Turning 21 As a Recovering Alcoholic

The whispering hum of the rain put my father to sleep on the sofa as I quietly played with my doll. My eyes were drawn to the ice cubes floating in my father’s glass. The whiskey’s gold hue infatuated me—perhaps this potion speaks of sunshine and better days? Or does it dull pain and dumb down joy and self-control? One little sip can’t hurt. 

I had no idea what an impact this curiosity would have on my life. 

At 13 years old, I quickly fell in love with the warm, fuzzy feeling alcohol gave me. I no longer had to face my anxiety. The whiskey turned down the volume on my thoughts. It was the amber that brought purpose to my soul. 

Alcohol continued to lure me in with empty promises throughout high school. My ruby red flask that read “not today” sat in my lunch pail as I strutted through the lackluster halls in a zombie-like state. Alcohol was the answer to my problems, my best friend, and my worst enemy. 

Art by Kaitlyn Beckmann

Never sober and often drunk, I rippled toxic harm into the lives of my loved ones, abandoning friendships and burning bridges along the way. This codependency made me think I needed alcohol to have fun, be social, or handle my emotions. I thought without it, I wouldn’t be able to connect with others in college. All of my friendships were connected through booze. Why would I want to change? 

The liquor slowly stopped working for me. There were no more good feelings. It got to the point of having to drink every few hours, disguising cocktails in my Hydroflask to get me through lectures. I drank away my money, leaving me with no way to pay my bills or put food in my belly. I never asked my parents for financial help. I couldn’t be honest with them. 

I tried to blame everyone and everything I knew for my drinking: the emotional abuse from my parents, the constant sexual assault from my first love, the molestation from the “fashion designer” I briefly worked for. Everyone was responsible for my drinking except me. 

Sobriety has been an uphill battle. Sometimes I can go weeks without a drink. Other times I pop open a bottle of chardonnay for breakfast. After waking up from a week-long bender snuggled up next to an empty tequila bottle, cigarette butts, and fly-infested pizza, I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. Mascara-stained cheeks, bloodshot eyes, matted hair: who have I become? This isn’t me. 

I would like to tell you that I stopped there, but I didn’t. After six months of sobriety, I decided I could still be a social drinker. Leaving a Christmas party one night in 2019, I met the man of my dreams (or so I thought) and quickly fell in love with the lifestyle he lived: exotic sports cars, spraying $1,000 champagne as if it was water, doing lines off Rolexes, taking shots for breakfast as if it were liquid Advil to cure our hangover. I was f*cked up the majority of the time. Our motto was: eat, party, sleep, repeat. 

When the pandemic hit, I got sent home from studying abroad in the Netherlands. I moved back in with my dysfunctional alcoholic parents. I had to adapt to online learning as a dyslexic. Failing my classes and turning in little to no assignments, I sat alone in my messy room and drank to pass the time—every single day for six months. 

As the days of isolation continued, my hatred toward alcohol grew. I hated that I couldn’t just enjoy a glass of wine without wanting to finish the entire bottle. I hated that I couldn’t have a fun night out without my heart racing. I hated that even in a relaxed situation, I couldn’t focus around alcohol. I had never been so sick, mentally and physically.

I took a leave of absence from Emerson last fall to detox. I learned that even my worst day sober was better than my best day drunk. I went to therapy twice a week. I received acupuncture on a regular basis to help relieve cravings. I attended weekly Adult Children of Alcoholic and Dysfunctional Families (ACA) meetings. I began peeling back layers to heal the hurt that was buried beneath.  

June is usually my favorite month of the year. The trees sway gracefully in the warm breeze, the music is turned up on people’s porches, the sky blazes blue, and the sun is a celebration of yellow. But this year, June is going to be different. The thought of turning 21 terrifies me. Will I go back to abusing alcohol? How will I tell my parents that I am an alcoholic? How will I tell my friends that I can’t go to the bars and take 21 shots? Will my friends still want to celebrate with me? Will I even have any friends? 

For most Americans, the idea of a less-than-boozy 21st birthday is disappointing. We are finally free from the law that has loomed over us. Being able to walk into a grocery store and buy alcohol whenever you want may be a dream for some, but knowing that I am able to succumb to my addiction at any time now has opened up new and old anxieties in my brain. 

Humans are amazing, though: we adapt, we heal, we are capable of growing stronger. When we acknowledge that changes, challenges, and hardships are there to deepen us, to remind us that we do get second chances and that we are each made up of love, compassion, and healing, something remarkable happens. 

I can’t say that I am currently sober, but admitting to myself that I am an alcoholic is the first step. With this new awareness, I start 2021 with the promise to live differently, to not let my alcoholism define me the way it has since I was 13.