TW: Mentions of alcohol and drug(intentionally singular)
I was unconcernedly dashing a concoction of random spices (think South Asian meets whatever is left in the spice cupboard before the payday restock) on the last of the chicken thighs after a particularly tedious day of making the smallest of small talks, sending peppy emails that don’t align with my personality and having meetings that could have been Slack messages earlier this week, while my bf was playing Khleo’s version of fetch in the living room. As usual, I connected my phone to our 8 year old oblong-ish speaker, sluggishly tapped away at my phone to put a 2010s Spotify playlist on shuffle (I like what I like. JUDGE ME) and got to work on peeling the potatoes for the cheesy mash. About four minutes into mash prep, I heard the familiar trumpet horns of what is now a classic summertime banger. Cheerleader by OMI started trickling in from the speaker and I paused in my potato chopping tracks and was awash with nostalgia circa 2015/16.
I could feel the incessant heat of the British sun pressing through the car window, warming my left cheek as I sat in my passenger princess polyester throne on the way to Sainsburys with my bf to pick up supplies for the barbecue - black and gold Ray-Ban clubmasters the only accessory needed. I remember bouncing through the air-conditioned supermarket aisles in the universal summer uniform of white vest, denim shorts and converses, excitedly grabbing at boxes, packets and pots a plenty. We needed ingredients for the mains, snacks for nibbles, sugary treats to forget the salt. And something to wash it all down. Suddenly, I saw the light. In the alcohol aisle…since the fluorescent supermarket bulbs aggressively shone down on the laminated discount stickers thus sending reflective daggers into my corneas. Being guided by the spirits (section), I came across my usual 1 litre bottle of rum and revelled in discount delight as I marvelled at the 25% off price. Yay. I thought, “2 bottles should do us since this is a ‘we provide the food but bring your own drinks’ affair.” 22 is an age where this set-up is socially acceptable. With supplies in tow, we went home, started prepping and before we knew it the first drinks were poured and the people flowed in. It was a great day that became a great night. Food, laughter, drink and drug (singular. Only one we were all a fan of). It was a perfect social Saturday that transitioned into a serene Sunday morning since we did the clean up before bed and drank a shit tonne of water to minimise the risk of a hangover. It worked. In addition to no hangover, there was no anxiety. So our serene Sunday turned into Saturday take-two. Again, this was a fun albeit slightly calmer day that eased us into Monday. Still no hangover, no anxiety, no blackouts or regrets from the night before. It was simply a stunning weekend.
During this time, I remember the weight of the world slowly crushing my soul and my mental health caving in on itself due to a carousel of past traumas catching up with me; the countdown to self-annihilation was well and truly underway. So I lived for the rejuvenation of these pockets of sunshine that came in the form of boozy social weekends. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think of these times fondly. Herein lies a potent blend of contradictory feelings that often leave me confused, riddled with guilt and feeling like a fraud. I can’t say that every time I drank was a bad experience, even though every drink I had pulled me closer to alcoholism. Painting my entire relationship with alcohol in one villainous stroke feels like skewing the data. Somewhat fudging the reality.
When I look back at certain alcohol-fuelled events in isolation, like the aforementioned barbecue weekend, I automatically don my rose tinted lenses because nothing bad happened during those singular events. It was pure, young, dumb and broke early 20s joy. However, it's only when I look at those blissful days against the backdrop of life that I see the suffocation that spearheaded the ever-increasing frequent heavy drinking. And just like that, the rose tint is injected with grey. Like George Orwell 1984 grey. Bleak.
I found escapism in alcohol that spiralled into wanting that fantasy of the exclusion of reality to be my permanent feeling and the actuality of existence to be temporary. Like that one scene in Inception where a room of people lying on beige beds live in their dreams and see life as their slumberous reprieve.
The burn in my throat and heat in my chest from shots and downing drinks was invigorating because I knew the minor discomfort was a sign of hazy intoxication just around the corner. It was a wink. A tease. Alcohol had seduced me. I wonder whether the seduction has worn off as I reminisce on select occasions of joyful inebriation sessions. Maybe it has and I’m simply remembering solo moments without the sordid landscape of everything else that was co-existing at the time. Is that problematic? To pick out the rosy needle in the mouldy haystack and admire it without acknowledging the environment in which you retrieved it from - just for a moment before you put it back? Maybe the danger is that you’ll admire it for too long and dive into the soggy, bacteria laden hay with the rosy needle.
So as I threw the potatoes into the colander to give them a good wash before chopping into bitesize boilable blocks of starchy goodness, I smiled thinking about 22 year old Tacita enjoying that boozy weekend with her beautiful boyfriend, weirdo friends and scrumptious food. Peeling her thighs off of the faux leather seats to interact and entertain, throwing kitchenroll at people so they cleaned up their mess and eventually tying up her big, frizzy hair because the London heat rebounding off the concrete onto window panes without rivers nearby, is no joke. I ran the tap and watched the water crash onto the naked spuds in this tiny circular sink in this alleyway of a kitchen that’s in a different home to 22 year old Tacita and me in a different place entirely. I thanked younger me for her service and apologised that I couldn’t give her the strength and self-assuredness that I now have but if it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be here as I am. I don’t need to look back in anger or happiness or love. I don’t need to commit to an extreme. I can just appreciate what once was, even if it's only one piece of the puzzle.
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This was so well written! I haven't read something like this in a while so it was kind of refreshing to read. I see that you have a 'I have grown' perspective of not judging yourself but accepting this was your journey is beautiful. Not being nowhere close to an alcoholic or an addict, it was nice to understand the joy you get from it. Just your growth is inspiring.