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Abstract

for backup from a 5'2" drunk girl. Then again, never underestimate the magical power of tequila, turning you into a wild, rampaging bull with the strength of ten grown men.Or at least in my case, the strength of one small-town policeman.His partner threatened to taser me if I didn’t cooperate. So, I stood up and continued to kick him in the shins with my stilettos (because in 2006 I wore stilettos instead of my beloved Birkenstocks that I have now). Oh, how times have changed.After being dragged down the stairs and across the cement patio, I was thrown into the back of the police car, kicking and cussing the whole way, like the classy lady I am.Alone in the musty room, I sat up straight on the tiny mattress I was laying on and looked around. Confused and cold, as soon as I saw another person, I asked where I was.“You were put on suicide watch.” said the trustee sweeping floors.What? How did I land here and what did I say to be put into a room by myself and to be watched? Tequila told me I was strong and a badass. Not on a suicide mission.To this day, I have no idea how I landed myself in that room. But, it’s also not surprising.Once I was no longer a threat to myself, I was moved from my little musty room to a holding cell. The jail was full and it was a holiday weekend. It was me and one other girl for the first 2 days. She was climbing the cell because she said she was a monkey in a zoo.It was probably meth.As the weekend progressed, the more full the holding cell became. I was trying to sleep one night when heard a distinct giggle coming from the new inmate. I knew that giggle, so I opened my eyes and there she was.The girl my ex cheated on me with.The universe has some sense of humor, doesn’t she?I figured this was my instant karma and my very own version of hell. I ended up spending 5 days in that cell.Between the stale bologna sandwiches and being watched by male police officers while I peed, you would t

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hink that I would have quit drinking right then. I was facing two felonies and a misdemeanor for assaulting 2 police officers, resisting and obstructing arrest, and violating the peace.But I didn’t learn.No, my friend, this was only the beginning.I kept drinking for another 14 years, ignoring additional reckless behavior. The only thing I learned from this was that my disdain for authority came out tenfold while drunk. So, for the next 14 years, I tried to evade police, rather than assault them.But, this wasn’t the last time I’d see the inside of a police station.When I stopped drinking, I immersed myself in reading and listening to accounts of people’s drinking experiences gone wrong. It was comforting to know that others could understand my situation, or at least empathize with the emotions I was feeling.These stories highlighted the profound sense of humiliation and guilt that I had experienced. Like the shame that engulfed me as I walked out of jail in my unwashed clothes, with scrapes on my face from being dragged across the cement, bruises on my wrists from the handcuffs, and a complete loss of pride.I can proudly say now that I can have a good laugh looking back on this situation and I hope you laughed at my account as well. But, there were years that this made me so embarrassed that I told no one and hoped it would disappear as quickly as it happened.If you’re in the middle of that shame, I am here to tell you that it does get better. The things you’ve done while drunk may have been embarrassing, shameful, or beneath your moral code. But, trust me — there are lots of us out here with similar stories.Let go of the weight you’re giving those stories and don’t let them hinder your progress and your sobriety. The past is only to serve as a reminder that we’re not that person anymore.Disclaimer: I am fully aware of my privilege in this situation. It’s not lost on me that if my skin were a different color, or if I belonged to a marginalized community, my outcome could have been far less favorable.</article></body>

Tequila Tales: A Fun Night Out Turned Into My Own Personal Hell

Tequila-fueled rage and a disdain for authority do not mix well.

I hesitantly cracked open my bleary eyes in the cold, bright room. My throbbing head was bombarded by a pungent aroma, a noxious mixture of stagnant water, and a stench reminiscent of rancid, sweat-soaked gym socks.

What the hell is that? I adjusted my blurred vision and focused my heavy, bloodshot eyes.

A drain? Why is there a drain near my head?

Where am I?

Confusion set in and the spotty memories from my night started flooding in, broken and not quite pieced together correctly.

Most of my mornings started this way — with me putting together the broken puzzle pieces of the night before, to get a faint hint of a picture that may or may not make sense.

I remembered being at the bar. I lost count after 8 tequila shots. My best guess is that I had at least 10, maybe 12. In addition to the beers I was drinking, of course.

Somehow I managed to get to an afterparty and continue drinking the night away after the bar. The police were called due to a noise complaint and the rest went downhill.

I opened the door and was shoved down after telling them they didn’t have permission to enter the apartment. At least, that’s what happened in my mind. I don’t necessarily trust my recollection, although our small-town police force wasn’t always known for following rules either.

Tequila-rage ensued.

I punched the police officer right in the face.

And then I did it again.

He called for backup after wrestling me to the ground, which I still find humorous to this day. Big burly policeman calling for backup from a 5'2" drunk girl. Then again, never underestimate the magical power of tequila, turning you into a wild, rampaging bull with the strength of ten grown men.

Or at least in my case, the strength of one small-town policeman.

His partner threatened to taser me if I didn’t cooperate. So, I stood up and continued to kick him in the shins with my stilettos (because in 2006 I wore stilettos instead of my beloved Birkenstocks that I have now). Oh, how times have changed.

After being dragged down the stairs and across the cement patio, I was thrown into the back of the police car, kicking and cussing the whole way, like the classy lady I am.

Alone in the musty room, I sat up straight on the tiny mattress I was laying on and looked around. Confused and cold, as soon as I saw another person, I asked where I was.

“You were put on suicide watch.” said the trustee sweeping floors.

What? How did I land here and what did I say to be put into a room by myself and to be watched? Tequila told me I was strong and a badass. Not on a suicide mission.

To this day, I have no idea how I landed myself in that room. But, it’s also not surprising.

Once I was no longer a threat to myself, I was moved from my little musty room to a holding cell. The jail was full and it was a holiday weekend. It was me and one other girl for the first 2 days. She was climbing the cell because she said she was a monkey in a zoo.

It was probably meth.

As the weekend progressed, the more full the holding cell became. I was trying to sleep one night when heard a distinct giggle coming from the new inmate. I knew that giggle, so I opened my eyes and there she was.

The girl my ex cheated on me with.

The universe has some sense of humor, doesn’t she?

I figured this was my instant karma and my very own version of hell. I ended up spending 5 days in that cell.

Between the stale bologna sandwiches and being watched by male police officers while I peed, you would think that I would have quit drinking right then. I was facing two felonies and a misdemeanor for assaulting 2 police officers, resisting and obstructing arrest, and violating the peace.

But I didn’t learn.

No, my friend, this was only the beginning.

I kept drinking for another 14 years, ignoring additional reckless behavior. The only thing I learned from this was that my disdain for authority came out tenfold while drunk. So, for the next 14 years, I tried to evade police, rather than assault them.

But, this wasn’t the last time I’d see the inside of a police station.

When I stopped drinking, I immersed myself in reading and listening to accounts of people’s drinking experiences gone wrong. It was comforting to know that others could understand my situation, or at least empathize with the emotions I was feeling.

These stories highlighted the profound sense of humiliation and guilt that I had experienced. Like the shame that engulfed me as I walked out of jail in my unwashed clothes, with scrapes on my face from being dragged across the cement, bruises on my wrists from the handcuffs, and a complete loss of pride.

I can proudly say now that I can have a good laugh looking back on this situation and I hope you laughed at my account as well. But, there were years that this made me so embarrassed that I told no one and hoped it would disappear as quickly as it happened.

If you’re in the middle of that shame, I am here to tell you that it does get better. The things you’ve done while drunk may have been embarrassing, shameful, or beneath your moral code. But, trust me — there are lots of us out here with similar stories.

Let go of the weight you’re giving those stories and don’t let them hinder your progress and your sobriety. The past is only to serve as a reminder that we’re not that person anymore.

Disclaimer: I am fully aware of my privilege in this situation. It’s not lost on me that if my skin were a different color, or if I belonged to a marginalized community, my outcome could have been far less favorable.