I don’t remember exactly when I had my first drink. I have visions. Maybe it was New Year’s Eve, my dad letting me try a sip of whisky and laughing when I spit it out, saying how the fuck does anyone drink this? Or maybe it was the clericó, fruit salad drowned in cheap wine, sweet and deceptive.
But when I hear “the first drink”, the image that comes to mind is my mother.
I’m absolutely sure she didn’t give it to me. That memory isn’t about that. But the brain does what it wants. Memories and shit. Like I said before.
We used to live on the 9th floor, and right below us were the offices of my mom’s company, my father’s unwilling investment. She’d sit out on the balcony after work with Carlos, my old mentor back when I wanted to be a hacker, and they’d drink whisky. Not even the good stuff. Sir Edwards or something just as grim.
I remember coming home from school one day, chatting about whatever, and mixing a bit of her whisky with Coca-Cola like it was some grown-up thing. Back then it felt harmless. Fun. Now when I think about it, I don’t know what the feeling is. Dread? Disgust? Rage? Pain? It’s in there somewhere, sour and stuck.
And then came the weekends. My house became the spot. My friends and I would pool what little cash we had, mostly from their allowances, I was already working side jobs, and we’d buy a bottle of cheap vodka and some Schweppes citrus. That was the ritual.
Later came the clubs. A little more money, a little more flash. Reserve a table. Whisky. Beers. Energy drinks. Vodka. We glamorized it. Our ability to buy the booze was the flex. Red Label on the table? You were doing alright. Two bottles? Black Label? Now we’re talking.
It’s ridiculous in hindsight. But back then, it was the game.
I could ramble on about the past twenty years of drinking. But here’s the truth.
My best and worst trait with alcohol has always been the same. I was measured.
I didn’t get into fights. I didn’t black out.
In two decades, I can count the nights I lost control on one hand and still have fingers left.
I was always “in control.”
Then I started working in the industry. Hospitality.
Everyone partying around you, and you’re the one making it happen.
And when it’s all said and done,
When the last dish is plated, the last asshole on table 23 has left, and the lights go out,
Where’s the party for you?
It starts after service.
A few beers. Chitchat. Shit-talking customers.
And a few too many, and you’ll get back home, drunk, tired from working 13 hours in a kitchen,
eat a shitty kebab or instant noodles with some weird concoction your drunk brain invents.
Sleep.
Next day: hangover.
Repeat.
But then it became part of my daily life.
Not just after the hard days. Every day.
Alone. Stressed. Happy.
Vacations. Depressions. Stagnation.
It didn’t matter. It was always there.
The drinking wasn’t a break from the grind anymore.
It was part of it.
And I was still calm. Still “in control.”
But at some point, it stopped being the thing I used.
It became the thing I needed.
That’s not okay anymore.
Because even when it’s putting strain on my body, my relationship, my health,
I’d still go get myself a beer. Like it was owed to me. Like I was still managing.
Finishing service with a pint and a ketoprofene.
I did that for months at my old job.
And even now, when I feel pain, the idea still triggers.
That’s the exact kind of quiet destruction kitchens normalize.
Because we think we’re invincible.
Until our kidneys beg for mercy.
Until our liver chokes on chemicals and dehydration.
And knowing full well I had a medical test the next day, one that would stress my organs,
I still drank like it was my last...
Not until you’re in the ER with a 10 out of 10 pain level and no way out but to wait it out
do you stop and think: what the fuck am I doing?
It’s been years. And here I am.
Cables around me. People poking and probing.
Nurses handing me vomit bags while chitchatting about what happened at the bar last night.
The bar.
And I realize, this is going to be my life.
And my body, my girlfriend, and the part of me that still gives a shit have all been telling me to stop.
To get a grip.
But now I’m here.
And I think I’ve danced on the edge long enough.
I see it now. Clearly. Painfully.
This could be my life.
Unless I change.
And I will.
I’m taking the pain I felt yesterday and burning it into memory.
The pain I’ve carried most of my life and tried to numb.
This isn’t a warning.
This is a boundary.
This isn’t a promise.
This is a decision.
Or else,
I’m dead.