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January 29, 2008
Owen O'Brien
January 19th, 2008: the day my boyfriend Tyler would turn 21. I had been dreading this occasion for an entire year - ever since the 20th birthday he had celebrated with the toilet seat. Although Tyler approaches life levelheadedly and rationally nine times out of ten, for some deluded reason, he considers swallowing his age in drinks every birthday a "rite of passage." Even for a 250-pound football player, this would be a dangerous feat. For the 142-pound Tyler, it is borderline suicidal.
Despite his disastrous birthday in 2007, he resolved himself to repeating his idiotic ritual this year. His task: 21 shots before 2 a.m. In his mind, this test of manliness was of the utmost importance. He likes to push his own limits - not for the sake of glory or praise from others - but simply for the sake of challenging himself. In all other areas of his life, this proves itself an excellent and honorable quality; his determination only becomes treacherous when it overlaps with the college-drinking scene.
During the week leading up to his big night, I begged him not to do it. I demanded that he rethink his decision, "guilt-tripped" him by reminding him how I had spent 3 hours tending to him in the bathroom the year before, even tried to imprison him in a headlock, but nothing - not even my best sad puppy face - could change his mind.
The night began calmly enough. He managed to squeeze down 13 shots at the pre-party, his friends drinking enthusiastically at his side. Deep down I felt angry and terrified, but I forced a smile and an optimistic mindset. I didn't want to ruin his birthday by playing the psycho, neurotic girlfriend.
Eleven thirty hit and I - the designated driver - drove Tyler and his entourage to the strip of bars on 6th street. Although I knew he was quite drunk during the car ride, he was acting about the same as usual, cracking jokes and "jamming out" to some of his favorite songs. As I pulled up to their first destination, he gave my hand a reassuring squeeze and smiled. He knew how scared I was feeling.
While everyone piled out of the car, he hugged and kissed me goodbye, telling me he'd only be gone for two hours. I smiled in spite of myself. Maybe everything would be okay after all. Just as I was about to drive away, he ran up to my window to say thank you for the ride and then left me with one of his rare but sincere 'I love you's. With that, he set out bravely into the night, looking ahead with unshakeable determination.
With a calmer outlook, I rushed home. I only had two hours to clean his room and write him his usual epic, birthday note. I felt terrible for making him feel so guilty that week and wanted to redeem myself with a few birthday surprises.
Post cleaning and mid-note, I glanced a the clock; it was already 2:10 a.m. Thinking to myself that he and his friends would return shortly, I hurriedly tried to wrap up the letter.
"….And I admire you too. You are so compassionate, fun-to-be-with, rational, intelligent, ambitious, and centered. Most importantly, you inspire me…"
I looked at the clock again. It was five till three. The bars closed almost an hour ago. Why wasn't he back yet? Chilling, torturous thoughts began to creep their way into my consciousness. Is he in the hospital? In jail? Passed out amongst a few drunken hobos on 6th street? Realizing that I was on the verge of worrying to death, I tried to distract myself by finishing up the note.
"….Thank you for letting me eat all of your food. Thank you for hugging me when I randomly cry. Thank you for having random, philosophical debates with me until four in the morning. Thank you for…"
"Creak! Boom!"
I heard the door downstairs fly open. I froze.
I could hear drunken laughter and the indistinct voices of most of his friends. Why can't I hear Tyler?
As the voices came nearer, someone belted out, "Whoooo! Twenty-six shots! Way to go birthday boy."
Oh no. Please God no…
I started to tremble. My insides began twisting and cramping. My eyes burned with fresh tears.
"T-t-tyler?" I made a weak attempt at yell from the behind his half-open bedroom door.
No answer.
"Hey Owen, we need your help! Come help us get him upstairs," Brandon said chuckling.
"No! I won't look! I won't look!" I was on the verge of hysterics.
"Please! Do it for Kemper! Get out here, Owen!"
Terrified, I dragged myself out of his bedroom and inched my way to the top of the stairwell. Swallowing my fears, I glanced down the stairs.
Three of his friends were attempting to carry the semi-conscious Tyler to his bedroom. They held him clumsily by his arms and legs, dropping parts of him as they struggled to ascend. From what I could tell, his body was completely limp.
Before I could take in any more of the picture, Tyler - who luckily had his head tilted to the side - threw up all over himself and the stairwell. His friends lost their grip and dropped him in his own vomit. Horrified, I ran to help pick him up, but as I reached for him, my body started shaking uncontrollably. I had never experienced anything like it before; I could hardly direct my own limbs. The miserable scene had traumatized my heart and body more than I could endure.
I calmed myself down enough to prepare a spot for Tyler, setting up a station on the floor with a towel, Kleenexes, and a trashcan. Either because his friends were so drunk or because Tyler's lifeless body was deadweight, it took another five minutes to drag Tyler to the top of the stairs and into his room.
He thrashed violently as they lowered his body to the ground. He finally squirmed his way into an awkward and unnatural position, his limbs contorted, his face ghostly. I knelt down beside him. Towel in hand, I began to clean off his mouth, trembling as I tended to him.
Yet again, he began to throw up.
Obnoxious laughter pierced my focus: his friends. Having been so preoccupied with Tyler, I hadn't really noticed them until now. They were joking around drunkenly. Apparently, they didn't think this was a big deal. I whipped my tear-stained face around and stared at them fiercely. I began screaming at them, swearing, demanding that we get in one of their cars to take Tyler to the hospital.
"Why are you **** laughing? How could you have let this **** happen?! You call yourselves his friends? He is 142 pounds!!!! 142 pounds! He can't live through 26 shots! He didn't know what was going on! Why couldn't you have looked out for him?!"
Shocked, they stood gazing at me silently. I don't think they had ever heard me yell at anyone - much less cuss furiously. I have always been extremely laid-back around them, treating them with kindness at all times. They were a good group of guys for the most part, but scared and angry as I felt, I couldn't hold back.
"Owen, calm down! He's…uhh...he's okay.
"Are you ******* serious?! No, he's not!" I shouted. That very second, I was using every ounce of strength I had to hold his upper body off the ground while I simultaneously positioned his head above the trashcan. He was continuously puking out his guts, and I was doing my best to prevent him from choking on his own vomit. None of them offered to help.
"Look, Owen. He's okay. I even took a few shots for him when people kept forcing him to drink birthday shots."
"That doesn't change the fact that he's had twenty-six."
Tyler had stopped vomiting momentarily and I laid him down to rest his head on the Kleenex box.
"Owen, you need to chill out. Tyler, you're okay, aren't you?"
No response.
Michael shook Tyler forcefully. "Tyler, you're okay, right?"
Tyler gave a small nod. Thank God…a sign of life.
I leaned down to talk to him. "Tyler, will you kill me if I take you to the hospital?"
He nodded again.
I knew that he would rather suffer than make his parents pay another hospital bill. He had just severed a tendon in his finger the week before, and his parents had spent all their extra money on that. He and his parents live paycheck by paycheck and simply wouldn't have the money.
As I wiped him off again, I stared into his empty eyes. He looked like one of those characters in a horror movie whose soul had just been sucked out of his body. His pupils had shrunk to almost nothing. His mouth gaped open involuntarily, allowing drool to run down his chin. He looked scared and dead all at the same time.
I couldn't help flashing back to the final time I saw my friend Richard. Last May, he had taken his own life. At his funeral, I stood before Richard for an eternity, staring back and forth between his graduation picture and his body, desperately trying to make sense of what had happened. I tried in vain to convince myself that the boy in the coffin was, at one point, the same person as the boy in the photograph. The reality wouldn't sink in.
Just as I knew the boy in the coffin was not Richard, the body lying before me was not Tyler. Although I could hear him breathing, Tyler - the real Tyler - had vacated the premises. I could only pray that he would return.
His friends stumbled around Tyler and me, clumsily trying to help out. Michael, a former lifeguard, checked his pulse every few minutes. I guess my furious rant had scared them into cooperating - or maybe they were actually beginning to worry. Even as they tripped over things and chattered loudly, I hardly noticed them. I curled up by Tyler's stomach and buried my face in his chest just as I had done every time I needed to cry during the past three years.
"Owen, Owen," Tyler murmured, stretching his hand in my direction. I took hold of his clammy fingers and warmed them between my palms. Paisley, his loyal cat, who had been circling the scene frantically from the minute his friends brought him inside, snuggled up around his head. We - Paisley, Tyler, and I - were in this together.
As we journeyed through the night, Tyler's condition began to improve gradually. He seemed to know who was in the room and even talked to us a little bit. Seeing that we had revived Tyler at least a little bit, Michael said, "Well, dealing with that certainly sobered me up. Let's go take some shots." The rest of the guys stood up to follow Michael downstairs to the alcohol.
I couldn't believe my ears. How could they want to drink at a time like this? Despite my anger, I suppressed my urge to scream: I thought it best to ignore them and keep my focus on Tyler. He was still throwing up every few minutes.
As he was walking out the door, Michael called out to me.
"Hey, Owen. Come downstairs with us and take some shots of Absinthe. It will chill you out."
"Are you kidding me? You think I'm going to leave him alone to choke on his own vomit?"
I cannot understand why his friends continued to drink seconds after seeing someone they loved in such a compromised state. Is this how they dealt with the stress of the night? Or are they so self-centered that an hour with their helpless friend was the maximum amount of time they could stand to delay their partying? Maybe I shouldn't be so harsh. Of all people, I should remember how powerful alcohol's hold can be.
After Tyler's friends had left, some of his roommates, who had just gotten home, came into the room to check up on him. They helped me get him into bed where he would be warmer. Paisley - of course - followed Tyler and curled up beside his head yet again. As the clock approached five AM, even his loyal roommates wandered out of his room one by one, leaving me alone with Tyler. By this time, he had passed out cold. I told myself that he was probably okay because he had been talking earlier, and as I had always been taught, time would only improve his condition. Despite my efforts to convince myself that everything would be just fine, his unresponsiveness still scared me to death. He had retreated into such a deep slumber that it took powerful shaking and yelling to get him to respond.
I left his side for the first time in hours to look up the signs of alcohol poisoning on his computer. I felt relieved when I confirmed that his lips appeared cherry red as usual and he was breathing in and out 13 times a minute - less than eight would have meant mortal danger. I crawled back into bed with him, staring at him intently. His breath and his skin smelled sickeningly sweet with liquor. He licked his comforter every so often, depositing a thick, mucusy substance all over his bed. His skin felt tacky and dry; I assumed that the constant vomiting had dehydrated him severely.
I continued watching him for the next two hours, counting his breaths every few minutes, checking his pulse. I wouldn't have been able to fall asleep if I tried; my heart was pounding so violently that it threatened to break my ribs.
At seven, I decided he would probably be okay to drink some water. He had been throwing up too frequently to swallow any before then.
Shaking him I said, "Tyler, I'm going give you some water, okay?"
He opened his mouth obediently. I lifted up his head and tilted the cup just barely. He swallowed slowly. We repeated the procedure a few times that next hour. As he became more and more responsive, I began to feel sleepier and sleepier. Despite my greatest efforts to keep my eyes open, I fell asleep around 8: 30 am.
I awoke with a start to the sound of Tyler's voice.
"Owen, you're here! You stayed the night. Ugh. I'm in my bed? Damn, I thought I'd wake up somewhere cooler."
I glanced at the clock. It read 9:30.
"Oh my God, you're awake! Are you okay? Do you need more water?" I was ecstatic. He was okay, and although he seemed very drunk, he was even talking like himself.
"I need a Kleenex." He scooted himself up in bed so he could grab a tissue from the box beside his bed.
"I wouldn't get one from there if I were you…"
He gasped when he realized he had stuck his hand in a puddle of vomit. With that, I began explaining what had happened, telling him - to his utter surprise - that he had taken 26 shots, thrown up everywhere, and that I had stayed awake all night to take care of him. He apologized profusely and tried to tuck me in immediately. He couldn't believe I had only slept an hour. I felt way too anxious to fall asleep just yet; I could still feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
"I was terrified, Tyler. You were at deaths' door about to start knocking," I said as I concluded the tale of his 21st birthday.
"I decided against it," he said with a weak smile.
Thank God…the real Tyler had returned.
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January 23, 2008
Lindsay Cole
One of the problems with alcoholism in young people is that there is a general attitude of imperviousness to the disease, the textbook idea that in youth, we feel invincible. Despite all that research and statistics reveal, many college students, per my observations, think it's abnormal not to drink early and often. Sometimes, even if college students are not drinkers, they will pretend to be to etch a social niche.
I met a quirky, bubbly girl in a class at L.A. Valley College. She made a thought-provoking observation about a Wordsworth poem, connecting it to the idea of the Butterfly Effect. I found her observation astute and memorable. We talked about the Wordsworth poem after that class, and I complimented her on her comment.
"Oh, thanks," she said, in a tone that I later found out is a result of her not being able to take a compliment. "I don't even remember what I said; I had a few sips of wine in the parking lot before class, if you know what I mean." I knew what she said, but after a few weeks of classes with her, and a few lifts home, I realized she hadn't meant it. She lived with her parents, got great grades and didn't go out much. I never saw her touch a bottle before or after class, and she rarely mentioned drinking except to occasionally say things like, I was so wasted Saturday night I think I'm still hung-over. Her stories never quite matched up and intuition told me that her life and what she told me about it were two very different things.
This girl and I ended up being good friends, although I wouldn't have guessed it upon my first impression of her as a self-proclaimed alcoholic. If she were really an alcoholic I wouldn't have condemned her. I probably would've encouraged her to deal with her problem. But I knew that it wasn't true.
We transferred together to U.C.L.A., and we still take classes together. We've never really talked about how we met, but I've always been curious as to why she misrepresented herself that day. I recently decided to pry a little and asked her why she jokingly told me that she was an alcoholic the first time we met. I pointed out that I'd never seen her take a sip in the two years I'd known her. I was amazed by how quickly and honestly she opened up to me about it. She told me that she hadn't wanted me to know that she was "only nineteen" and still lived with her parents. She thought I'd see her as more adult if she could do things that of-age college students do. Her response struck me as ironic because at the time, I was a bit insecure about being older than many of my classmates. We both felt behind, but for different reasons. After talking to her, I better understood why she misrepresented herself that day. However, she could have lied about anything she felt insecure about, so why did she choose drinking? The thought occurs to me that maybe alcohol problems and rehabilitation are so normal among young people in the media that my friend thought it was not only acceptable, but desirable, to be like them. Obviously, she thought that everybody was drinking except her. Maybe someday I'll ask her about that, but I have the feeling that she'll tell me she doesn't know where she picked up that misconception. Perhaps it's ingrained in our consciousness that college plus cool equals drinking. Even though my friend didn't drink, she thought I'd like her more if she did. Funnily enough, it was her adept comment in class that made me want to befriend her. Her desire to relate to me caused her to claim that her clever observation occurred to her because she'd been drinking. Obviously, her low self-esteem was at play in her misrepresentation of herself. It's a shame that many immediately turn to alcohol to mask insecurities, but it's borderline insane to feel the need to do so even though we don't drink.
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January 14, 2008
Allison Brummet
In this entry, I'm going to tell you about my nightmare of a Christmas vacation. To start, the time my school gives us for vacation is short. Very short. Ten days. Last year, when I was a freshman, I really had about eight days at home due to the fact that it takes almost a whole day to get from school to home and vice versa. But this year, I had a much shorter time to be home.
My first day of vacation came, meaning I would spend the day traveling. I took a taxi, a train, another taxi, and a plane. My first plane I'd been on had been delayed, and I was worried about finding my next one before it took off. I found the departures table quickly and noticed that my plane hadn't left, and was to be delayed for about an hour. Goodie. Just great. So I waited. An hour went by, and the delay was lengthened by another hour. And then another. I had been in contact with my parents frequently over these past three hours, trying to stave off boredom and figure out when I'd actually be getting home that night. I wouldn't. My flight was cancelled.
Everyone made a mad dash to the service desk. Everyone had whipped out their cell phones in an attempt to get the next available flight and converse frantically with family members. I called my mom as soon as they had announced the delay. While I was waiting in line for over an hour, my mom and dad were anxiously trying to find me another flight. They finally got me another flight. I wasn't going to be leaving until two days later. My parents found me a room at a hotel, and the hotel had a shuttle that would pick its guests up at the airport. By this time, my eyes were ready to burst. I felt tension and a burning sensation in my face from trying to evade crying for so long.
It took my about fifteen minutes to find the gate at which the bus was located. By that time, it had already left. It was 11 p.m. I had been traveling since 8 a.m. Standing in the cold and the wind, I gave in. The tears gushed out of my eyes and stung me face as they froze.
The bus came and I arrived safely at the hotel. I was miserable. I took a hot bath and called my family. I cried myself to sleep. Not only had I missed my friends' Christmas party, but the next day would be my family's Christmas party also. I spent the day in my room mostly, watching TV and talking to my friends and family. I spent another restless night in the hotel. The next day, after much traveling and delay, I was home. I spent six wonderful days with my friends and family, and now I'm back at school.
I won't be able to see my friends or family for six more months.
You want to know what this has to do with alcohol consumption, right? Well, during this whole ordeal, through all of that pain and frustration, I didn't touch a drop of alcohol. Not one. I'm strong enough that even when life punches me in the stomach and pushes my face in the dirt, I don't need it. I can face life as is, without alcohol's dulling effect. So can you.
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January 7, 2008
James M. Dean
I'm sure most college students have heard it before, and it may be perhaps more prevalent in fraternities than anywhere else on campus. That "brotherly" competition to get the best-looking girl at the party takes a dangerous turn when alcohol is introduced.
"I can only meet girls if I'm drunk."
When alcohol takes the place of confidence, I look at it as a crutch; a blockade put in place to shield the real you from that girl you're hitting on. You may party all weekend and meet tons of chicks, but who's to say you will remember their faces in class or while walking across campus? And if you do end up getting a number or becoming Facebook friends, will you even have the guts to say "hi" to her now when you're sober? Last Friday you were talking her ear off as the two of you stood by the keg and filled your cups during gaps in conversation, and now the real you is sitting in class on Monday morning, wondering how awkward it will be if you see her again because you won't know what to say without that "confidence boost" of beer.
I've come to college with a few simple goals in mind: getting good grades, meeting as many people as possible, and having fun. The latter two often go hand-in-hand, and especially within the Greek community "having fun" and "meeting people" are synonymous with "frat parties." And who has ever heard of any fraternity having a DRY party? I can't tell you how many times I've seen a party reduced to single digits after the keg runs out. I'm left with so many questions. Is it really that hard to hold a sober conversation? I didn't know you had to have a beer in your hand to dance.
I tend to think about the future a lot. Who doesn't in such a transitional stage of life as college? The real world awaits - a job, bills to pay, other responsibilities that may have seemed irrelevant as a college student. I don't know about you, but I want to come out of school and spring into that real world with real confidence - without crutches.
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January 2, 2008
Owen O'Brien
I stumbled in my oh-so-noble quest towards self-actualization. A couple of weeks ago, I felt a familiar, nagging drive stir within me: the need to belong. This biologically based desire to "be one with the group" is an adaptive instinct - a tendency shaped over the course of our evolutionary past to ensure the longevity of the human species. In general, members of groups typically have better chances at survival than loners: Those who belong can more easily meet their needs by drawing on a collective pool of resources instead of relying solely on their own means. Although this predetermined "need to belong" helps us survive even in modern times, it hinders us severely when we try to uphold moral standards that go against the grain of our group. Against all my better judgment, I let my socially concerned instincts trample my reason and my values: I drank.
On this particular night, a bunch of old high school friends and I were enjoying our second annual Christmas break camping trip. Throughout the semester, this wilderness adventure was-to me at least-the light at the end of the tunnel: It pulled me through midterms, school projects, girl drama, and an excruciating round of finals. I had planned on a sober, woodsy overnight with the traditional midnight climb to the towering summit of a nearby hill-Enchanted Rock. Many of my friends had also vowed not to drink that night, remembering the disastrously drunken scene on the trip the year before: half the campers were throwing up, one girl had passed out cold, missing the breathtaking climb, I had stumbled and crawled my way to the summit only with the help of my boyfriend, and everyone woke up with the worst hangover of all time. It serves us right for emptying our water bottles to make room for mixed drinks.
Of course, everyone's memories of the year before conveniently faded the minute the boys started tapping into the whiskey and beer during our most recent trip. As we huddled around the campfire, the group mentality made itself entirely apparent.
"What time is it?" Janie teased.
"Drinking time," Rupert replied confidently.
I glanced across the campfire as two of my friends giggled, cracking open college-quality beers in unison.
I wanted so badly to take part in the same experience as everyone else on the camping trip. For once - just one night - I wanted to be able to relate to them, understand why a stolen hot dog was worth a yelling match or why a flaming marshmallow was so funny. I wanted my experience in the wilderness - especially my quest to top of the hill - to be just as magical as theirs would be. I was so sick of feeling isolated in my sobriety, so sick of counseling friends through their drunken tears, so sick of playing the "good girl" when I'm far from perfect. So I skulked to the cooler and grabbed a beer. Even as I took my first few sips, I knew better than to believe that alcohol would make the view of the stars from the peak of Enchanted Rock more magical. But I drank anyway.
I didn't get wasted, hammered, or smashed that night. I didn't "blackout" like I had been the year before. But still, I felt tipsy, barely drunk - but drunk all the same.
But of course, no amount of justification about why I did it or how I drank "in moderation" will ease my disappointment about my choice that night. No amount of rationalization will change the fact that drinking did not make that night magical. Alcohol did not make the stars brighter; instead, each drink dulled the brilliance of the solar bodies that much more. If anything, those few beers made me a little less coordinated, a little more likely to involve myself in meaningless bickering, a little more prone to eating chili-cheese-bean quesadillas (eww…), and a lot less likely to feel like myself.
I had known I would meet this disappointment with every sip I took. Alcohol no longer holds the excitement of the unknown: After three years of drinking, it is no longer new or mysterious to me. Its effects are utterly predictable; it bores me to tears. Two weeks ago, when I gave alcohol one more chance, my low expectations were undeniably confirmed: I felt the impaired coordination, the blurred vision, and the emotional instability but none of the exhilaration. This experience - like so many others before it - has told me that there's just no point in drinking. For me, at least.
With New Year's Eve looming a day away, I hope that I will be able to triumph over my instinctual need to belong. Drinking a glass of champagne wouldn't bother me but chugging four would. With every step forward I make in my life - making good grades, keeping up close friendships, maintaining my physical and emotional health - getting drunk seems to drag me two steps backwards. The day after I drink, I hit a low point in all aspects of my life, feeling completely lazy, slow, weak, stupid, and unhealthy - hangover or not. So, wish me luck. Hopefully, I can endure feeling like a little bit of an outcast tomorrow night for the chance to be the person I want to be in 2008.
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