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A Break-Up Letter to Booze

Dear Alcohol,

I’ve been thinking a lot about our relationship lately. I’m not very happy, and no — it’s not me; it’s you.

Most of the time, I am an interesting, composed young adult. But all it takes is a small dose of you, and my hidden feelings are aired out for display. I then look like a blubbering idiot, and wake up choking on my regret.

At 17, you warmed my blood and imbued so much liquid confidence that I could consume as much of you as I wanted and still feel on top of the world. You brought out a shining sense of my own self, and I jumped on a “friendship” fuelled by my confident, alcohol-soaked ego. You made me into a more fun version of myself – or so I thought. You could barely touch my fully-functional liver, and I could rise the next day feeling alert and well-rested despite ejecting the contents of my stomach on a mate’s porch the night before.

This happened more than once throughout my 18th year, but I was buoyed by the support of my fellow binge-drinkers, convinced that having fun meant playing King’s Cup before waltzing up to a bouncer to advise him that I was sober and he should indeed let my friends and me in. You were also a critical element to my job in hospitality, and I invested much of what should have been my life savings on your liquid form. I found myself at countless bars across Brisbane, and even at a beach party in Thailand under a full moon, convinced that this was definitely living, Barry.

At 20, I decided I needed to focus on other goals. My relationship with you deteriorated as I realised I didn’t really need you. I became stronger on my own and could talk to other humans without needing the warm sedation you provided. I went about my daily hobbies and found my sober interactions far more fulfilling than the half-remembered conversations with Steve or Nick or whatever his name was. You fell by the wayside, but every month or so, I’d allow you to make a casual appearance.

Soon enough, my appetite for you increased once more, and I began party-hopping for the Year of the 21st. I still pursued my hobbies, however, and you were my second choice: waking up for swimming training in the mornings did not leave room for any trace of a hangover. I focused on my sporting goals, and this satisfied me more than any night dancing to Kanye and telling boys I was too good for them (though that was pretty fun).

But your presence was never obsolete. The after-parties to any sporting event were based on the consumption of you, where somehow, months of sacrificing fun (read: booze) for the pursuit of endurance was somehow made up for with a night at the Rolling Rock in Noosa, despite no one remembering what actually happened.

When I was 24, you muscled your way back to a central role in my life. I moved to Spain for the summer, and my working holiday treated me to daily surfs, free accommodation, free food and, best of all, unlimited free alcohol. A standard drink in Europe can be 5 euro or more, so I would’ve been silly not to drink as much as I could! Wouldn’t I?

My Great European Summer gave me experiences such as attending a huge wine fight in Basque Country, where we drank and absorbed wine until it was baked into our skin; vomiting out of a second-storey window after a huge night drinking sidra in San Sebastian; and boogying at parties in German beer halls, where 1-litre steins gave us the gall to fight even barmaids. We were asked never to return to one of the Oktoberfest halls, but it was worth the fun. Right?

I constantly felt a low-grade anxiety to stay drunk, and kept you within reach at all times to stay one step ahead of my poor, workhorse liver in social environments. When I was smuggling spirits into a seven-day music festival in Hungary in the lining of my backpack, did I realise my behaviour was similar to that of an addict? When I was drinking in the gutter outside a festival in Barcelona because the booze inside was too expensive, and I felt too sober to enjoy the music, did I acknowledge that I was seeking you out like a stage-5 clinger?

I did not.

Alcohol, I am not dependent on you, but I am incapable of saying no once I’ve had just one drink, especially when those around me are consuming you. Would anyone even notice if I didn’t drink? Years of cultural conditioning are affecting my judgement, and I have the prevailing attitude that I must consume you to have a good time, even though all you ever give me is a handful of regret and terrible nausea. I even choose to buy you when I’m sober on the pretext of having a good night. But I’ve come to notice that much of your effect is a placebo, and that I could carry around a glass of water and still feel the same exuberance from socialising without my money going down the drain – literally and figuratively.

Alcohol, I’m not breaking up with you, but I do feel like this relationship is becoming one-way. You’re sucking the joy out of everything lately, so I’m just letting you know that I don’t need you to enjoy myself anymore.

I’m a fun, interesting young woman who don’t need no booze to show her a good time.

Regards,

Tia

Cover by Drew Farwell 

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Astray is based out of Lenapehoking / New York City: the homeland of the Lenape. Specifically, we’re in Manhattan: a name that comes from Mannahatta, meaning “island of many hills”. As grateful guests in this city, we recognize the strength and resilience of the Lenape, and extend our reverence to all Indigenous peoples everywhere. This acknowledgement comes from our commitment to working against the ongoing legacies of settler colonialism.