Life Is Better When I'm Drunk

I used to look at my dad and my uncle and swear I’d be different.

I told myself I would never be like them men who smelled like cheap liquor and regret, stumbling around the house like ghosts wearing human skin. They weren't really present they were just there. Bodies without souls. Men who raised their voices more than their children. Men who laughed too loudly at night and cried too quietly in the morning. I grew up watching them disappear into bottles, day after day, until there was nothing left of them but broken promises and shaking hands.

And I told myself, as a kid gripping a pillow tightly in the dark, “I’ll never become that.”

But I did.

My first taste of alcohol came by accident. I was eight. It was my cousin’s 25th birthday, and there were drinks on the table. I grabbed a can, thinking it was soda Coke or Pepsi, maybe. I didn’t even notice the bitter taste right away. I was just a kid trying to feel like part of the party. After a few sips, everything felt warm. My head got light. I curled up in a chair and fell asleep while people laughed and danced around me.

Nobody noticed.

My mom never found out.

It was just a small thing.

Right?

The second time wasn’t accidental. I was fifteen, in high school, and nursing my first heartbreak like it was a disease. I was in love. Or at least I thought I was. She was my first everything the first person who made me feel seen. Then she left. For someone older. Someone “better.”

I didn’t know how to process it. All I knew was that the pain in my chest didn’t go away no matter how long I cried. So I did what I had seen my uncle do a thousand times I went to the nearest supermarket, bought three cans of beer (no ID, no questions), and drank them all in one night. Alone. In the dark. I cried until my throat was dry. I texted her. I begged. I said sorry for things I didn’t even understand. She never replied.

But that night, something shifted.

Because for a few hours, the pain dulled. Just a little. Enough to breathe.

And I thought, “Maybe this is what they feel too. Maybe this is how they survive.”

Now I’m in college.

And I drink like it’s part of my routine.

Like brushing teeth. Like breathing.

Nobody questions it because everyone drinks.

But they don’t drink like I do.

I don’t drink for fun.

I drink to feel something.

Or to feel nothing.

It started small. A bottle after a long day. Then it became a bottle before class. Then I started bringing liquor in my bag hidden in an old energy drink bottle. No one noticed. I’ve gotten good at hiding it. Smiling when I need to. Laughing when I should. Passing my subjects just enough to stay out of trouble.

But inside, I feel like I’m already gone.

My dorm is a mess. Empty bottles hide under the bed like monsters. My trash bin is filled with aluminum and broken dreams. The air smells stale like someone died and nobody cared to clean it up. And maybe something did die.

Me.

Or at least the version of me that used to care.

I wake up every day with a dry mouth and a heavy heart.

I shower just to feel something cold.

I sit in lectures, barely listening, thinking about the next drink.

Thinking about how to numb the next wave of sadness.

My friends what’s left of them don’t see it. I stopped replying in the group chats. Stopped showing up to birthdays. I’ve mastered the art of excuses. “I’m busy.”"I'm sick right now” “burnout lang.” But the truth is I just don’t want to be around people who seem to have it all together. They make me feel like I’m made of broken glass.

Most nights I drink alone. Sometimes I don’t even bother with music or movies. I just sit on the floor. Lights off. Holding a bottle like it's the only thing that understands me. There are nights I stare at my ceiling fan spinning slowly and wonder if this is it. If this is how it ends.

I’ve blacked out more than once.

Woke up with vomit on my shirt.

Pissed myself once.

Missed an exam because I forgot what day it was.

Looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the face staring back.

And still, I drink.

I drink when I’m tired.

I drink when I’m sad.

I drink when I’ve done something good because it feels wrong to be proud.

I drink when I fail because I already expected to.

I drink when I feel alone.

I drink when I feel surrounded.

I drink when I don’t want to think.

Because thinking leads to feeling.

And feeling leads to remembering.

And remembering hurts.

I know I’ve become what I feared.

A copy of the men I swore to avoid.

A boy with a bottle and a broken heart.

A ghost walking through campus, invisible in plain sight.

People think alcohol makes you fun.

But they don’t see the crying.

They don’t see the shaking hands when the bottle is empty.

They don’t hear the late night thoughts whispering, “You’re worthless. You’re nothing. You’re better off gone.”

They don’t know what it feels like to drink not because you want to,

But because you need to.

Because the silence is louder than the hangover.

Because the memories come back when you’re sober.

Because it’s the only way you know how to stay alive.

And maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to be saved.

Because life is so much better when I’m drunk.

Even if it’s a lie.

Even if it’s killing me.

Because when I’m drunk, I’m not myself.

And maybe that’s the only part that still feels like freedom.

I stopped trying to count the days.

I don’t know what day it is anymore. I don’t care. I stopped checking my phone. I mute every notification. My inbox is full. My professors probably think I dropped out. Maybe I did. I don't even remember the last time I attended class. I told myself it would be just one absence. Then two. Then one week. Then a month passed and I still couldn’t get out of bed.

I smell like sweat, alcohol, and something rotting inside me.

I haven’t showered in days.

I haven’t eaten in a while either.

I drink. That’s all I do.

A bottle in the morning, a bottle before bed, and if I’m lucky, something cheap to numb the space between.

I used to lie to myself. Tell myself I had control. That I could quit whenever I wanted.

But now, even the lies stopped working.

There’s no one left.

The people I used to talk to? They’re gone.

They got tired of my excuses.

Tired of checking up on me and getting silence in return.

I can’t blame them.

I wouldn't stay either.

Sometimes I stare at the ceiling and wonder what they’d write if I died.

Maybe a long post on Facebook. Some sad quotes. A picture of me when I still looked alive.

“Rest in peace.”

“You were so funny.”

“I wish I reached out more.”

But no one reaches out now.

And honestly… good.

I don’t want to be saved.

I don’t want advice.

I don’t want anyone telling me it gets better.

Because it doesn’t.

Not for people like me.

People think rock bottom is some dramatic fall.

But it’s not.

It’s slow. It’s quiet.

It’s a hollowing.

It’s realizing you don’t cry anymore, because crying needs energy.

It’s realizing the bottle is empty and you don’t even bother getting another one because moving feels like too much effort.

It’s lying on the cold floor, staring at the ceiling, asking yourself if it’s worth getting up.

Spoiler: it’s not.

I stopped dreaming.

When I sleep, I black out.

No dreams. No peace. Just darkness.

And when I wake up, I feel worse. Because I’m still here.

I used to be full of ideas.

I wanted to build things. I wanted to love someone.

I wanted to be better than my childhood.

Now all I want is silence.

I’ve thought about dying.

A lot.

I don’t really plan it. I just imagine it.

How quiet it would be.

How peaceful.

How clean.

I think about leaving a note.

Something short.

“Sorry I couldn’t be stronger.”

“Please don’t blame yourselves.”

But who am I kidding? No one would read it.

The truth is, no one notices when I disappear.

I’ve been gone long before I’m gone.

People say there's always a way out.

That hope comes in the darkest hour.

That healing is possible.

But not for me.

I don't want help.

I don't want light.

I want silence.

I want the darkness to swallow me completely so I don't have to keep pretending.

They told me life was a gift.

But some gifts are broken before you even open them.

And me?

I’m not living.

I’m just waiting.

For the bottle to run dry.

For my body to give up.

For my story to end quiet, forgotten, and unloved.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because I was never meant to last.

Just like every bottle I’ve emptied.

Just like every promise I’ve broken to myself.

Just like the kid who said,

“I’ll never be like them.”

He died a long time ago.

I just never buried him.