November 11, 2016. I laid in bed watching Netflix before turning over and going to sleep. My eyes began to fall heavy and flutter shut. Suddenly I was no longer tired, and I was flooded with adrenaline when I heard a thud and my brother shriek “Mom!”. I leapt out of my bed and ran down the stairs to find my mother laying there, at the bottom. With pure panic we asked my mom if she was okay. With slurred and slow words, she said she was fine. Quickly we called our dad. Minutes after hanging up, my mom told us not to call him. With this statement, my brother and I’s eyes darted at each other. Knowing she had just forgotten what had happened less than a minute ago. Scared and on the verge of tears, my brother and I picked up the phone to call 911. Minutes later, our dad and first responders showed up with great concern. They loaded my mom into the ambulance and took her to the hospital to examine her head. With a million thoughts racing through our heads and tears of anxiety, we had to stay and talk with two officers about our mom’s drinking habits. How often did she drink? How much did she typically consume? Had it impaired her ability to function before? With a lump in my throat, I explained that my mom’s drinking was an issue. I had spent many nights taking care of her. I would carry her up to bed, force feed her water, etc. It had been an issue for a while, but it had never required outside help…until now. 

 

A day later, my mom was discharged with only a mild concussion. Fast forward a few weeks and with the intervention of my dad and some close family friends, my mom was taken to a rehab facility in the middle of a normal, warm, summer day. My mom’s best friend helped her pack her bags and took her to the facility. My brother and I went with my dad to his house, where I cried for hours in his arms. Reflecting on the countless nights I laid awake worrying about her, or carrying her up the stairs and taking care of her. These countless nights made me hate alcohol. I hated what it had done to my mom, and I hated what it had put me through. 

 

Years later, my mom had gone through rehab and no longer relied on alcohol. For me, it was time to focus on myself and spread my wings as I left for school, across the country. Away from everyone I loved and trusted, I was faced with the pressure to drink and party Thursday-Sunday. My past experience with alcohol and the effects it had on my life made me want to run in the opposite direction. But the peer pressure was high. All of the people I was meeting wanted to go out every night to drink until the sun came up, but that made me feel overwhelmingly anxious. I spent nights alone in my room feeling bad about myself because I felt like something was wrong with me because I didn’t want to engage in the typical ‘college experience’. Slowly, I began to find friends who had similar values to me and made me realize that nothing was wrong with me. I found that the college experience is not universal. It doesn’t have to be all about drinking and partying at any chance you get. It can be about more than that, and it is okay to stay in on a Friday night. My past with alcohol made me realize that the ‘college experience’ is not universal.