- Alcohol
- Drugs
- Faith
I grew up in an affluent suburb in Connecticut, forty-five minutes outside of NYC. I had a happy childhood. We were not wealthy, but I was very comfortable and always given every opportunity. My parents both worked, and they provided a loving, caring home for my younger brother and me. I was always striving for more though, never content with all that I did have. I was jealous of the kids who went away to the islands for Spring Break and came back with braided hair and recall being made fun of for not having Guess jeans and not belonging to a country club. Kids can be cruel. I was a sensitive child who was a huge people pleaser. I followed the rules, did well in school and listened to my parents. I was an easy target for bullies because of my deep sensitivity, and I also had FOMO (fear of missing out) from a young age. I desperately wanted to fit in and be accepted by everyone especially the kids I deemed cool.
Fast forward to the summer before my sophomore year of high school: I had my first beer. I was in the parking lot with my coworkers from my summer job. I did not like that first beer and could barely finish it, but I finally felt “cool.” After that evening I was invited to a party where I knew there would be kegs. I convinced my mom and dad to let me sleep over. They called and got assurance from the college-age sister that parents would be home. Of course parents were not home, and that night I got drunk for the first time and loved it. I stayed up all night, was offered pot and sat in a car with an older high-school boy who was smoking a joint. The next day I went over to my friend’s house hungover and proclaiming that alcohol was amazing and my friends needed to try it ASAP. For the rest of high school, I was on the quest to find alcohol and parties with alcohol. If I could not find it on a weekend, I was severely bummed out.
I never did get into the “cool” crowd or their parties, but I always felt like I was accepted and automatically cooler when I was drunk. I remember stealing vodka from my parents for senior prom and making Jell-O shots before prom. I showed up wasted thinking it was fantastic. After high school I went onto a small, private, liberal arts college where I perfected my art of drinking and added pot to the mix. I managed to get into the honor’s program, a sorority and the Dean’s List my first year. I also proceeded to develop a full-blown eating disorder by junior year. I sought treatment for my eating disorder before senior year and came back to school ready to finish my college career with a bang. It was a lot of the same thing: cans of Natural Light in the basement of a frat, at some dingy bar or at a field party and nights ending with me throwing up or bawling to some older sorority sister. The last night of college I drank a bottle of vodka with a friend, and after she went to bed, I got hysterical and called a crisis hotline at 2am. My parents came the next day, and I was a hung-over mess darting into buildings on campus to puke in the bathroom while trying to pull off the perfect appearance that I wore so well.
After college the party continued, only this time I had a job and had to show up at work. I moved to Washington, DC and soon got a reputation at my firm as being the happy-hour girl and the girl who would never leave the bar or party. The city bored me after almost five years, so I pulled my first relocation and moved to Chicago sight unseen and with no job. I drove my U-Haul to my new apartment that was conveniently located next to a neighborhood bar, and the patrons helped me unload my truck. I soon became a regular. It was open late, and often I would go there after my friends went home after we went out. I’d make friends and frequently bring them back to my place so the party could continue after closing time. After three years of blacking out in Chicago, I decided I was ready for the big city, NYC. I was 29 and ready to break into fashion PR. Once again, with no job, I made the move to NYC. I soon had an incredible fifth-floor walkup and a job in fashion PR. I thought I had arrived. In NYC the city never sleeps, and the bars never close. I was in heaven, or so I thought. The night before my 30th birthday, I went to an after-hours party for the people like me who never wanted the party to end. While there I did my first line of cocaine. To say I loved it would be an understatement. I could not get it up my nose fast enough. I fell in love with it and how it made me feel. My desire to fit in was finally fulfilled. I felt complete, popular and part of what I had been chasing for years, the “in crowd.” Nothing says the “in crowd” more than doing blow with strangers off someone’s dresser at an after-hours party. That was the definition of cool in my book.
For the next five years, I pursued cocaine, or rather it pursued me. It got me from that first line. I felt incomplete if I did not have a vial in my pocket. I missed a lot of work days and fought the depression cocaine brought on when I came down. I spent many nights in my bed with my heart racing thinking I was going to die after drinking and doing large quantities of coke. I often took sleeping pills to go to bed. It is truly a miracle that I woke up many days. Needless to say my career suffered. I lost four jobs and eventually hit bottom, or so I thought. I went to a therapist who asked if I had been drinking. Of course I had. She made it her mission to get me clean. She had been in recovery for twenty-some years and wanted me to join her. I thought she was crazy, but although I didn’t admit to the drinking, I did admit I had a problem with cocaine. No matter how many times I tried to stop, flushed it down the toilet or erased my dealer’s numbers from my phone, I always went back to it. One night in May, I agreed to go to treatment for the cocaine and the cocaine only.
Luckily I had a job at this time and treatment was covered by my insurance. I found a treatment center near my parents’ house and arranged for a bed. I took a week of medical leave from my job and checked in on a Monday. My pastor from my church drove me to the facility, and my parents did not ask why I was going. It was all very odd and erratic. By Thursday my insurance-covered detox ended, and I went back to my parents’ until Sunday. Friday night I went to a 12-step meeting, and Saturday night I went to a bar. I was back in action. My drinking escalated. I ended up losing my job a few months later and had no choice but to move home with my parents at age 35.
You’d think I would realize that my life was unmanageable and that possibly my alcohol intake had something to do with it, but, no, my drinking escalated. I was now drinking and driving in my mom’s Volvo wagon and day drinking. I had moved on from wine to vodka, not high end but the cheap stuff. This went on for a year. On June 29, 2011, I awoke to a voice I can only attribute to God telling me I was going to kill myself if I don’t stop drinking. I remember this so distinctly. It was about 5am, and I decided in that moment to get sober. Luckily through my church and a recovery program I found, I had a tremendous amount of support. I slowly began to piece my life back together. I eventually got a job, a car and my own apartment. I started regaining the trust of my family and made healthy friends who loved me for being me. I no longer care or even think a “cool” crowd exists. I have walked away from many party friends in NYC and am now surrounded by people who care about me to my core. I am overwhelmed with gratitude and by the blessings I have received in sobriety. I have a job that is my passion, amazing friends, a wonderful church community and a family that has stood by me. I have regained the trust I lost from my parents, and I finally filled the hole inside of me with God. Most of all I no longer feel that I do not fit in. I am at peace with who I am and how my past has made me who I am today. I no longer fear that I am missing out.
Holly J. is Manager, Unite & Empower at Shatterproof