By Jack Smith
I remember loud music, empty bottles clanking together on the floorboard, the pungent smell of cheap liquor in the air and the putrid aroma of vomit on my shirt.
I remember urinating in a field, trying to keep my balance while looking up to a spinning night sky, wondering where in the hell I was.
I was 15 years old, I was drunk and I was about to get in a whole lot of trouble.
The older teenage boys I was out with that night turned me over to the custody of my big brother, who gently slapped me around for being so absurdly intoxicated at such a young age.
That’s about all I remember from my first drunk, because I blacked out that night. I nearly got away with it, but my mother’s suspicions sent her up the stairs and to my bedside, where I had no hope at all of convincing her I hadn’t had anything to drink.
While I can’t recall large chunks of time from that summer night, I remember being almost glad that I’d been caught.
That was the first sign that I might be an alcoholic. Unfortunately, a massive hangover and healthy dose of shame didn’t stop another 25-plus years of alcohol abuse and dependency. Continue reading