Open Letter: Me, myself and binge drinking

As part of an ongoing series, Yahoo Canada is profiling personal experiences in open letters. Our first entry speaks of a young woman’s struggle with binge drinking.

As told to Kathryn Kyte

I can still remember the very first time I had a sip.

It was amongst my group of girl friends while we all sat huddled in a basement after hunting for whatever alcohol was available. It so happened to be beer and gin. I’m not sure if others feel similar, but many girls I have talked about this with has said “you always remember that first drinking experience, kind of like you remember your first time,” and for me this rang very true.

One of my friends had mentioned she heard from a doctor that you were an alcoholic if you consumed more than two drinks a week – in high school, by that definition, we were all hard alcoholics. But, that didn’t phase me and it wasn’t until university and the years following that I realized my drinking was actually out of control.

I never threw up at a bar and that was a big feat since most of my friends would have a break in the night when the bathroom became their puke release. There was always that one friend you knew would push the limits and most of the time we’d take turns holding her hair back while she threw up, or listening to her sob –it was always one or the other, sometimes both.

What I realized as I pushed into my 20s was that when we were all in high school we knew the guys we were partying with. We knew where they lived, how they acted at school. We knew that we’d see them after the weekend. But now we were riding this life of new dudes every night and not knowing much other than what they looked like in dim lights.

They’d order drinks, which feels like an invitation to get to know you more. But really, it’s often more about how little of work (and expense) they can put in to get the chick of the moment feeling trusting enough that they can bang her. I say this with feedback from my guy friends, who have never been shy to tell me hard realities, or how “easy” it can be to lock in a girl.

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On one night during my mid-20s, after taking in probably four tequila shots and God knows how many vodka sodas, I found myself in this club’s bathroom during Fashion Week. I was clutching the toilet and my feet were dangled into the other stall, I just couldn’t stop spinning. Each gag was burning me. My hands were so weak. Somehow I managed to sip water and then got a second wind. I sucked back more drinks and the world around me checked out. Everything was slow motion and full of smug smiles, shuddering lights, loud noises…painfully loud noises.

I pushed through the dancefloor and soon enough was with some guy, couldn’t tell you his name, couldn’t even place anything about his looks other than the OKs I got from my friends. He was having an afterparty and although I could barely stand up, I wanted the night to keep going, and soon enough me and a couple of my friends were in his car, while he swerved down the street. How we didn’t get pulled over I have no idea, but I blacked out until we got to the house.

Then things got really out of control. I can’t remember how it started but it was almost like I was immediately on a bed in a dark room, with my clothes freely coming off. I could barely change in front of people, but something about the booze made feel sexually awakened (more like impaired). During this frantic strip fest, he gave me some vodka so I sipped it back in between us tossing around. I faded in and out, I’d feel myself kissing then I’d just go numb, and when I woke up naked I was so confused, and so sore. I knew something had happened and could see red marks all over my legs. My tights were brutally ripped. I felt worthless.

I lunged out of the bed in desperate need to find my friends who were thankfully still there. Before I could figure out what was happening, the guy said “OK, you really have to go now.” He was super cold, and looked completely different than what I had thought he looked like the night before. He stared at me with disappointment.

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I wanted to ask him what happened, just get some closure, but I was too afraid he’d yell at me. It’s an awful feeling not being able to ask someone what happened with your body hours before. All I knew is I needed to pretend I didn’t care and get a cab. I felt tears choking through my throat and I felt like I had been ripped open, in every way. I grabbed what was left of my tights, threw on my underwear, dress, boots and kept my head down as we all left. He didn’t even say bye – he laid in his bed until we were gone.

We sat in the cab not speaking and I tried to recap what I could remember, which was basically nothing. I felt disgusting. All I could think about was if something serious could happen from this. Did he wear a condom? Did we have sex? Why am I so sore? What should I do? I got Plan B. I didn’t know anything for certain, but I was in no means in a mental place to think about it.

Weeks later my friends asked me about that night and I shrugged it off while we were prepping for another night of partying. I instantly shuddered when they asked – then the shots helped me forget. My drinking wasn’t about getting socially drunk, I had to get wasted, I needed to. After that night my drinking got worse. I became the drunk girl that sobbed, I became the girl that had moments of rage, the girl that couldn’t walk. I learned nothing and felt more insecure than ever.

I had become the girl I always hated, and I still feel her inside of me today. It’s almost like I need to be resocialized because binge drinking is just part of me now. I feel out of control; I can’t go out without taking things too far. I don’t like myself at all when I’m drinking and I can’t remember the last night I went out without going home blackout drunk. And I only have myself to blame.

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