A sobering first-person perspective on alcohol abuse in our culture.
Adam Stothard (he/him) // Co-Editor-In-Chief
Ava Shahres (they/she) // Illustrator
The other day around 10 a.m., I found myself in the bathroom of a film gear rental house. From the neighbouring stall, I heard someone vomiting in a quiet, cautious manner. I clocked it as someone hungover on the job with my immediate follow-up thought being, that takes me back. I remember working in food service, showing up shaking from the night before, my whole face beating red from throwing up in the dim-lit pizzeria bathroom. On my knees in front of the toilet, I’d emptily stare at the yellowing plastic baseboard where wall met floor and wish I knew how to be happy. You know, the good ol’ days.
I never really settled on my go-to drinks; it always depended on the money I had in the bank. When you’re an alcoholic trying to pinch pennies, you develop a keen eye for what’ll get you plastered on the cheap. This search led me to a brand that I don’t want to name (alcohol brands are fairly litigious) but it was 100 proof, came in a plastic bottle and upon drinking would give you instant diarrhea. But, it was cheap and it got you fucked up. And, if I was really broke? Well, I may have resorted to mouthwash once or twice. By the way, if you want to shit yourself, drink mouthwash.
There was never a time I had a reasonable amount of drinks. If I was drinking, the goal was always to get completely trashed, and the few times that my circumstances limited me to having one or two, I felt deeply frustrated that I couldn’t have more. But, when you’re young, and especially if you see yourself as being an artist, there’s a misplaced sense of nobility in being a fiend. You tell yourself you’re the next Hunter S Thompson, that you’re an ungovernable radical who’s broken out of the matrix. It’s not a lie that’s hard to tell yourself when you’re nailing karaoke (or at least you think you’re nailing it) or breezily making friends with like-minded drunks, but when you’re broke and hungover, the reality of your situation becomes gratingly clear.
While referring to my time as a drunk as good ol’ days might seem sarcastic—and, definitely is—there’s a layer of sincerity to it as well. The tough thing about quitting alcohol (and something I think a lot of people can relate to) is that I had some truly great times drinking, and I thought quitting meant I had to permanently let go of that good feeling I was chasing. I had to take the main ingredient out of my recipe for unbridled joy, something I feared couldn’t be substituted. I spent evenings full of gratuitous laughter, severe joy, dancing, meeting lovely, well-natured people and generally feeling as though I belonged. But, over the years spent chasing these good times, the truth over the horizon kept creeping up: It’s not the alcohol that’s responsible for those good feelings. The alcohol is just something you’ve always associated with them, and you typically mistake correlation for causation.
While I might not have the answers to what any individual may need to feel better in their own lives, I can tell you with certainty that alcohol is a mirage. It’s a promise of joy in the distance, but as you repeatedly attempt to run closer and closer to that horizon, it dawns on you that there’s nothing there. You’re still you, and while the faint promise the mirage presents might dull your nihilistic anxieties for a while, it’s still impossible to outrun yourself. When you get sober, you get the chance to settle into your own life and realize that where you are might not be so bad. You might have more control over your life than you thought.