Last night, as I lay in bed, I found myself reflecting on the effects alcohol has had on my life. With several weeks of sobriety now under my belt, I’m better equipped to analyze my sober self versus the person I become when I drink.
This reflection isn’t just for me—it’s for anyone who might need help understanding how alcohol is altering their personality. Perhaps you already know what happens when you drink, and that’s great. But for some, reading someone else’s story can bring to light things you might not have realized are also happening to you.
This post is a candid look at what getting drunk really does to me. My hope is that it might help you frame your own experiences with alcohol and recognize why it might be a problem.
Let me walk you through a typical weekday night.
I work in New York City, where my days are packed with stress and deadlines. The stress is a major trigger for me. As the workday winds down, colleagues often talk about grabbing a drink after work. I want to go home, but there’s this little voice in my head saying, “You deserve that drink after a day like today.”
The more I try to convince myself to just get on the train, the more I feel drawn to that “one drink.” And then the rationalizations start: “You weren’t going to make that train anyway.”
The moment my lips touch that first martini, it’s game over. We chat about work, and I convince myself that staying is part of my job. The second martini hits, and on an empty stomach, I feel a buzz. It feels good—too good.
Now, I’m contemplating staying longer. My mind races: “Should I buy a vape? Should I text the guy about cocaine?” Reality blurs, and by the third drink, I’m drunk.
At this point, I’m no longer in control—I’m someone else entirely.
All sense of responsibility vanishes. My only focus is on the next drink. My phone is tucked away, and my wife—who I love deeply—is no longer on my mind. The idea of letting her know what I’m up to has completely evaporated.
Often, the reason my wife would get so upset wasn’t that I was out drinking—it was because I failed to communicate.
Back to the night at hand—my thoughts shift to getting blow. I have a number I can text. It’s humiliating, the way I’ve asked around for this contact in the past, looking foolish and desperate—like an addict. It might be a Tuesday at 7 PM, and here I am, sending sloppy, incoherent texts.
“See you in 45 minutes,” the reply reads.
I’m elated. Just need another drink or two to fill the time.
I shadily meet someone on a bike in the middle of a bustling New York City street. The situation is precarious—I could get arrested, my life could change in an instant—but alcohol cloaks me in a false sense of invincibility.
I’m doing blow in a bathroom by myself while my coworkers chat outside. I’m high, and I still want to drink more, but I also know it’s time to go home. If this were a planned night out, I’d be out until 2 AM, ending in a karaoke bar in Koreatown. But tonight, I’m just going to Uber home. It’s around 9 PM.
The ride home is a blur of manic calling, emailing, and texting. The mix of booze and cocaine creates a slurry of embarrassing conversations and “brilliant” ideas that will make no sense in the harsh light of morning.
I drive home from the train station, where my car has been parked since the morning commute. Who knows what my driving looks like? I get home, and my wife and kids are asleep, like the angels they are. I lie in bed, the devil, spinning but wired from the last bump I did before heading upstairs.
I stay awake for hours, sometimes texting, sometimes gambling online (much more on this in another post). The cloak of invincibility is gone. Now, I’m just anxious and sad. My heart races, and I think I might die. I promise myself I’ll drink less next time and never touch blow again—but deep down, I know it’s a lie.
I go downstairs two or three times to take shots of whiskey to calm my nerves and help me sleep. Eventually, more than five hours later, my body gives in.
The next morning, I wake up with a brutal hangover and a fresh set of anxieties. As I shower, metaphorically washing away the night, I think about the fact that I did it again—the same playbook of bad decisions, the same outcome of self-loathing.
As I write this, I’m keenly aware of the stakes. Any number of things could have drastically altered the course of my life for the worse.
How many things did I say that could hurt my job prospects or get me fired?
What if I got arrested for buying drugs or drinking and driving? What if I killed someone?
What if I died from cocaine laced with fentanyl—a more common occurrence these days?
And then I think about my family, who loves me. What would they think if they saw me like this?
What if my decisions left my kids without a dad?
Something has to change.
—Paul
Leave a Reply