Content Notice: This story contains references to Substance Abuse, Suicide.
I woke up in a stranger’s bed, still drunk from the night before, with a raging headache and the familiar onset of a bad hangover. I pretended to be okay, nonchalantly calling an Uber to go home, and telling this stranger, “I had a nice time last night,” followed by a quick goodbye. In reality, I didn’t really remember anything. My heart was pounding from alcohol and prescription meds, I had a bunch of missed messages on my phone from my employer demanding to know why I hadn’t shown up, and I was fighting a pit of regret in my stomach.
As I laid on the floor that day, trying not to throw up, I realized I couldn’t do it anymore. While these feelings felt familiar, this wasn’t even rock bottom for me — and I’ve had my fair share: numerous suicide attempts, erratic behavior that damaged relationships, and an experience where I was almost committed to the psychiatric ward. But something about this hangover and experience felt different. It was like everything in my psyche and soul said, “ENOUGH.”