Last fall, I was one of the “dumb and irresponsible people” to wake up in a hospital bed after drinking an entire bottle of rum.
In the midst of a panic attack, I recalled memories of my ex-boyfriend sexually assaulting me, resenting my inability to ever get closure. For some reason, I convinced myself that chugging hard liquor would calm me down. I didn’t care about the consequences. Frankly, I was suicidal and too distressed for them to matter. I started to realize, half-conscious, the terrible mistake I’d made as soon as I saw my body on a stretcher. I begged emergency medical technicians not to take me to the hospital, all the while delusionally screaming at my ex-boyfriend thousands of miles away.