Estimated read time: 13 min
An Old Soul in A Young Alcoholic
“She’s an old soul with young eyes, a vintage heart, and a beautiful mind.” Plot twist; she’s also a young alcoholic… Nicole Lyons left that part out in her poem, but I’ll let it slide this once.
It’s the oldest story in the book, isn’t it? “I just never quite felt like fit in with my peers.” That’s what damn near every alcoholic says when sharing about his or her childhood. I don’t claim to be unique by any means, and I am under no delusion that I am a rare or special case. For me, however, it wasn’t a feeling that I didn’t fit in… I was told that I didn’t. Sunday school teachers, coaches, employers, coworkers, you name it. “You’re not like other people your age.”
As far back as I can remember, I have been told by my elders that I am “wise beyond my years.” My own mother often recounts how my preschool teachers would rave about how mature I was for my age, and how witty and sarcastic I was when I spoke between mispronounced “R” and “L” sounds. Teachers, neighbors, relatives, and family friends often referred to me as an “old soul.”
In elementary school, all the girls my age were dying to experiment with make-up, and the boys were excited about upcoming opportunities to play football. By middle school, puberty hit, so the girls who had perfected their makeup routine were now interested in the most stylish clothes to impress the boys, and the boys, of course, had nothing but raging hormones and sex on the brain. High school was about partying, who could drive who, and to where, mall trips, prom, homecoming, and who was having sex with who.
That was never my thing. Not that there is anything wrong with any of it, I suppose; I was the odd one. I know it now, and I knew it then. I had no idea how to pretend to be interested in those things. I didn’t know how to be “normal,” and more often than not, I had no desire to be.
My friends, if you could really call them that, were always a good bit older than me. In the years of 4-H and livestock shows, although I was only in elementary school, I hung around the high schoolers. I liked them better. I am sure they thought it cute or maybe even annoying at times, but those people were the closest I had to friends for a long time.
In middle school, and later even in high school, the people I gravitated towards were the college sophomores or those just old enough to enter the workforce after obtaining their college degrees. In my senior year of high school, my most trusted friend and mentor was a 71-year-old woman who shared the same birthday as me and happened to be my boss.
Somewhere around the tender age of sixteen, I accepted my fate. I trusted the real grown-ups. I adopted and surrendered to the idea that I was an old soul born generations too late. Although it sounded stupid even at the time to say it, never mind believe it; somehow, it seemed to feel more like “me.”
Still, there were times that being “wise beyond my years” actually just enraged me. What fun was it to be more mature than everyone my age? I couldn’t relate to my classmates, and I was too young to run freely with the older crowd. Being more responsible didn’t get me more privileges at home, with the legal system, nor did it get me farther ahead in life as far as I could tell at the time. To be quite honest, it was pretty lonely at times. I wanted to want to act my age; the problem was I didn’t actually know how to do it.
I did, however, want to do something spontaneous, unpredictable, and downright irresponsible. An act of rebellion! That, was something that I was NOT too young for. Old soul or not, I was ready to raise some hell.
My big hell-raising plan was very involved, highly complex, and had several moving parts that would all have to work in perfect unison. This big elaborate, rebellious plan of mine included exactly two steps. Are you ready for it?
Step 1: Get alcohol.
Step 2: Drink the alcohol.
… and so, I did exactly that.
In fact, from the very first sip, I drank alcoholically. I acquired my very first bottle of liquor from an acquaintance at work. I was too young and too chicken to try to purchase my own alcohol, so this good Samaritan and lovely co-worker of mine bought what he knew young people, such as myself, liked to drink; cheap cinnamon whiskey… aka Fireball. Old soul or not, I am technically Gen-Z. I don’t make the rules; that’s what we drink in high school, apparently.
I met the co-worker in a parking lot across the street from the liquor store, gave him the cash I owed him, and promptly tucked the bottle under the driver’s seat of my car. Naturally, I then made my way over to the local Wal-Mart.
Right about now, you may find yourself wondering, “why Wal-Mart?” It’s simple, really; I was preparing to drink responsibly. In order to do so, of course, I would need a shot glass! Friendly reminder, I knew I was an old soul; what I didn’t yet know is that I was also a young alcoholic.
So yes, I went to Wal-Mart. I bought a small, plastic, cobalt-blue, shot glass and a few other miscellaneous items to disguise the shot glass. That way, anyone I knew, or more importantly, anyone my parents knew, wouldn’t notice the shot glass if they saw me at the self-checkout. Then, I went home.
Since it was late Fall, it was a little before dark when I arrived home. I entered the garage in my parent’s basement and made my way up the stairs. I had dinner with the family, as was the custom in our home, then made my way back downstairs to my basement bedroom.
I was giddy! This was the most excited I had been in a long time! I was dying to take the first sip, nervous about getting too drunk, wondering if I would get caught, and so glad that the first time I puked wouldn’t be in front of a bunch of high schoolers with camera phones ready to show the whole school. I settled myself and committed to waiting until my parents were off to bed before retrieving the bottle.
The house grew quiet. I heard my parents cut off the television and listened to the squeaking of their footsteps above me as they made their way to their bedroom. I waited as long as I could stand before going outside to my car.
I opened the back, passenger’s side car door to grab my gym bag that I had forgotten in the excitement of my newest acquisition, reached under the driver’s seat, and stuffed the bottle of Fireball into the bottom of the gym bag.
I went back through the garage door and into the basement when my father stopped halfway down the stairs… “watcha doing,” he asked, looking tired and mildly confused. I covered my mission by quickly explaining that I forgot my bag in the car after school. “WHEW,” I thought as he reminded me to lock the basement door before going back upstairs.
I entered my bedroom and closed the door behind me. I went into my closet, put my bag down, and sat down beside it. Slowly, but filled with excitement, I pulled out the bottle of cinnamon whiskey and just stared at it. I wanted to be smart about this whole drinking thing. I had heard horror stories of blackouts, hangovers, and projectile vomiting from “overdrinking.” I was not even remotely interested in any of that, so I made yet another plan.
I would take ONE shot and wait 30 minutes to see how I felt. Just ONE, no more, no less. It went down smooth. There was a slight twinge as it hit my stomach, my mouth watered, and my heartbeat quickened. I made my way over to my bed, set a timer, and waited…
Convinced that the timer was just about to ding, I checked my phone. It had been maybe ten minutes, and I felt fine. I decided, “Okay, well, one shot isn’t very much; let me take two more and see if that makes any difference.” I didn’t bother resetting the timer, and 20 minutes later, it went off.
I still felt fine, so I took another two shots and reset the timer again. I really enjoyed the taste, and it dawned on me that this would probably taste like the hard apple cider I had seen in the apple houses if I mixed the Fireball with apple juice.
I snuck upstairs, poured half glass of apple juice and scurried back down the stairs. I poured a shot in the glass and took a sip… nothing. Didn’t change the taste at all, so I added another. This time I got a hint of the cinnamon and burn from the whiskey, but not as much as I thought I should… so I added two more.
That did the trick! It wasn’t bad, so I sipped on that until the next timer went off. I looked over at the bottle sitting on my dresser in the closet and realized the bottle was just a little over half full. It had been an hour, and I can remember that I wasn’t really feeling “buzzed” (as if I would know what it felt like, to begin with). So, this time I took the bottle and took a few swigs. It was getting late, so rather than wasting another hour, I figured I would just wait a few minutes to see if the alcohol would kick in and if not, I’d take a few more…
I can remember my face feeling very warm, and my tongue was starting to feel a little funny by this point. I was feeling pretty high and mighty as I wasn’t feeling nauseous, nor did I feel a “hangover” coming on. “What a bunch of pansies!” I remember saying to myself out loud as I inspected my face (a little too closely) in the bathroom mirror. I was baffled as to how after drinking beer my fellow classmates could possibly get sick; liquor was supposed to be stronger than beer, and here I was drinking like a sophisticated, experienced drinker.
It was now getting pretty late into the night, and I was getting rather sleepy. I took a few more sips from my now three-quarters empty bottle and propped up in my bed. I scrolled through Instagram, watched a few YouTube videos, and swiftly fell asleep.
Next thing I know, I’m wide awake and it’s 6:30am. I’m never awake this early was the first thought that popped into my head, and I’m never this awake when I wake up was the next. All the lights in my bedroom were still on from the night before.
I looked into my closet, and an empty bottle of Fireball stood proudly on my dresser. Momentarily terrified that one of my parents had come into my room and seen the bottle, I scurried out of bed and hid it under the dresser.
With no headache, nausea, or sign of a dry mouth, I got dressed for the day and drove to school. I never spoke a word to anyone at school. I didn’t share this experience with my acquaintance at work. I proudly kept this secret to myself and wondered when I would get the next opportunity to drink.
I continued to drink for the next five years. I drank before school, after school, on the way to practice, while I was at work, and I drank to go to sleep. Essentially, I drank around the clock as often as my supply would allow me to.
I felt I was justified. I mean, everyone else was drinking, and they were doing it at parties while doing drugs and having sex with each other. My drinking was harmless, I thought. I was a quiet drunk; I drank alone and didn’t do anything “wildly immature” or irresponsible.
No one even knew how often or how much I was drinking. My grades didn’t slip, my athletic performance didn’t suffer, and I still showed up to work every for shift I was scheduled. I would fill up my 32oz yeti cup with Jack Daniel’s and a splash of Coca-Cola before walking into school each morning, sip on it throughout at the morning, and refill in the parking lot around lunchtime.
At cross-country practice, I always made sure to arrive right on time, after gulping down a healthy dose of straight liquor, I would run in the August heat to fulfill my duties as 3rd fastest varsity girl on the team. I even enjoyed a good “mixed drink” throughout my shift as a pizza delivery driver in the off-season between sports.
I went through high school with my drinking virtually undetected. I mean, who would question a well-groomed, star athlete, who breaks school records, or an A/B AP student who was balancing school, sports, and part-time jobs? I never played hooky from school, skipped practice, or called out from a shift at work. I was fully functional; no reason to believe anything was off… unless of course, you checked the always full and always nearby yeti cup.
I was good at drinking. I was an “old soul” after all; I handled my liquor well. I wasn’t sloppy or emotional. I didn’t drink till I threw up; I never had a blackout. I was drinking like a classy adult (if classy adults drink a fifth of whiskey, daily, anyway).
If drinking at an early age has any benefits it should have been in college. Not for me. My first go-round at college was lonely. I wasn’t in the party scene, I didn’t know anyone, and I was never interested in going to bars. Make no mistake. I liked to tie one on, but I preferred to do so alone.
As one would expect, it all came crashing down, eventually. Pick just about any other blog post of mine and that will come abundantly clear, especially “High Functioning at Rock Bottom” that’ll really sell it!
Imagine my disappointment when I learned that not only was my drinking not normal even for someone at my age, but at any age, my drinking could, by any standards, be considered… concerning.
I had to get sober. No, I needed to get sober. More importantly, I wanted to get sober. So, I did. I became a “White Chip Wonder” after being released from treatment. I went to meetings, got a job, got my own place again, and was putting my life back together. Eventually, I even re-enrolled in college (still working on completing that degree).
So here I was/am back in college, still technically a traditional college student by age, but not by most of the other “traditional student” qualifying factors. I was 22 when I got back in school. I was married, working, and had actual bills to pay this time. Oh, and this time I was sober.
I’m not complaining about sobriety and all the gifts it brought and continues to bring me; however, somehow, I had managed to even further distance myself from my peers. I was even less a “normal” college student than I had been the first go around.
This time I actually cared about making friends, building connections, and networking. That didn’t matter; I was even less relatable than before. I didn’t drink anymore, so that eliminated parties, meeting up for drinks after class, or pub nights.
I was married, so no one even tried to see what I thought about the cute boy in class or asked my opinion on which direction they should swipe on dating apps. I worked all the time, so I wasn’t asked to go shopping, come to study groups, or join any of my peers at campus organization events.
I wasn’t old enough to even fit in with the “non-traditional” adult students who were married with multiple children and already established in a career field. I was often called the mom of the class or the most responsible person in the program, and to this day I still have mixed feelings about this.
Sometimes it feels as though I have come full circle, still not quite fitting in anywhere I go. Through working the program, I have come to realize that every alcoholic has different challenges to overcome when getting sober. Today I take comfort in knowing who I am, even if that means that I am, once again, the “old soul,” even though I’m a young alcoholic.
Being young and sober is a blessing in many regards. The pros most certainly outweigh the cons on any given day, but sometimes it’s a little… lonely.
To be continued in “Young and Sober (part II): Flipping The Script
