I Might Not Be as Sober as I Think I Am

I can get high on anything…

It’s 2019; I’m the twitchy brunette swaying in front of you in the TSA line at the McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas. You watch with no surprise as I get pulled away for additional screening.

For seventeen long minutes, I’ve wiped my damp, shaky hands on my leopard print skirt twenty-four times just to manically change the song on my iPhone. My eyes dart around under over-sized sunglasses and sweat is pouring from my scalp and trickling down onto my fuzzy, white Betsey Johnson backpack. I bought this bag specifically to calm my nerves. It’s soft for stroking and has a convenient unicorn hood. It pops right out of the back allowing me to hide out and smoke my Juul from the window seat of the plane without being bothered. I am 28 years old. A douche-y 28.

I’m fidgety, crossing and uncrossing my legs as if I’m trying to remember the moves to The Cha Cha Slide. I have my ear buds in so that’s entirely a possibility. Back in high school I worked at a Mexican restaurant, I’d throw all my tips into the jukebox learning the dance moves to that stupid song during slow shifts. I’m not proud of it. In my defense, my boss was always down for tequila shots after 5 pm. I could out drink anyone back then and I loved to prove it. I took great pride in being sixteen years old and working a job that I needed a designated driver for.

But today I was fidgeting because I was nervous. I was officially four months sober and it was my first time back in an airport since giving up the booze. Last year I must have been in airports a few dozen times, but today I felt over stimulated.

I wasn’t behaving like I was sober. I was behaving like I was waiting for something to sedate me. But what? I knew I was not intoxicated. I hadn’t drunk in months; I could pass any drug test.

But I can also get high on anything.

I always just thought of myself as an alcoholic; positive that all of my problems in life were because of alcohol. Then I sobered up and it became clear that I’m actually an “addict”. Alcohol was just my drug of choice; my Holy Grail. However, if you remove my chosen drug and personal portal out of reality then I will find another way to escape. Not uncommon. A lot of addicts turn that old energy to the gym, yoga, cooking, painting horses, buying plant “babies” or some other form of healthy release.

I try not to make eye contact with the TSA agent as she runs her hands across the outside of my breasts one last time. Now, I’m experiencing déjà vu. Two years prior, I was standing in this exact same spot as another devitalized woman ran her hands along my body before personally escorting me to my gate.

It was April 2017; I was 26 and my body was made up of approximately 70% liquor. If you lit a cigarette too close to my face then I would’ve spontaneously combusted, I’m sure of it. I woke up that morning in my disheveled suite at The Cosmopolitan hung-over with a flight to catch in 3 hours. I called room service and then I called my buddy Corey who was staying at another hotel down the street. He agreed to pick me up later and get me to my flight. My eyes couldn’t focus after three days of binge drinking and a smidgen of Adderall. I conveniently forgot to eat anything but liquor and pills since arriving. My room came decked with a glorious mini fridge stuffed with enough alcohol and sex toys to keep me occupied the whole trip. Five Stars.

Room service knocked a few minutes after arranging the pickup with Corey. I opened the door with a bird’s nest on my head, eyeliner streaked across my face a la Britney Spears, and a bed sheet wrapped haphazardly around my naked waist. Honestly, the hotel employee was lucky I had the strength to yank it off the bed to throw it on. Regardless, I still apologized profusely for what she was forced to see. She was incredibly kind as they always are at these hotels. She lifted the silver tray covers to display a fabulous breakfast I’d force myself to eat at least twenty percent of. Sitting before me was a meaty omelet, fruit, pancakes, green juice, espresso, Bloody Mary mix and a lot more alcohol to wake up the dying demon inside me. I wasn’t picking up the tab and normally I wouldn’t take advantage of someone else’s wallet but these were desperate times.

Almost two hours later and we were sliding up to the airport in a sexy, ahem…rented Lamborghini Huracan and my world was spinning. Not right round, baby. Upside down. I was fairly sure Corey rented this car just to drop me off at the airport. I had to appreciate his flashy, over-the-top, predictable rich dude approach to life but I don’t think he expected me to be as ill as I was for that ride. The shampoo effect was setting in FAST. I needed to act quickly to make it to my seat on the plane before a potential blackout occurred. If you are unfamiliar with the shampoo effect, it is essentially when you binge drink a couple days in a row and wake up hung-over. However, you’ve been drinking so much that you’re also a little bit drunk. So when you throw back your “hair of the dog” typically from inside the shower…the alcohol hits twice as hard because you already had a head start. This is the only time I’m actually aware of how drunk I am. It’s a sticky, tricky game with the goal to fend off any symptoms of withdrawal but also hold on to enough composure to function in public.

Corey walked me hand in hand to the front desk assuring me that he would take care of my arrangements for me. Bless this man. The airline employee starts to hand over my ticket but then briefly pauses to ask if I’m okay. I’d kept my mouth closed up until that point but I was swaying back and forth. Allegedly. So I tried not to sway and was told I was actually swaying more. It was just a little embarrassing. She instructs him to get me a hamburger and informs us she has to call my gate and make them aware of my condition. It’s possible they might decide not to let me on the plane.

After barely getting through screening an agent then hands me off to the gate lady. The gate lady then directs me to an empty seating area away from the other passengers. She said she’ll come talk to me in a bit and to stay put. I watch as all the other passengers board the plane and she closes the door behind them. I may have been shaking with anxiety when I arrived but now I felt rage enter my body. I had done nothing wrong except look absolutely foul and walk with a sway in my swagger. Now, I’m not allowed on this damn plane? My life depended on getting home so I could suck on some ice cubes, watch trashy TV and fall sleep for eighteen hours. In a panic, I walk up to the desk and ask if she forgot about me. She calls a man over and they both look me up and down scrutinizing me as I squint my eyes and grip the desk for support. “I’m just very hung-over and very tired. I just want to get home! I won’t bother anyone on the plane and I’m not nauseous (lie)! I just will nap until I reach Texas” I pleaded.

I was given the green light. I’ve also been pulled aside for additional screening before every flight since then. I didn’t really think things were that big a deal.

Okay, back to 2019.

The TSA agent has finally finished checking my chest for lumps and found nothing but these DD’s and some candies for the flight. I am once again trying not to pass out speed walking to my gate.

It’s weird feeling such similar sensations as last time when I know I should feel clear headed this time. Was my body just mimicking what it always knew? Was it reacting to stress in the same way it does when I am intoxicated? I felt completely disassociated and hyper aware of everything around me. I found myself getting impatient by the woman walking slowly in front of me, loudly talking on her phone and making it take longer for me to get to a safe seated position. I was tempted to tell her there was such a thing as airport etiquette. You don’t have to run to your gate but have some respect for others; you aren’t picking seashells to sell by the seashore, Karen. Ugh, I’m sorry Karen. I’m sure you’re lovely; I just haven’t had a drink in months.

I was downright irritable. It’s not often I develop such unprompted anger sober. What gives? That’s when I really started thinking that I might not be as sober as I think I am. I haven’t found a fix, a rush or anything to get me high in the past couple hours. I don’t mean drugs; I mean a distraction, a serotonin rush.

I feel my chest get tight and my inner light dim. I’m looking around for anything that can perform magic tricks for my brain for a fleeting moment but nothing intense enough to land me naked in a jail cell. There are few requirements for what I can turn into a vice. As long as it has a risk/reward scale and can inflict some sort of pain or discomfort if overdone then it qualifies. Silly things like juicing with too much ginger, jogging until I puke on the side of the road (ah! Old times.), tattoos, jobs I didn’t really want but wanted to see if I could get, food deprivation, or sex with people that can hurt me are just some pollutants I like to juggle.

Recently, I found myself mourning some of the nastiest parts of my addiction. I accidentally found a twisted comfort in brushing my teeth. I’d shove the toothbrush a little too far back and gag as I felt it knock against “the biggest tonsils” my doctor has ever seen. Then I’d do it again. I stretched this weird fetish out by ordering some all natural cinnamon toothpaste off Amazon because the aftertaste reminded me of Fireball whiskey and I’d get sick every time I used it.

In high school, if there wasn’t a party every single night of the week then I felt like I could die. I was unable to purchase my own booze so if I didn’t find a party then my high wouldn’t arrive. My existence depended on knowing an escape was coming at the end of each day. I could trudge through the halls at school as long as I knew my best friend Vodka was waiting for me. If a party failed to happen then I’d have to sit alone with my thoughts, grind my teeth until I chipped another tooth and just BE. There was nothing I liked less than just being.

I notice that even now, I still obsessively look for an escape. I’m always searching for something I can fixate on. Even if it’s a healthy outlet, I will turn it into my entire life and then feel dependent on that one thing for my survival. This is something I’ll have to dissect and learn to manage. It’s fascinating the things humans will do to avoid the present. I’d rather not be this way. I don’t think there’s much hope in ever finding peace within if you work so hard to avoid living in the moment.

However, now that I’m aware of all this maybe I should look into starting a charity or at least volunteering more. I want to live in a world where my character defects are my strengths. Maybe obsessive addicts in recovery will save the world some day. I mean, probably not. But maybe.