I Might Not Be as Sober as I Think I Am

I can get high on anything…

t’s 2019, and I’m the twitchy brunette swaying in front of you in the TSA line at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas. You watch with no surprise as I get pulled aside 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 oversized 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 that 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’m 28 years old—an anxious, self-doubting 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 earbuds in, so that’s entirely a possibility. Back in high school, I worked at a Mexican restaurant and threw all my tips into the jukebox learning the dance moves to that stupid song during slow shifts. I’m not proud of it, but in my defense, my boss was always down for tequila shots after 5 pm. I could out-drink anyone back then, and I loved proving it. I took great pride in being sixteen years old and working a job that I needed a designated driver for.

But today, I’m fidgeting because I’m nervous. I’m officially four months sober, and it’s my first time back in an airport since giving up alcohol. Last year, I must have been in airports a few dozen times, but today, I feel overstimulated.

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.

Understanding Addiction Beyond Alcohol

I always 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, I will find another way to escape. Not uncommon. Many 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 ago, I was standing in this exact same spot as another tired woman ran her hands along my body before personally escorting me to my gate.

It was April 2017, and I was 26 years old. My body was made up of approximately 70% liquor. If you lit a cigarette too close to me, I would’ve spontaneously combusted. I woke up that morning in my disheveled suite at The Cosmopolitan, hungover, with a flight to catch in 3 hours. I called room service and then 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’d conveniently forgotten to eat anything but liquor and pills since arriving.

Addiction in the Airport

Two hours later, I was sliding up to the airport in a rented Lamborghini Huracan, and my world was spinning. Not right round, baby. Upside down. I was pretty sure Corey rented this car just to drop me off at the airport. I had to appreciate his flashy, over-the-top approach to life, but I don’t think he expected me to be as ill as I was for the ride. The shampoo effect was setting in fast. I needed to act quickly to make it to my seat before a potential blackout occurred.

If you’re unfamiliar with the shampoo effect, it’s essentially when you binge drink a couple of days in a row and wake up hungover, but you’re still a little drunk. When you throw back your “hair of the dog,” the alcohol hits twice as hard because you already had a head start. It’s a sticky, tricky game—fend off withdrawal symptoms while holding on to enough composure to function in public.

Corey walked me to the front desk, assuring me he’d take care of everything. The airline employee handed me my ticket but paused to ask if I was okay. I was swaying, allegedly. She instructed him to get me a hamburger and called my gate to inform them of my condition. They might decide not to let me on the plane.

After barely getting through screening, I was escorted to an empty seating area. The gate agent closed the door behind other passengers, and 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 wasn’t allowed on the plane? My life depended on getting home so I could suck on ice cubes, watch trashy TV, and fall asleep for eighteen hours. In a panic, I walked up to the desk and begged to board. I was given the green light.

Sober but Still Seeking an Escape

Back to 2019. The TSA agent finished her screening, and I found myself once again speed-walking to my gate. I’m trying not to pass out, but it's weird to feel such similar sensations as last time. Was my body just mimicking what it always knew? Was it reacting to stress in the same way it did when I was intoxicated? I felt completely disassociated, hyper-aware of everything around me.

I find myself getting impatient with a woman walking slowly in front of me, loudly talking on her phone. Ugh, I’m sorry, Karen. I’m sure you’re lovely; I just haven’t had a drink in months. I was downright irritable, which was strange. It’s not often I develop such unprompted anger sober. What gives? That’s when I realized I might not be as sober as I thought. I haven’t found a fix, a rush, or anything to get me high in the past couple of hours. I mean, not drugs, but a distraction, a serotonin rush.

I feel my chest tighten, my inner light dimming. I look 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, it qualifies. Silly things like juicing with too much ginger, jogging until I puke on the side of the road, tattoos, jobs I didn’t want but wanted to see if I could get, food deprivation, or sex with people who can hurt me—these are just some pollutants I like to juggle.

Mourning My Addiction

Recently, I’ve 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 obsession out by ordering cinnamon toothpaste that 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 night, I felt like I could die. 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, 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.

Living Sober: An Ongoing Struggle

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 feel dependent on that one thing for my survival. This is something I’ll have to dissect and learn to manage. It’s fascinating what humans will do to avoid the present. I don’t think there’s much hope in ever finding peace within if you work so hard to avoid living in the moment.

Now that I’m aware of 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 someday. I mean, probably not. But maybe.