to match the pace in which the bottle was being drunk by those of age. Pop a piece of gum, smile and the security guards at school are none the wiser. Known to my friends as a proficient drinker, by the time I got to college I was well versed in my limits and exactly how I preferred to push them. “Don’t try to keep up with Ali” “I’ll call Ali, she’ll want to drink.” I didn’t go to parties to mingle, I went to black out, everyone else just a prop in my own game. My thoughts consumed by when I was going to drink next and how I would acquire it. It was here I discovered my favorite combination: alcohol and sex. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, sometimes Sunday, all that filled my time was black outs and one night stands. It didn’t really matter who, it didn’t really matter where. I just knew these two things were the only things that shut off my mind. Nothing else could make me so blissfully unaware. Nothing else stopped the incessant thinking I’ve been plagued with my whole life. Nothing else blacked out all the grief crushing me from the inside out. I thought at the time I was chasing the high of feeling alive, but I know now I was chasing the feeling of nothingness.

Substance abuse runs up and down my family tree and I welcomed this demon, never putting much faith in angels. I wouldn’t say I was ever addicted or reliant, I could go long periods without it, mostly when it wasn’t easily accessible. But I consciously chose it as my preferred bandaid. Once I was 21 it became more than a bandaid, but a crutch. The support to walk into a room full of people with a smile. The way I was able to maneuver uncomfortable family parties. I realized when I didn’t take it too far it helped me turn the show on for my audience and fake some light in my eyes. Even just from one small drink if I want to, I can find the current and lean into the buzz. Praised for how well I held my alcohol, the mask of responsibility and temperance easily slid into place. But when I was alone there were no limits. One bottle of wine chugged in 15 minutes. Then another. Maybe a third. I found wine has this profound effect, a softer edge than liquor that I liked most to help me fall asleep. And if I was wasted in my room I didn’t have to worry about whether my boyfriend was at some girls house or why he wasn’t answering my texts. I could spite him because of how much he detested me being under the influence, a win win ;).

At some point between therapy and medication (that you’re technically not supposed to drink with) I started to realize that actually I hate being drunk. I dabbled in dry January, and then no drinking November, and then sobriety for months at a time. It was as if slowly and then all at once I preferred real life. I wanted to wake up in the morning and feel good. I wanted to do my routines without a banging in my head. I wanted to walk at the park, and dance, and listen to music again, and create something new. I found myself less attracted to real estate for numerous reasons but a big one was the drinking culture. Every party, every lunch, every networking event usually had more drinks than food. I realized that I wasn’t drinking because I wanted to but out of habit. 5 seltzers down and only because I wanted to have something in my hand. My body on autopilot always bringing the rim of the glass to my lips. The last time I felt that gnawing inside, that voice that isn’t mine creep up was 2023. A family friend had passed, triggering again the grief I held for all the ones I lost. I felt like a live wire, raw, and completely open. I had come so far but I wasn’t ready to feel everything all at once this way. I remember pacing around my apartment knowing it wouldn’t be smart but it was all I wanted. I wanted to obliterate these feelings. So I drank till my head was spinning and walked to the park at about 2 in the afternoon. Here two versions of myself refused to bleed together. This new life rejected the old, I could feel the trees’ disappointment. How the wind refused to speak to me this way. I mentally reached out to the creek and got silence in response. That’s when I realized what I’d been afraid of all this time was feeling. This poison helped me keep a cage around my heart so that nothing could truly pierce through. But what would happen if I just allowed myself to feel. Feel hurt or disappointment. Feel betrayed or feel joy. Instead of getting hurt by others, this whole time I was hurting myself. Because then I could at least control it.

It’s been in these last few years that I’ve realized love cannot be controlled. No matter how hard I try, the pendulum of life will always sway. I can either embrace it or kill myself avoiding it. Instead of a bandaid or crutch, now alcohol is for a time and a place. It’s the cherry on top of a sundae, I could take it or leave it. A minor chord in the symphony of my life.

xoxo,

Ali Ann

p.s Hiss Spun is probably one of my favorite albums of all time

p.p.s I want to be clear I’ve never labeled myself an alcoholic. But I’ve learned there is a wide spectrum of substance abuse that doesn’t always look like the image of an addict that might conjure in your mind. It’s important to evaluate our relationship with substances even those deemed “less addictive” or those that are socially acceptable