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Hazed & Confused

My first summer in Savannah continued to be one giant haze. The cycle of sleeping all day, waking up hungover, going to work, and heading to the bar or the party with cash in my pocket became my new normal. I even started throwing my own parties when Lola was out of town on business, and they became increasingly popular each time. I made sure to pay attention when it came to what my friends drank, which drinking games they loved to play, and who they hung around with to avoid drama and become the prime entertainer amongst all of my co-workers. I lived on the third floor of a brand new luxury apartment complex within walking distance from Logan's, and often used that as leverage. "There's absolutely no excuse for you to miss out. I'm right down the street!" I took great care to make sure nobody went into Lola's bedroom or touched her baby grand piano, though, because she had no idea that our home was turning into party central every time she was away. There wasn't much peace left between us after our breakup, but I needed to preserve what was left of it as much as possible if we were to continue living together. Even so, I lied to and manipulated her as much as I could to make sure she never found out, because cancelling one of my parties would have been a calamity. In active addiction, I always wanted to have my cake and eat it too.

One night at work, I served a man and a woman at a small two-top table. For most of the night, I thought they were dating, because they were bickering like they were married; but I noticed the female wasn't wearing any rings, and had my eyes optimistically set on her. I made sure she knew it as professionally as possible by engaging in deep eye contact and making her laugh. She was lofty, tan, brunette, and covered in tattoos - Right up my alley. She sported tight clothing and spoke with a thick Boston accent, and eventually told me that she was bisexual, single, and active duty military. She and her friend were stationed in a town about fifty miles away called Hinesville, at an Army base named Fort Stewart. She came to Savannah almost every weekend to party with her other battle buddies, and asked if I'd like to join sometime. Naturally, I obliged, and gave her my phone number. "Hit me up, gorgeous. Let's fucking party."

My relationship with Karissa never developed past friendship, some cuddling, and a few kisses. She was over a decade older than me and wasn't in the business for anything serious, but I'm not sure that I was, either. As our friendship grew, so did my friendships with the rest of her crew, and I eventually became close with a man named Rowan. He never had the intention of being romantic with me and immediately saw me as one of the guys, and we quickly began referring to each other as brother and sister. Every weekend, he was coming to drink with me in Savannah, even if Karissa decided to stay behind. I would usually offer him the couch in my apartment to crash on, but he always chose to drive back to Hinesville when I went to bed, even after drinking more than anyone else around us and being seemingly unperturbed. Because of this, he became the designated driver of his unit, so his car would be consistently packed full of soldiers who knew they could get a free ticket to inebriation in Savannah. None of us could ever tell that Rowan was intoxicated, and we never understood how he could function so well after consuming so much alcohol, but we constantly sang his praises for being the "best drinker" in comparison to the rest of us. Karissa was known to destroy everything in her path when she got too wasted, and eventually received the nickname "Hurricane" after a deadly storm that swept through the South years prior. Lou was an angry blackout drunk who would hurt your feelings in a skinny minute, and often had to be physically held back from giving a stranger a black eye if he looked at him wrong. Curt was "the tall one" and the renowned beer pong champion who never lost a game, but I remember teaming up against him with another female at his house one night and dominating. There were others, too, but none of us were as close as Rowan and I. We were two peas in a pod.

One night, he suggested picking me up so I could come out to Hinesville and party for a change. Even though I insisted that it was too much time and gas to make four lengthy trips just to have me there, he insisted that it would be worth the amount of fun we'd have, and he was right. The first night I got drunk on Fort Stewart was the same night I participated in a foam sword fight as a sort of initiation, and passed with flying colors. I followed it up by illegally staying the night in Karissa's barracks room. From that day forward, I became the epitome of a "weekend warrior" and my presence was demanded by my new friends every Friday and Saturday. "It isn't a party without you!" There were times when Karissa was working or chose to drink alone in her room, so I'd go out with the boys to the local Mexican restaurant and consume twenty-four ounce beers the size of my head. I still didn't have my own vehicle, and it was impossible to save up for another one with my expensive new habit. I was content being the hot, young lesbian up the street from Logan's who didn't have a car, liked to drink, and lived with her ex-girlfriend. I could barely pay my phone bill each month and never gave her a single dime towards rent, and I would often wonder why I was so broke all the time and she was being - For lack of a better word - A total bitch. Even after business slowed down at Logan's, my drinking didn't. But when I didn't have the money to party, someone else always did. I eventually saw less of my co-workers and more of my Army friends because I thought they were more fun, and I knew I'd never have to pay for any of my alcohol around them. Most of them were single and didn't have any bills to pay. They also began teaching me how to drink more successfully and be less of a lightweight, and I soaked up their techniques like a sponge. After all, I wanted to be a champion drinker just like the rest of them.

Once I learned to pop a few Ibuprofen and chug a full bottle of Gatorade before going to sleep at night, I stopped getting hangovers. It was just like any other skill; the more you practice, the better you are. Drinking and partying became my new hobbies, along with some pretty mean games of beer pong and flip cup. But what I failed to realize was that the game of alcoholism was shifting dramatically and dangerously in my life, and I was unknowingly playing for keeps. Soon, I would add more toxicity into the mix in the form of a female, and spend my next few years spiraling down like water into a drain. It was the beginning of an end that I never saw coming.

[s0bers0ngs-blog]

A Second Chance

I spent the majority of my nineteenth year in Savannah under the influence of alcohol, and tried marijuana and cigarettes before I turned twenty. Sometime during the year of 2013, one of our kitchen employees at Logan's hosted a party at his house. As a server, you never turned down an invitation to a house party. Not only did it mean fitting in, but it also meant getting smashed for free - Usually on more than just booze. I remember promising myself when Aaron invited me that I would lay low, refusing to have a repeat of the only other party I’d attended during my drinking career. Aaron was one of our newer employees, and had his sights set on me since his first day. He was disappointed yet respectful when he found out I was a lesbian, and kept trying his hardest to befriend me, insisting that he didn't have any ulterior motives. He lived there with two other coworkers, and kept telling us that this was the new "party house" for Logan's employees, and that I couldn't miss it. He also mentioned that it was questionably far away, and that anyone was welcome to crash overnight if they were too fucked up to drive home. Naturally, I wasn't about to turn down free booze or a free sense of belonging - So I asked my new friend Peter if he would attend with me. I lost my vehicle shortly after I moved to Savannah because of mechanical issues, and he came into my life soon after by complete happy accident - Another form of God's grace that I didn't recognize at the time. He had a vehicle and only lived ten minutes away from my apartment. We became two peas in a pod from the instant we met, and were always together. He was in my bed almost every night, and started transporting me to and from work so I wouldn't have to walk. People thought we were dating or that he was also gay, but we always shut them down as quickly as they opened their mouths, and eventually they learned to just accept that we were attached at the hip and not romantic in the least. Peter usually did anything I wanted him to, and excitedly agreed that we needed the experience. So I clocked out of work, changed my clothes, and got in his Jeep, chasing the stars through the boonies to my next night of oblivion.

As soon as I walked through the door, all of my coworkers started cheering. My arrival determined that it would be a wild night, and immediately, I felt energized and important. When I surveyed my surroundings, I saw that this party was going to be far more preposterous than I ever imagined, and I found myself immersed in a whole new world. Instantly, I knew that nights like this one would be happening more often. The refrigerator was jam-packed full of beer, leftover food from our previous work shift lined the countertops, and the scent of marijuana lingered through the house as if it were the oxygen we needed to breathe. I wasn't familiar with it until that night, but had always heard how great it made you feel, and how being high was so much better than being drunk. All of the kitchen guys swore by it. I got lucky and wasn't scheduled to work the next day, so when Aaron offered me my first blunt, I happily obliged. I vaguely remember smoking it, eating everything in sight, and having a deep conversation with him for over an hour in the bathroom attached to his bedroom. My eyes were dry and I was laughing at almost everything he said. He kept telling me how comfortable his bed was, but I just kept avoiding his statements and moving to another subject, making sure to leave the door open. He was sincere in his conversation, but I could tell that he was just becoming more infatuated with me the more we spoke, and discomfort eventually started to rise in my gut. I was able to end the conversation by telling him I needed more liquor, so I made the trek to the living room to find it. After searching for a while, I located my cup, took a few gulps, and plopped down on the couch.

After what seemed like only a few minutes of rest, I opened my eyes to a spinning ceiling, exhaustion, and nausea. When I tried to get up to make a beeline to the bathroom, I had no ability to move my limbs, and calling out for help was unsuccessful. I could open my mouth, but no sound was escaping. It didn't make sense considering I hadn't consumed liquor in over an hour, aside from the sips I had just taken before laying down. Suddenly I recognized that something wasn't right. How was I so engaged in conversation moments before, yet so unresponsive now? Was it the combination of weed and liquor? I knew my thinking wasn't exactly clear, but it still wasn't adding up in my intoxicated brain, even though I had no idea what to expect after my first experience with the devil's lettuce. I turned my head to face the floor and began to throw up, my body twisted like a pretzel, heaving loud enough for someone to hear me. The next thing I know, I am being carried up the stairs by two or three people and placed on a floor. I heard a female voice say that she was a nurse and knew what to do. She asked how much I'd had to drink, and I heard Peter reply with, "I don't know, but I guess it was a lot." I was fully aware of what was going on, but could only communicate in the form of groans. I had no motor control and was completely defenseless, and I remember wanting to cry, but not being able to. All I could do was let them take care of me and drown in my embarrassment. I don't recall anything else until the next morning, when I woke up on the carpet in a small loft-style bedroom, the sun peeking through the window onto my face. I was covered with a blanket, a water glass sat a few feet away, and the small trash can next to my head reeked of vomit. A brown-haired girl I'd seen playing beer pong the previous night sat in front of me and told me good morning, a gentle smile crawling across her face. She introduced herself as Brittany, and told me that she stayed up all night to take care of me. I thanked her, and told her that I thought I was drugged. I tried to plead my case as much as possible, but I knew that she and all of the others were just going to think that I was the girl who couldn't handle her liquor. They'd be talking about me for weeks, and I would be the laughing-stock of Logan’s. Suddenly my mind was transported back to the night of my first party with Cora, and even though these people didn’t know my history with parties, shame rushed over me like a tidal wave. I summoned Peter to find his keys, and retreated to his Jeep with a pounding head and a heart full of regret.

I don’t like thinking about that night very often, or what could have happened to me had Brittany or Peter not been there. But it was the first and last time I ever went to the party house, and the last time I ever left my drink unattended.

[s0bers0ngs-blog]

Cora and I only drank together one more time after that, at my first - And only - High school party. It was the typical kind like you see in movies; a variety of liquor displayed on the countertops, vehicles lining the streets, beer bongs being filled and emptied into the mouths of teenagers, and faint screams of pleasure coming from the bedrooms where sex was being had. I remember walking in and feeling like I was free, because for the next few hours, I knew I would be. There were no limitations, and Cora had already agreed to drive us home. A few weeks beforehand, we had officially come out of the closet together, changed our relationship status on Facebook, and walked into school holding hands to showcase the boldest moment of our young lives. We loved each other, and didn't care what anyone had to say about it. Phil, the host of the party, was one of the few kids at school who supported our relationship. He had already graduated, but still had friends that were our age, and he was pretty popular in the neighborhood. Turning down an invitation to a party from him was unheard of if you wanted to get completely obliterated and have stories to tell afterwards. I was a novice in the party scene, and ended up making a complete ass of myself by the end of the night. I don't remember which poison I picked, but it ended up making me angry, and I cornered a boy with my fist raised to his face because he called me an angry lesbian. Once I told him I could show him one, Phil told us it was time to go home, and escorted us out.

I took a hiatus from drinking again for a little while after that night. Cora wasn't too happy with the way it had panned out because I embarrassed her, and it was clear that I didn't know how to handle myself once I was intoxicated. During the rest of our relationship, I was reluctantly sober, and eventually became interested in another woman. She was the newest manager at the grocery store I worked at, twenty-eight years older than me, and identified as gay. She was in a loveless relationship with her partner of eleven years, and told me that I made her feel more alive than she'd ever felt. Before too long, we found ourselves breaking things off with our girlfriends because we had been spending our free time seeing each other in secret. Christmas was around the corner, both of our homes were respectively decorated, and Cora's grandparents had just booked us an all-expenses-paid cruise for the year of 2013 - But Lola and I couldn't keep denying the passion between us. Her partner suspected something fishy from the start, but was always told it was all in her head, and I'd tell Cora the same thing when her anxiety surfaced. One night, we even set up a double date to Lola's house for dinner. We held our partner's hands and painted an entire picture of lies to make them feel better. Never in my life had I been so deceiving or self-seeking, and felt so okay about it. But, as my drinking had already proved - And would continue to prove - I wasn’t capable of doing anything half-assed. It was all or nothing, especially when it came to hurting people and getting drunk. Often, they’d go hand in hand.

After only a few weeks, Lola was offered a promotion in the town of Savannah, Georgia, and I decided to go with her. With good reason, our relationship wasn't supported by anyone around us, and a ticket out of Myrtle Beach sounded like the perfect solution. Our company paid for the entire move; mileage, lodging, food, and the deposit on our new apartment. It was a once in a lifetime chance that I knew I'd never receive again, so I took it without question. I had seven days to say my goodbyes, and moved quietly and without much explanation. I already felt isolated after coming out earlier that year, and was ready for a fresh start with my new lover. People were confused and mortified that I was moving out of state with someone so much older than me, but they knew that no matter what they said, they weren't going to change my mind. I had also been denying that Lola and I were anything more than friends, and was convinced that they actually believed me. But as a sober woman with many years of relationship and drinking experience now under my belt, all I can do now is look back on that part of my life and laugh at how naïve I was - All the while thinking it was the opposite, and that I knew absolutely everything, as all teenagers do.

Needless to say, that relationship was extremely short-lived. I landed a serving job at a restaurant called Logan's Roadhouse in February of 2013 within walking distance to our apartment, where I soon found myself immersed in a world of more people my age and cash in my pocket every night. The longer I spent making friends, the more I realized that there was an entire world out there that I still needed to explore, with more opportunities that a relationship with a cougar was holding me back from. Moving to Savannah allowed me to start with a clean slate and portray myself in any form that I desired, so I became the "hot new lesbian from South Carolina" and made friends quickly. I had never met so many openly queer people, or lived somewhere that showed me it was okay to be gay. It seemed that every other female I encountered identified as lesbian or bisexual, and I was taken aback at how normal it was. But I felt at home there, and often thanked God for getting me there. But I hadn't been in church since meeting Lola, and certainly wasn't immersing myself in Him anymore because I thought He was sending me to hell for being gay once my time on Earth was up. Lola and I broke up in April and lived in the same apartment until September of that year. I didn't pay an ounce of rent during that time, but threw parties when she traveled out of town for work and went out to the bar across the street with my friends after every shift at Logan's. I finally felt like I belonged somewhere, and my coworkers always told me that it wasn't as much fun unless I was there. I was the life of every party, and always had to be the center of attention. People gravitated towards me like moths to a flame. I was attractive, hilarious, and never paid a full bar tab, especially in the presence of men who thought they could get in bed with me after enough free booze. But I stood my ground on my newfound sexuality, and soon made it a competition to sleep with as many women as possible, often making everyone else around me extremely jealous. Most of the women I slept with had never been with another woman before, and eventually, I was dubbed "The Flipper" by my coworkers because they said I flipped them to the other side. I was drunk during every sexual encounter that year, and became obsessed with instant gratification. I made sure to never be alone, because being alone meant being lonely, and being lonely meant self-reflecting. The last thing I needed was to slip back into my darkness - But I couldn't fathom that I was losing touch with the light more and more with each drink I consumed. I became completely dependent on others for my happiness, and invested my heart over and over again into people who didn't value me. It was the beginning of the end on a course of self-destruction - And I was operating full-speed ahead.

[s0bers0ngs-blog]

THE BEGINNING

I took my first drink at thirteen years old. My sister’s boyfriend had a pontoon boat, and on the weekends, we would ride it out to the inlet for some fun. Even when we weren’t on the water, I was always so curious as to what Mike’s Lemonade tasted like, why it was so HARD, and why my sister could pound back six of them within an hour and seem happier. She was twenty-six and had been drinking since high school. She used to tell me that she would sneak out without our mother even knowing, and that she did horrible things pretty frequently, but was such a mastermind that she never got caught. She was thirteen when I was born, and used to take me everywhere with her as a toddler. Her favorite past-time was asking me what my favorite movie was in front of her friends - “The Fuckin’ Hound” (Fox and the Hound) - To make them laugh. I obviously didn’t remember any of that, but I think she just wanted me to like her, and maybe offering me a drink was her way of bonding with me. One day, as my friend Veronica sat next to me on the boat, I asked my sister if her drink tasted like real lemonade. She didn’t hesitate to hand it to me and tell me to try it for myself. I can’t remember if I was reluctant or if I went for it immediately, but I still remember the way it bit my tongue and warmed my chest, and the faint taste of lemonade lingered long enough for me to tell her that I liked it. She grabbed one out of the cooler, popped the cap, and handed it to me. “You can have one.”

Veronica was my sister’s favorite friend of mine, so she became my boating buddy, and eventually my first drinking buddy. It soon became a tradition to sit on the edge of the boat and drink Mike’s every other weekend, our feet grazing the waves, blasting “The Great Escape” by Boys Like Girls over and over until my sister made us play a different song. We loved some of the lines more than others, but our personal favorite was let’s get drunk and ride around, and make peace with an empty town. It made us feel on top of the world. Even though we argued half the time on whether he was saying tonight or today at certain points of the song, we both agreed that boating was more fun with a bottle in your hand, and that’s all that really mattered. My sister told her as long as she didn’t tell her parents we were drinking, she could come with us every time, and she did. When we’d go back to school on Monday and tell the other kids that my sister let us get drunk on the boat, our “cool” factor always increased. What kind of parent would actually let their thirteen year old get drunk? Mine certainly wouldn’t, but mine also wasn’t around, and sometimes I think the other kids forgot that. I moved in with my sister during my eighth grade year because I was becoming too rebellious for my mother to handle me. A lot of the kids were jealous of my newfound freedom and my lack of parental guidance. They would frequently ask if they could join us on the boat sometime. I always hit them with the “maybe” - That way I was able to keep them guessing, but also able to maintain my newfound popularity, which was a far cry from my elementary school days when I napped during recess and had imaginary friends. Now, years later, I was the kid whose mom didn’t even want her, and that’s probably why she was drinking. I didn’t actually know what they said behind my back, but I chose not to listen most of the time because I knew it would probably be something along those lines. I knew I’d always been “the weird one” and it probably wouldn’t change, even if I did get a pair of the latest trendy footwear or I moved to the nicer neighborhood down the street from our apartment complex. I spent my free nights in church and had a solid gaggle of friends from my youth group, and they usually proved to be better people anyway, but I didn’t dare tell any of them about the drinking. I knew I’d lose them if I did, or they’d think differently of me. But I was content having two different lives, and thriving in whatever one I wanted at whatever time I wanted. They say you can’t win ‘em all, but I certainly became the MVP of leading a double life.

Veronica and I continued being weekend warriors until school let out for the summer, usually having sleepovers at my house after our boating trips. Eventually, I graduated from Mike’s Hard Lemonade to Seagrams Wine Coolers, and my sister let us drink at home, too. I liked them more because they were sweeter and came in an assortment of flavors, but Veronica usually stuck with Mike; she insisted that he was stronger. This was before I knew what alcohol percentage was, and I didn’t want to ask my sister any questions for fear of showing too much interest. I wanted to keep my building love for booze under wraps. I never felt like I needed it back then, but I remember feeling odd if I was doing something fun without it, because I knew the fun would be magnified if I was one or two drinks deep. One night I made the mistake of taking one from the fridge without asking, and the next morning when my sister asked me about it, she told me I wasn’t allowed to take a drink unless it was offered to me. I was underage, after all, and she didn’t need me “developing a problem.” Either way, it didn’t add up in my teenage brain. I immediately apologized and returned to my room to sulk, angry at her for trying to control my new habit.

Once summer ended and I started ninth grade at a new high school with new people, it was time for me to reinvent myself. Veronica and I lost touch and I didn’t have any other friends once I switched school districts. My sister stopped offering me booze, and eventually I was okay with it because I started immersing myself in more youth group events and in the church choir. I spent three nights per week there until my grades started slipping, and my sister forbade me to go to anything except Sunday morning services until I got A’s and B’s again. I became a master of resenting her for the way she took the things I loved away from me, and before too long, I began feeling like every good thing in my life was disappearing. I didn’t have friends, I didn’t have God, I didn’t have family who loved me, and I wasn’t doing well in school - So what did I have? Depression began to build, suicidal thoughts began to haunt me every night, and I started hating myself for being such a fuck-up. I developed anorexia and weighed about ninety pounds soaking wet, only ate one small meal each day, and became obsessed with my weight. I didn’t tell a soul. It was my secret with myself because I didn’t want anybody taking it from me the way my sister took away my alcohol and my God. Towards the end of the school year, we got news that she was pregnant - Which meant I had to go back to my mother’s, because my room would now belong to the new baby. Tensions in the family were high because my mother saw that I enjoyed living with my sister so much at first, and I hadn’t spoken to her in almost a year because of it. I remember feeling like the biggest burden of all burdens because I thought nobody wanted me. But truthfully, at that point, I didn’t even want me. The suicidal thoughts continued, and were unbearable. I tried to start cutting, mostly because I was so curious as to why so many of the other kids did it, but I was always so afraid I’d go too deep that, most of the time, I’d just take a razor to my wrist until a scratch formed. That was enough to make the world stop for a little while. I never went deep enough to leave any scars because I was afraid it would hurt, and afraid that my mother would notice. After all, I’d already caused enough drama in the family; I didn’t need to cause any more.

I didn’t pick up another drink for the next three years. I call those the “dry years” - Ages fifteen to eighteen. When I moved back in with my mother, we started tolerating each other again, and I got to be active in church again. I recommitted my life to Christ shortly afterwards, and developed the understanding that it wasn’t right for my sister to take that away from me the way that she had. My mother raised me in church, and didn’t believe in that form of punishment. She used to say that God blessed her with me after her father passed away, filling the hole in her heart that he left, and that He favored me because of it. But I think that she may have been right about that, because as early as three years old, I was lifting my hands during church services like the cute little kids you see on Facebook and YouTube. I used to lay hands on people to “pray” for them, and my mother said she could physically see the difference in them afterwards. I’m not sure what kind of prayers a three year old has, but I was told there were plenty. It wasn’t uncommon for me to be humming along to worship music in the car before I could even form words, but my music of choice switched to country as I got older, and my first love was LeAnn Rimes. When I was eight, I sang her version of “Crazy” at a karaoke dinner at our church called “Spaghetti-oke” in front of an audience for the first time, and got a standing ovation. I still remember everyone jumping to their feet and clapping so loud that it hurt my ears, and my mother crying in the front row because she had no idea that I could even sing. I was a pretty shy and quiet kid, and never had much to say, let alone sing. During my dry years, I was a part of the contemporary church choir, and then graduated to lead singer of my youth band. When God was prevalent in my life, I had no desire to drink, or to do much of anything that didn’t require singing or being at church. God was the center of my life through grades ten and eleven. I wasn’t partying, sneaking out, or skipping school like the other kids. My grades were decent again, and I started feeling a little less hopeless. I brought friends to church with me, and talked about Jesus like He was the greatest thing since sliced bread. I continued life as such until age seventeen, when my grandmother moved in with us. Shortly afterward, my sister, her husband, and both of my nieces lost their house, and they moved in with us, too. The seven of us lived in a three bedroom duplex for months, and I became angry that my space was crowded with family that I didn’t even like. As tensions built and the screaming matches resumed with my mother, I slipped back into my rebellious ways, and she eventually gave up trying to control me. I would be out until midnight on school nights and even later on weekends, adventuring through cemeteries and making trips to beaches that were thirty minutes away just because I could. I always had older friends with driver’s licenses who didn’t live at home or didn’t have curfews - But still, we never drank. When my mother would bring up the fact that I stayed out so late sometimes, my rebuttal was always that I could be doing worse things than trespassing or crossing county lines, and she never had much to say after that. I told her that as soon as I was eighteen, I’d be finding a way to move out. My senior year began in August of 2011, and I turned eighteen in October - Which meant that, according to South Carolina law, I would be an adult for the majority of my senior year. I found every loophole I could not to involve her at school once I was of age, and it worked. I wished upon stars to find a way out of my house as a legal woman, and felt like I was waiting around for a miracle that was never going to come. Then, it came - And changed my entire life as I knew it.

During my second semester, I was put into Spanish II. It consisted of mostly seniors, but we had a handful of juniors as well. A girl named Anna was assigned to the seat behind mine, and something about her intrigued me from the start. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I found myself drawn to her, and started inserting myself into as many of her conversations as I could. We became friends quickly, which meant that I also had to be friends with Cora. Cora and Anna had been best friends since childhood, and were pretty much a package deal. They lived two streets down from each other and were attached at the hip - More like sisters than friends. But I was okay with it, because I quickly found that Cora was the most hilarious human I’d ever met. Anna was great, but nobody made me laugh quite like Cora. We became the three amigos, hanging out every day after school and spending all of our money on milkshakes at Denny’s. Anna owned a black Jeep Liberty, and the amount of miles we traveled that year could probably stretch clear through the Palmetto State. But once Anna got a boyfriend, it was often just Cora and I. I became her replacement best friend as Anna fizzled out, but it was a different kind of friendship than I was used to. I had plenty of best friends in the past, but none like her, and I kept trying to figure out why it felt so comfortable. I opened up to her about my home life and my disagreements with my mother, and she told me that I could come live with her and her parents, but we’d have to share a bed. I jumped at the opportunity, packed as much as I could fit into my car, and moved out the next day.

Over the next month, I became more and more distant from my mother, and closer and closer to Cora. Her parents treated me as one of their own, cooking family meals every night and doing my laundry. It was strange to have a normal home life after so many years of chaos. What they didn’t know, though, was that Cora and I were skipping school at least once a week. We’d start our mornings at Chic-fil-A, then sometimes we would go home and go back to sleep, hiding my car around the corner in case her stepfather came home for his lunch break. Other times, we would go play mini-golf on the north end of town where nobody knew us, or even drive an hour to the town of Ocean Isle Beach in North Carolina to eat our weight in Italian food and explore back roads with no destination. We always timed it just right to make sure we would be back by the time school let out, and would even circle around the parking lot to make it extra convincing, in case teachers or friends were looking for us. We couldn’t miss more than five unexcused days, so once that limit was pushed, Cora started writing me fake doctor’s notes. She said she’d been doing it for years and the office never caught on, so I let her do it for me, too. It did work for a while, until they caught us towards the end of the year and stuck us in summer school for makeup attendance. I didn’t get to walk with my class that year, but was still able to graduate a month later than the rest of my peers, and walk in the county graduation at the neighboring high school in a town called Conway.

One day, Cora and I went up to Ocean Isle Beach, and started chasing each other through the sand. It was like one of those cheesy romantic comedies where the couple doesn’t have a care in the world in that moment. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the temperature was comfortable, and we were weightless. I’m still not sure what came over me, but something told me to stop, dead in my tracks, and grab her hands with mine. I was operating on emotions that were foreign to me - Emotions that made sense, for the first time in my life. She made life better, and I loved being around her. Once I grabbed her, we stared at each other for a moment, sincerely and nervously. The next thing I know, my lips are on hers - And it felt like a grenade was set off in my soul. I had been with boys until my newly formed friendship with Cora, but had become so uninterested in them once she swept me up into her world. I was immersed in a universe where only she and I existed, together, for months. And suddenly, it all made sense - Why I could never stay with a boy for more than six months, why I could never connect with them, why they were never exciting and never fulfilling. They never made me feel like this. They never made me feel magical the way Cora made me feel. To this day, I still can’t explain how that moment of clarity felt, but in that moment, it all made sense. I was gay - And I was in love for the very first time.

Naturally, Cora and I became inseparable. We were in the purest form of puppy love imaginable, and I’m sure everybody could see it. However, we were both new at the female dating thing, so we kept it under wraps for a few months. We were so in love and so sure of each other, yet so unsure of how the world would perceive us. We only knew a handful of openly gay kids at school, and people weren’t exactly nice to them. But they didn’t seem to care, and I became somewhat jealous of that freedom they possessed to be themselves. I never felt like I had that. I was always hiding in the shadows, cowering in corners and covering up my anger and my feelings. I had become so anti-substance since my last drink years prior, but Cora loved to smoke cigarettes because she said they made her feel better. She said she drank a lot before she met me and missed doing it, and I gave her the story of my experiences with booze, too. I didn’t miss it, and Cora made me drunk with just one touch of her lips, but we both decided that we would try drinking together the next weekend that her parents were out of town. We needed someone of age to get it for us, so I invited my friend Carissa, and she quickly obliged. She was supportive of our newly formed relationship and said we had to celebrate. And celebrate we did.

I don’t remember much about that night, but I do remember playing card games, and becoming more intoxicated than I ever had on the boat. This was a new kind of drunk; a powerful kind. Suddenly I realized why people did this so often. I wasn’t thinking about anything except the present moment, and Cora and I were giggling like school girls every time we looked at each other. We must have said “I love you” every five minutes - I was shocked that Carissa wasn’t getting tired of us. But when the supply ran out, we stumbled into the street for more, and walked the short distance across the street to a Bi-Lo. Cora and I got snacks while Carissa got more alcohol, and so the night continued. None of us wanted to stop, but I remember feeling like I couldn’t. If I stopped, the fun would stop, and the thoughts would come back. I didn’t want that. I wanted to stay in this newfound bliss I’d discovered. We took great care to make sure we didn’t leave any bottles in the trash can at home, or any evidence of what had taken place that night. Her parents never caught us. I woke up the next morning with my first hangover, and despite the queasy stomach and pounding headache, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much fun we had, and how quiet my mind had been for a night. I was ready to do it all over again.

Such was the beginning of a very slippery slope.

[s0bers0ngs-blog]

My name is Kyler Ashtyn Marlowe (formerly Emily Kaitlyn Marlowe). I’m in recovery for alcoholism.

I grew up in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, USA. I currently live in Nashville, Tennessee, USA!

I spent five years in active addiction, from the ages of nineteen to twenty-four.

I haven’t touched a drink or a drug since January 1st, 2018.

This is my story of addiction and recovery, from the beginning.

I will hold nothing back from you, because I believe that every story should be told, and that every horrible thing we encounter in this life can always be used for a greater good. But mostly, you will read messages of hope, and you will learn that if you or someone you know is struggling, your battle doesn’t have to be fought alone. Nobody is hopeless.

Names are changed for anonymity purposes, but everything written in this blog is authentic, honest, and true.

Much love to all of my followers joining me on this journey. We DO recover. ❤️