In the ninth grade I wanted to be a chef. I had just started doing foods in school and it was pretty fascinating, especially the eating afterwards part. By the middle of the school year I had come to the conclusion that the amount of effort I had to exert wasn’t worth it.
My attempts at cutting garnish and peeling fruits etc., were not equal to the efforts of everyone else.
That was the year I failed music, physical education and clothing. That was the year, I stopped caring.
Why? Because I wanted to play the drums in music class and I couldn’t.
Because I thought I looked like an idiot playing netball when the girls wouldn’t even throw the ball to me because they believed I couldn’t catch.
Because it took me so many more hours to complete sewing than everyone else in class that the teacher had to move on.
In foods though, the teacher would just cuss out my partner and that never made me feel any better.
I remember we made cakes one week and some persons were allowed to carry the exact amount of alcohol needed for their fruit cake. Suffice it to say being teenagers, they didn’t follow instructions. The class after that was canceled and most of us took communion by drinking the remaining alcohol and eating cake. It was a lovely Thursday afternoon.
We got into trouble as a class the following day, which was stupid because it was some loud mouth prissy overly excited girl that misunderstood a comment and shared the alcohol situation with the math teacher. It didn’t go well. We got punished and for weeks teachers looked at us with disappointment like a heavy tear staining their eyes.
This was probably what started my drinking habit and in the tenth grade I was on to full blown whiskey. It was an escape. A burning relief I sought that books couldn’t give me and talking didn’t fulfill. Drinking was my enemy and the best friend any one could want.
Did I become an alcoholic? No. I never drank enough to be drunk or to be hungover till recently.
The night started with a whiskey sour, then three shots of kamikaze, an appletini, strawberry daiquiri, some other weird shit that tasted horrible and after this I forgot everything else I drank. This was the first time I was completely intoxicated, out of control; my mind a walking abyss.
I was hungover and felt amazingly dead and woozy and loud. My head harbored woodpeckers and shaking towers. My skin a fountain of cold sweat and damp surfaces. My voice barely a shout of the person I became, asking questions and repeating my name like I was Icarus’ sun beckoning to melt wings of sobriety and societal norms.
Will I drink again? Yes.
Will I get drunk again? I’ve done it once and I don’t regret it, but that shit takes a lot of healing time.
Ten down, forty-two to go…