No Is Still My Answer

I had fun, or at least I think I had fun.

For a few moments this morning, when I awoke from my stupor, the glaring light from the window threatened to crack open my skull. So, the question remains: did I have fun or not?

I am confident that I drank responsibly. I remember saying repeatedly, "Just one more". Then why, in the name of all that is good and holy, can I not remember most of last night? Why do I feel like I have been run over by a bus? And, oh my God, did the dog sleep with his paws in my mouth?

There is only one explanation. Someone put something in my last drink. That would explain my horrible headache, memory loss, nausea, and the terrible taste in my mouth because I don't actually own a dog.

I remember rushing home from work, changing into something sexy but age-appropriate, and then being picked up by friends to head to the opening of one of Little Rock's newest clubs. We all had been waiting for weeks because this place was not the norm for our town.

The evening began with lots of laughs. Comparing stories from work and our love lives or lack thereof, and then it gradually began to get fuzzy. Sometimes, that fuzzy thing seems to happen to me as alcohol, and I have a strange relationship. I have never had a problem saying "No"; my problem has been in saying "No More." I don't think someone putting something in my drink will be an acceptable excuse.

As I struggled to remember the events of the evening, my memory started to come back slowly at first and later in waves with the force of a tsunami. "NO!" I scream while covering my head with a nice, cool pillow.

I don't want to remember—it may be better to leave the memories of last night drowned in all the alcohol I evidently consumed. But then I can't help myself; part of me feels I must recall the evening's events. I need to know whether I can show my face in public today or, at least, what the proper length of time and distance would be to put between myself and last night.

The wave of memories did not stop and continued to haunt me throughout this painful, hungover day. I know what I think happened, but as the few friends still speaking to me start calling, the painful reality of the evening is revealed. Some tell me through laughter, others through a sense of embarrassment, and some I did not hear from at all. The ones I did not hear from were the most frightening and ultimately had the most severe repercussions.

Embarrassing images continue to wash over me with sickening clarity throughout the day.

As the waves of embarrassment hit me, I began to relive the events of the night more vividly. There appears to be a chasm of inconsistencies in the recollection of my alcohol-induced experience and what others had the misfortune to observe.

In my haze of recollection, I was both an observer and a participant. What I thought I participated in and the foggy recollection of what actually happened and observed by others came back to me slowly and accompanied by full-body shivers. Shivers that set every nerve in my body on edge. Below is how it played out as the alcohol wore off and reality set in.

Scene:

Participation (or so I thought at the time):

Everyone in the place thought I was fabulous. I was funny and charming, and every man I draped myself over was interested in my every word.

I was playing hard-to-get when a handsome young man approached and asked me to dance.

I was brilliant on the dance floor, sexy and smooth. All eyes were on me, and I could feel the admiration from my handsome dance partner. I was the envy of all.

As the music ended and a slow song began, my dance partner would not let me leave the floor and pulled me closer.

He tried to kiss me, but I rejected his advances. He was half my age, and I had just met him after all.

My dance moves were poetic and were the envy of all onlookers. I do remember that so many people in the club were watching me.

Finally, my friends swooped in to rescue me from the embrace of my overly aggressive dance partner. Then, to the young man's disappointment, I gracefully walked back to my table with a coy smile.

I thanked my friends repeatedly, especially my best friend, and we all had a grand laugh over the events of the evening.

Observation (of my friends and the gradual return of my memory):

I staggered over to several tables and draped myself all over every male present. I was confident they were interested in every slurred, nonsensical word I managed to speak.

My focus was on a very handsome young man. I was flirting shamelessly. He was at least half my age and was more embarrassed for me than interested in me.

I dragged him off his stool onto the dance floor. I would not take no for an answer.

My steps were offbeat as I tried unsuccessfully to follow the music, bumping and grinding provocatively, and had difficulty pulling it off because I could barely stand.

As the music ended and my dance partner tried to leave the dance floor, I grabbed him and hung on for dear life as he looked helpless and alarmed.

I kissed him sloppily, and he kissed me back briefly out of courtesy. He then pushed me away as I stumbled and held on to his neck to keep from falling.

When the song ended, my friends did not so much rescue me but the poor young man I was mauling.

My reaction was blind anger, and I lashed out at the closest person to me, in terms of distance and relationship—my best friend.

When she tried to explain that the young man was not interested in me, I made an unforgivable lapse in judgment (after all, my judgment was a little more than slightly impaired). I told her about a drunken night when her husband had made a pass at me. I was slurring, but I am sure she understood every word.

At the time, her husband, also one of my good friends, had apologized repeatedly, and we both had promised to take the incident to our graves. Nothing had happened. However, in my drunken state of mind, I played it up to be far more of an indiscretion on his part than it had been. Whoever said that drunks never lie is terribly wrong on that point. Lie or exaggeration, this possibly destroyed or put a significant dent in a marriage and a friendship.

Several members of my group held me up and helped me stumble to a booth, where I lay down and, much to everyone's relief, passed out for a while. When they could get me to stand upright and walk with little assistance, they poured me into an Uber and sent me home alone.

For the life of me, I have no idea how I got home or made it into my apartment and to bed.

As the gut-wrenching memories keep coming throughout the day, I list how many apologies I need to make and if any explanation would excuse my behavior. I know that for some, nothing will make our friendships whole again.

By the end of the day, I know this can never happen again. I considered AA for a brief moment and just as quickly decided it was not for me. AA works for many people, but my problem, as stated before, was not in saying "No" to alcohol. It was in saying 'No More'. I have been told in the past that I am the classic definition of a "binge drinker. I decided it was about time I learned to say "NO."

"I swear never again," I shout to no one in particular. I must admit I have said and shouted this more than a few times in the past, but there was something different about this time. I really hurt someone. This time, I meant it, and I swore that "No" would replace "No More" in my party vocabulary from this day forward.

It took losing a few friends, at least until I could regain their trust, for me to learn to say "No" when offered that first drink. It has to start with "No" because I have repeatedly proven that "No More" is not a phrase I can easily say after that first drink.

Five years have passed since that fateful night, and "No" is still my answer.