But I slam the whiskey and dispose of the cup and head to the beer tub. I do this because I think grabbing a beer after slamming a whiskey sour in the bathroom is a responsible decision. That I'm thirty and I know how to handle my cocktails. That I'm in control.
But it's somewhere between grabbing that beer and taking the time to make sure the ABV is high enough to satisfy my social anxiety that I wind up back in the bathroom. And then I may be staring at the ripples in the water of the toilet bowl or gaping at the drops on the drain of the sink while my friend unloads a sermon of self worth, love, and acceptance into my ear; as I'm trying to determine whether I'm going to wake up with my cat on my chest, relieved that it was all a horrid dream, or whether I'm actually going to have to straighten up and navigate my way out of this place at some point. When my friend's hand is on my shoulder and he's making sure our eyes are locked and he's telling me about how everything I do is enough and how I am worth it, I realize I drank way too much. That I probably should've eaten more of the food instead of pummeling my public unease with alcohol. I realize this way too late.
So I wind up back in the stall. And then a different friend has her hand on my shoulder. And she's telling me there's nothing to worry about but I also need to get home. I need to leave. And I don't want to hear this. So I bury my face further into the well. But she's unrelenting. And I'm too incapacitated to really do anything. So I'm guided along, out the building and to the back seat of a car. I'm given a trash bag for emergencies. I'm covered in shame. But I make it home and I make it to the floor and I make it to unconsciousness and then back to consciousness and it's all ok.
It's all ok. But I still can't think.
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