Scary Doesn't Cut It

I was fourteen.  It was vodka.  The problem was, I had no idea what that meant.  Looking back, I probably consumed about eight ounces of potential poison that night.  Didn’t have a chaser, didn’t need one. I was too cool for that.  Straight up Smirnoff from a trashy Arrowhead water bottle.  It was just me, my friend Heather, and Ryan.  We sat in a sketchy basement room turned into a guest room.  And got wasted.  What the fuck was I doing?

            I don’t remember much.  That fact frightens me.  I have visions of that night, flickering in and out of my mind.  Heather.  Black.  Bed.  Black.  Ryan in a chair.  Black.  The ceiling and a light.  Black.  Lots of talking… Then nothing.

            I woke up in a car.  Ryan’s friend had come to drive Heather and I back to my house.  She was supposed to spend the night.  I don’t remember getting in my house.  I do remember turning on the light to my room and heading for my bed.  I attempted to climb under the sheets but full on slammed my head into the wall instead.  I don’t think that woke my parents.  I do think that my persistent vomiting for the next few hours did.

            My dad drove Heather home in the middle of the night.  I don’t remember how the next day went.  But I do remember thinking I was going to die in that car all the way until I was vomiting.  That feeling... you can feel it in your gut.  Death, with a hint of hydrochloric acid and bile.  It's the most frightening feeling that has ever engulfed my senses.

That one night was my first and only blackout since.  It is a terrifying thing to know that your body was present somewhere, but your mind wasn't.  I refuse to ever feel that way again.