As I wrote in an earlier post, Memorial Day was a hoot. However, probably the most significant event throughout the entire weekend was my relapse, which, of course, I intentionally left out. I was scared, ashamed, but defiant. It happened the night before Memorial Day. I had been in Pensacola for four days at this point, and the next day, we were going to drive home. I was in my car driving through a rainstorm alone, trying to find a place to eat. I was staying with a bunch of friends, some in the program, and some not.
I had been sober for three and a half years.
I drove around for over an hour, not because I couldn't find a place to eat, but because I was trying to talk myself into having a drink. I had earned it, I thought. Not only had I turned my life around, but I had also matured to the 34 year old who had just landed a new job in only seven days. I had been working out for two years, and I had become the person I always wanted to be. I was loved and admired by so many, and I had succeeded in seeing a monumental project through from start to finish: the Atlanta Cotillion. I had money of my own, I was travelling, and I had friends and family I loved.
I realized as I drove that it was midnight, and the partying would only last for a few more hours. I grabbed fast food, and headed to Emerald City alone. All weekend, I was surrounded by beautiful, scantily clad boys. Although I knew many of those from Atlanta, and I was making new friends, I felt totally alone. I arrived at the club, quickly said "Hi" to some people I knew, but I was acting as though I was looking for someone. I was looking for a bar that had no Atlantans around it, so that I could order a drink. The decision was made long before, and my mind was made up. As I ordered my drink, I could barely believe I heard those words leave my mouth. It was done; I took my first sip as if I were drinking some sort of poison. I was scared because I had no idea how it would affect me. Would I be drunk off the first drink? I was slightly panicked. The first one was weak, but my alcoholism kicked in. I needed to find a male bartender in another secluded bar to make me a good drink. I got what I wanted, and then went and danced with my friends. The club was packed, so I spent the rest of the night socializing. After hanging out for a while, I went back to the hotel and went to bed.
I need to get this off my chest, partly because the drinking didn't end here, and I now realize the entire summer may take several posts. Also, a few months after drinking openly and honestly, the rumors began that I was also doing drugs, a myth that hurt my feelings, and I developed a resentment toward the gay recovery community. I consider myself an open book; someone who lives a somewhat private life, but also someone who is honest. As I continued to drink, so did the gossip. And ultimately, I realized, I was headed right back to where I started on 12/04/06, my (former) sobriety date.
"Never regret. If it's good, it's wonderful. If it's bad, it's experience." - Victoria Holt
No comments:
Post a Comment