Junior Reflects on Underage Drinking

In sixth grade, I won an award from D.A.R.E. for an essay I wrote.

It was a masterpiece, filled with all of my naïve heart and soul, opening with the hard-hitting line: “My name may be Kat, but that doesn’t mean I have nine lives, and I’m not going to waste the one I do have using drugs and alcohol.”

I read it in front of the entire Westwood View student, parent and administrative body and I was filled with hope for my future, one that was bound to be illegal-substance-free. I promised myself I’d practice what I preached. It seemed easy enough then, standing boldly at the podium with Officer Sullivan at my side.

After sixth grade, I found myself standing on the threshold of middle school and the nearby Pembroke Hill School proved to be the perfect opportunity for a new experience. So I went for it. I applied for the ‘07-’08 academic year and was accepted.

As the preteen with the red D.A.R.E T-shirt on, I had no idea that the coming years would bring me closer and closer to rock bottom. No warning signs telling me to stay where I was. To sidestep disaster.

I had to find out for myself.

***

“I don’t know how she got like this, Carol, I really do not.”

I repeatedly bang my head against my best friend’s kitchen door, sobbing, screaming, profanity and gibberish spewing forth, wondering what I’ve done now and how I can escape this lifestyle, how I can right my most recent wrong.

My mind feels like a PowerPoint presentation with too many pictures and scarce bullet points explaining what’s going on. Like I’m having one of those dreams where I show up at school without my backpack, sitting in classes I didn’t sign up for, trying to read words in a language I don’t understand.

Or, more realistically, like I’m blow-a-.24-into-the-breathalyzer drunk.

My friend’s mother’s worried face enters my fuzzy line of vision and I feel my own mom’s hand grip my shoulder, a hopeless attempt to calm her out-of-control daughter.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.

“Kat, we need to get you home. Can you hear me?”

My arms, my legs, my fingers, my toes—nothing is connected; nothing is attached to my body. A tingling sensation fills me up in the worst way possible. There are cuts on my forehead that I won’t notice until morning and my ankles are giving out from stumbling in high-heeled boots. But for the time being, I really can’t hear her.

Images from mere hours before flash through my mind. A production of horror, the Kat Messed Up Again Picture Show.

A bottle of Smirnoff Citron vodka with tap water to chase it down, an unfinished basement floor littered with yellow and black trash bags, an unexpected visit from the host’s father. The distorted, angry look on his face as kids cleared out faster than he could recognize them.

I recall my head hitting an off-white cement driveway and Amy frantically searching through the contacts on my phone, looking for someone, anyone, to get us out of the mess I’d gotten us into.

But of course, we were already in it too deep.

***

I was right.

Transferring to Pembroke did bring on an array of changes.

These new experiences ranged from cliques of mean girls to pre-shredded Abercrombie jeans and Ralph Lauren polos. As I got older and approached the end of eighth grade, the changes in my lifestyle became more prevalent. Things took a turn for the worse with the red solo cup of Kettle One vodka mixed with Sunkist that lead to the two-year detour from the path I had envisioned myself being on.

It was the first time I drank myself to oblivion. I was 14.

I cannot blame my faulty behavior on hanging out with the “wrong crowd” or giving into peer pressure. I can’t blame it on a pushy boyfriend or problems at home or even a desire to experiment.

I can only blame myself. I blame myself wholeheartedly for seeking some way to get around social niceties and skip to drunken heart-to-hearts with strangers. For losing my best friend and my once-strong relationship with my parents; for leaving my morals behind to discover just how much I could act out.

For trying to be someone who I clearly should not be.

***

I’m on a hospital bed.

I force my eyes open and immediately cringe at the fluorescent lights shining directly above me. My right hand feels heavy, my eyelids droopy, my mouth dry. I try to follow the marquee of news headlines scrolling underneath the CNN reporter but the words move faster than I can read them. The volume seems to be so loud that it’s thumping directly against my eardrums. Many decibels lower, I can hear my parents’ urgent whispers fluttering around the hallway in front of me.

It feels like a freight train plowed over me and then backed up for good measure.

I look down at my hand and see an IV hooked up to the vein crawling up my pinky finger. My stomach churns, and I’m just lucid enough to note that I have a phobia of needles before my mind goes blank and my vision black.

The next morning, I awake in my bed at home in a cold sweat. More than ever before, I savor that familiar moment of incoherency, that split-second between dream and wake where nothing matters and I’ve done nothing wrong.

Then the memories flood into my already-pounding brain and I pull the covers over my head, hoping with all my heart that this storm passes as quickly as it came.

***

After that night my freshman year, I was almost done with it.

I began drinking somewhat sparingly, but when I did, it was big—my friends came to know me as a binge drinker. Using the preface of a special occasion, I’d load up on drinks, a beer here, a couple of shots there. And then more. I had quickly become the girl that people warned their friends to keep an eye on, the burden, the one who always took it too far.

My not-so-subtle relationship with drinking continued up until the second semester of my sophomore year. A new friend entered my life at precisely the right time and he showed me that above all else, staying true to myself and to what I believe in would be the most important factor in the grand scheme of things.

He showed me that relationships with people can be stronger than any proof label on a bottle and that leaning on someone when I need help is much more effective than grabbing a handle and guzzling it down. That true friendship is of infinitely more value than any fake ID.

He showed me the life I thought I’d lost for good, and I haven’t had a drink since.

***

More often than not, I find myself lying awake at night wishing that I could erase the past.

Drinking and going to parties and talking about drinking and going to parties—it was a cycle that dominated two years of my life, two years wasted. I didn’t think I had time for old friends or time to make new ones.

I feel so ashamed of things I’ve done under the influence, of the people I’ve hurt and the people I ignored because of the way I was living and the behavior that went along with it. I regret every conversation I missed out on, every family dinner I skipped, every “friend” I never called back.

But in spite of this, I’m glad that it happened to me.

I’m glad that I’ve realized from experience that life has more to offer than a 12-pack of beer, a trip to the liquor store to see if I’ll get carded or a busted party. Money and time can be better spent, especially while I’m still in high school.

I’ve been to the other side, and I know first-hand that I never want to go back. Artificial fun isn’t nearly as great as the real thing.

Since I’ve come to terms with underage drinking and the consequences that go along with it, I’ve found myself with more time to spend on the things I enjoy, things that require thought and hard work and laborious nights in room 521 of Shawnee Mission East. I’ve met many incredible people and learned how to get along with them without throwing back a Bud Light beforehand.

I only have one life, after all. And I’m slowly but surely learning how to live it.