There’s no easy way to explain how or why I stopped drinking. I’ve been asked before, and I still don’t have a clean answer. What I do have is a memory—a moment that split my life into “before” and “after.” This is part of that.
I don’t drink and drive anymore.
I don’t drink.
One of the last times I drove myself home drunk, I was leaving a friend’s house.
We were drinking water mixed with Hawaiian Punch flavor packets.
First, drink down a third of the water, or dump it.
Then pour in the powder, shake it good, and top it off with vodka. Tito’s, most nights.
I was halfway through my third 16.9-ounce drink when I decided it was time to go.
I should have stopped after one.
Pulling into my driveway, I coasted into the garage, dragging the right side of my car along the edge.
A perfect trail of drunk driving etched into Bad Brenda, the car I’d driven drunk in for the last three years.
On the anniversary of buying Bad Brenda, I posted a Facebook status celebrating all the good times we’d had and the adventures we’d gone on together.
Unbeknownst to my audience, most of those memories were buzzed, if not blacked out.
Most nights ended the same way: me persuading someone that I was okay to drive.
Uncertainty hiding behind confident answers, spilling out as reassurance to friends and family.
Their trust burning through my retinas.
Lights blending in real time.
Forgotten goodbyes.
Memories disintegrating into the archival grounds of drunk nights.
I’d wake up to Bad Brenda still running.
My seat pushed all the way back.
My body deadweight.
Blacked out.
Washed away from reality.
At 5 a.m., I’d drag myself inside, head straight to the toilet, and spew the leftovers from the night before.
And still, the shenanigans didn’t stop.
Leave a comment