In 2021, I moved into my first ever “grown-up” apartment in New York City. Over the course of my move-in day, I had finished a small pint of Absolut vodka — a couple of swigs in the morning before the movers came (because obvi, celebration!), a few during, and the rest after. Once they left, I was ready to build some furniture and jam out to Taylor Swift’s “Welcome to New York.” I was determined to be classy as fuck in this new apartment, so I ordered a bottle of wine and double-Dashed my order with Wendy’s Spicy Chicken Nuggets and a frosty (I’m a vegetarian, but when drunk all bets are off).
An hour later, I was in a good place — noshing on the nugs, singing Taylor Swift, and feeling invincible with my power drill as I put together my bookshelf from West Elm. As I reached for my bottle of wine, I noticed it was a cork and not a twist off, which was a rookie mistake since I didn’t have a wine opener yet. I tried to problem-solve like I’d seen frat party boys do, pushing the cork inside the bottle. So I desperately tried that, unsuccessfully.
Then I realized: Wait! I have a power drill! You might see where this is going… I spun the drill through the cork to get the wine. I thought I’d make a neat tiny hole for pouring, but instead, the cork ruptured into a million tiny pieces and completely disintegrated into the bottle. I brought it to eye level and looked at the pieces that were impossible to pick out. Fuck it. I took a deep breath and downed all of it.
As I lay on my floor at 3 a.m., utterly ashamed and sedated with cork slushie in my belly, I thought, How did I end up here? I looked up in defeat and said, “God? Universe? Whoever is listening, help me. I cannot do this alone.”
Help did come, but the next 90 days were the hardest months of my life. Getting sober is an absolute bitch. It is, by far, the most challenging work I’ve ever done. It is also absolutely, unequivocally, the best thing I’ve ever experienced.
