I don’t remember my first alcoholic drink, but I do remember my last: a warm, cheap, Pabst Blue Ribbon in a can. Talk about classy. It was October 6, 2012 and I was in Phoenix, Arizona with my college roommates, celebrating our collective 40th birthdays. I was overdressed and out of place, in more ways than one. I didn’t want that beer, but I drank it anyway.
Growing up in an Irish-Catholic family, having a fake ID and drinking underage wasn’t a punishable offense. It was kind of a right of passage, in a way. College was a four-year alcohol-infused blur. Fully remembering any night takes the full collaboration of my roommates to fill in the blanks. I wasn’t one to vomit (although many mornings I wish I was), but I did blackout. Often.
After college was more of the same. For the better part of two decades, I was a “social drinker” … who drank a lot. The sober truth is, I couldn’t socialize without alcohol. I was too insecure, socially anxious, and unsure of myself to engage with others without alcohol. I drank both to hide and to fit in. More often than not, once I started, I didn’t stop. One turned to two, turned to three, four, five … I got loud(er), my NY accent got THICK!, and I slurred my words.
My behavior wasn’t just relegated to big, unfamiliar social events. Even at kids’ birthday parties or playdates with people I knew well — friends — I felt insecure and socially anxious. Alcohol gave me “liquid courage” to be myself. But I wasn’t really being myself. I was being who I thought they wanted me to be: fun Lauren, cool Lauren, happy Lauren.
The year I turned 40, the bottom fell out. I started having flashbacks to the childhood trauma I had suppressed for over 30 years. PTSD, but I didn’t know that’s what it was until I started therapy almost a year later. Simultaneously, my body started rejecting alcohol. Where I used to be able to drink with the best of them (or so I thought), I could now only handle 2 glasses of wine (or whatever cocktail was my favorite at the moment) before I started slurring my words and my NY accent was in full swing. I also started getting sick after those two drinks. Like, embarrassing GI-issues sick. [I’ll let you use your imagination here, rather than go into details. You’re welcome!] In short, alcohol was no longer agreeing with me, but in hindsight, I can see now that it never really did; I was just too drunk to notice.
Thanks to the inconvenient GI issues, I was able to stop almost cold-turkey. My stomach thanked me, but my anxiety did not. Already feeling insecure and unsure of myself, not drinking in social settings drew even more attention to me — and not in a good way. I felt judged, rejected, and condemned. I stood out as the odd ball … and I was definitely no longer “fun Lauren.”
Fast-forward to that girls trip to Arizona later that same year. Still wanting to fit in, I sipped a glass of champagne each night in a toast, but declined day drinks by the pool, pre-party shots and “roadies”, wine with dinner, and after-dinner cocktails … until that last night. Tired of feeling like the odd-man-out, I caved. To PBR, nonetheless. The worst part — besides the taste of warm, cheap beer from a can — was how crappy it made me feel. The GI distress was nothing compared to the psychological stress I felt. The next morning, feeling weak, sad, and pathetic, I made myself a promise to never feel that way again. I started therapy a few weeks later to deal with my PTSD, and along the way, gained more confidence in my decision to stop hiding behind alcohol.
Don’t get me wrong. It didn’t happen overnight. For years, I felt judged for not drinking at social events, and that made my anxiety worse. For seven years, when Facebook would remind me of this October 6 memory, as it did so innocently each year, I’d cringe. After the momentary happiness of seeing my college girlfriends, I’d immediately feel hollow and ashamed that back then, I was still hiding. Still so insecure. Still following the crowd to fit in. I felt weak, sad, and pathetic all over again. But, last year, when that photo popped up again on the 8th anniversary of my last drink, something in me changed. I felt strong, happy, and proud of how far I’d come. I was no longer embarrassed or bothered by what others thought about my decision to stop drinking. I was no longer afraid of not fitting in for who I really was. I had finally shown myself the grace I deserved all along.
Unfortunately, (most of) the girls in that photo did not. The Instagram post I made last year detailing my change in perspective pissed them off because they interpreted my words to mean that they were a bunch of “mean girls” who bullied me and forced me to drink against my will. A barrage of coordinated, accusatory texts led to an ultimatum: Delete the post or throw away 20 years of friendship.
I did not delete the post and I did not throw away 20 years of friendship — they did.
To be honest, I was hurt and angry for a long while. How could I not be? And it’s taken the better part of a year to get here, but I no longer begrudge them. We all need to set our own boundaries and do what’s best for ourselves. I guess for them, that meant cutting me out of their lives. For me, it meant standing in my truth, using my voice (to hopefully help others), and putting my health and peace of mind above all else.
In the end, I chose me. And I will continue to choose me every time, even if it means giving up alcohol and losing some people along the way.
-LJDT
Comment
Comments are closed.