Going sober meant leaving my vices and old self behind. It also meant finding the girl I was before—the one I yearned for all along.
Published
There are two things in this world that bring me pure and unadulterated bliss: alcohol and attention from men. That’s a terrifying thing to admit.
In the sweltering heat of a Tennessee July, I was rarely alone for a night. In between the lure of East Nashville nightlife, a slew of pretentious indie rock shows and 25 oz. mugs of cheap PBR, I fell victim to my own vicious cycles of long-haired men, long island iced teas and long, isolating nights pretending to be something that I knew, at my core, I was not. I was never by myself and truthfully, I had no desire to be. I was erratic, a fluttering moth drawn to the halogen light emitted from self-destructive tendencies and habits that picked me to the bone. I was a liability, and I loved it.
I was the “party girl,” with smudged mascara lingering on my waterline because I couldn’t be bothered to take off my makeup from the night before. Loose glitter smeared on my eyelids trickled down onto my cheeks, shimmering in the warm, fluorescent light of my favorite neighborhood bar. The makeup hid the fact that I hadn’t slept properly in days, resembling that of Kesha in 2008 when indie sleaze was all the rage. I wore the party girl persona like a badge of honor, feeding my insecurities with gossip that made me feel more important than I was and sleeping with strangers in a desperate attempt to hate myself less. You can have sex with anyone, but you can’t make them love you. Despite yearning to be seen as pretty, I only felt destroyed.
In the thick of my addiction, I’d probably spent more money on alcohol than I had on groceries or any viable source of nutrition. I gave all my time and energy to fabricated friendships, excusing my behavior with the notion that my early twenties were supposed to be the age of chaos, fun and my fair share of mystery shots. In all actuality, those nights filled with ill-intended conversations and men who didn’t have my best interests at heart landed me worlds away from where I actually wanted to be. I was a person at the core of crisis, sluggishly tugging on my torn tights and the same black mini skirt I’d worn since college, wasting my nights on temporary highs and the false promise of something real. I reeked of desperation and Victoria’s Secret Bombshell. I was a walking disaster in Target Lingerie.
After a while, I became aware of the fact that I was losing myself. I was a flickering light at the end of a dimly lit tunnel, fading in and out of my own body. I was hungry for an insatiable ache that I could never seem to fill, and it was debilitating. I just knew that if I didn’t get it together soon, something terrible was going to happen. I could feel it in my bones. My life was teetering the line of “all in good fun” and “she seriously needs to get some help.”
I’d seen this over and over and over again, all versions met with the same tragic end. Girls in this condition disintegrate into the shadows of the 27 club, forever preserved as a moment in time with poorly dyed hair, tired eyes and thrifted Aritzia mini skirts. It felt like such a misunderstood way to die, and I didn’t want to be remembered as the worst version of myself. That’s when I realized that whatever this was—it wasn’t fun anymore. I craved something real, mulling over numerous solutions that might offer some sort of quick fix, but none of my solutions were satiable. I’d run out of bandaids. What I needed was a cure. For the first time in my life, I wanted to get sober.
At first, I was terrified to confront the darkness. The unknown act of sobriety felt like jumping into the Pacific Ocean past 9 p.m. No one in my immediate friend group had gone the sober route, and in a way, it felt like surrender. I was angry. I was like a child whose toy had just been taken away. I was melting in the discomfort of my actions and wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Why couldn't I be trusted to do the things everyone else my age was doing? Waving the white flag felt more frustrating than it did anything else. I was surrendering to my own self and giving up on a world where I could freely dance on table tops, sloppily make out with strangers, and completely deface a reputation that I was once so proud of.
Standing face to face with oblivion, I started to think about the girl I was before I fell into this shell of insecurity. She was bright like sunshine and always the loudest one in the room. She didn’t need the artifice of alcohol to be genuine. She twirled through life and made it a point to acknowledge everyone she crossed paths with. She chatted about hopes and dreams and the thought of something good.
Love lived inside her, and deep down she knew it was still alive, even while being buried beneath the years of sweaty bodies, cheap thrills and heartwrenching self-destruction. She wanted to be a writer, and she still does. There was no doubt in her mind that she would be able to achieve everything she set her mind to. I ached for this version of myself, like a fond distant memory of your favorite childhood friend. I was terrified that she was gone forever. I didn’t remember how to be myself without the party girl persona to hide behind. What if there was no more of my past self’s light? If I killed the party girl, would there be any part left of me that lives on?
Slowly, I stopped showing up to the parties I didn’t feel welcome at in the first place. I stopped going to the bar on a Tuesday night just because I could, finding solace in the safety of my own solitude. Loneliness became my friend, spending my nights doing laundry and making cups of herbal tea with spoonfuls of honey became my respite. I felt the warmth of my favorite mug pressed up against my chest as I rewatched New Girl for the 100th time, thinking to myself, this is what safety feels like.
There was a feeling of freedom in my ache. I was learning to acknowledge the pain instead of dancing around it. The hurt was present, and although I don’t ever think it’ll really go away, I taught myself to love it. I let it drape over me like my grandmother’s hand-crocheted shawl, feeling grateful for my life and everything that had ever happened to me. I learned to sit with the hurt. I learned to have meals with it, to walk with it, and eventually, to heal from it.
In a way, it’s a gift to have experienced even the worst parts of me. Although it’s hard to think back on how I used to feel so unworthy of a good life, I know now that I am deserving of the light I carry inside me. The party girl died the day I got sober, and although it was the hardest choice I’d ever made in my life, a beautiful, confident and kind version of myself grew from the ashes. And I love her so much. I feel so lucky to be able to know her, although I know she’s been with me all along.
