A Night Out: A Road Diverged

The night air is cool against the sweat on my skin as I stumble out of the bar. I’m tempted to turn around and walk back in, enticed by the idea of the night not ending and dancing with strangers until the sun rises. But, with a surprising wave of prudence, I stagger forward, away from the front door. Groups of people are gathered in clumps around the entrance of the building, some waiting in line to get in, others loitering, and others like me, waiting for their ride to arrive. I glance down at my phone, the digits of the time slightly blurring together as my eyes refuse to focus fully. 12:43 AM. Definitely past my bedtime. I press myself up against the side of the building to make room for other people walking by, too conscious of my drunken state, trying to overcompensate on my self-awareness to come off as sober. I don’t think it was working.

            I pull the Uber app up on my phone. Ravi was two minutes away. Black Subaru, license plate number 13VAM96. I whisper the numbers back to myself repeatedly as I watch the little car icon inch closer and closer to my location. Making my way to the curb, I hastily dart my eyes around the traffic of cars, my brain registering each vehicle with a three-second delay. I probably shouldn’t have had that last tequila soda. That’ll be a price I pay for tomorrow. A black car pulls up in front of me, hazards blinking. I make my way to the trunk, quickly scanning the license plate to confirm this was in fact my ride, and out of sheer luck, it was.

            “Sarah?” I ask (actually, probably accidentally shouted it), clambering into the backseat. Ravi nods yes before speeding off onto the freeway. I get comfortable, seatbelt unbuckled. It’s a nasty habit I have whenever taking ride shares. Apparently, if I don’t know the driver, all rules go out the window.

            Without thinking, I open Find My Friends on my phone and search for one name. I scanned the list of people sharing their locations with me a handful of times before remembering that the person I was looking for had stopped sharing his a week ago. He had also lost access to mine. My heart drops and a heavy feeling settles in my stomach. Mixed with the alcohol I’d been throwing back all night, nausea began to rise up in my throat. I silently curse myself for slipping down this rabbit hole once again, knowing I could’ve easily avoided this anxious feeling that would soon spiral into wallowing if I had just shown some self-restraint. Too late.

            A night out ends up in two different scenarios; the first, always the desired outcome, is that I have an absolute blast and return home gleefully and fulfilled (and on occasion, return home with company). The second, the one I'm always convinced I can avoid (but definitely don't), is when the alcohol massages the part of my brain that secretes all my pent-up sad emotions, and that’s where I usually wind up sobbing myself to sleep in my bed, alone. Unfortunately, tonight was starting to go in the latter direction.

With all critical thinking skills diluted from the tequila, I plugged my headphones in and queued up Bon Iver – the title of the first track called self-sabotage. I reminded myself to make sure I give Ravi five stars for not being the chatty type and as an apology for crying in the backseat of his car. I leaned my head against the window, the cold glass a refreshing contrast against my hot forehead. My eyes struggled to follow the lights of buildings and cars as we accelerated down the highway toward home. A small voice in the back of my head, the devil on my shoulder, urges me to text him, to break the unspoken vow of no contact. I’ve never hated two words more in my life. Luckily, the shred of self-discipline that wasn’t dampened by the night quickly shut down that suggestion, gorilla-gluing the voice’s mouth shut and slapping a piece of tearproof duct tape over it.

            What is it about intoxication that makes you grieve something you’ve already healed from? What is it that makes you want to tear open old wounds? Not because you're necessarily a sadist, but maybe because when you're drunk, you quite happen to like the color red. Granted, this isn’t always how the night will end when I drink, but for some reason, I’m still willing to roll the dice and accept the risk of a fun night out with friends being ruined by my self-pity and inability to get over anything. Maybe it’s because the next morning, I can justify my tears with the alcohol and attribute the melancholy that follows me into the next day to hangxiety. Maybe it’s a universal experience, or maybe I just need to seek help.

            It’s enticing to chase the warm, fuzzy feeling. The one that makes you lose your inhibitions a bit and lets you put your guard down for once in your life. It’s a fun game of tag until I realize too late that the excitement I’m chasing has morphed into a bigger monster. A dark shadow that hugs my body and convinces me that I will never find love again. Its low, gravelly voice whispers into my ear like a lover, reminding me how lonely I am, and convincing me that everything that has ever gone wrong in my life has been my fault. I am my own downfall. It feeds on my self-hatred and seduces me into believing the only way to fix all my problems is to indulge more. Of course, I am always horribly mistaken.

            I make it home a little bit past 1 AM, fatigue and gloom weighing down my limbs. Despite my inebriated state, I still manage to follow through with my nighttime routine (brush my teeth, make-up off, cleanser, retainer, contacts, etc.). I’m in bed by 1:30 AM, and my eyes struggle to stay open as I sloppily respond to texts from friends. Yes, I made it home. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. I’m okay. Within seconds of my phone screen going black, I’m pulled into sleep. As I float somewhere between consciousness and a deep slumber, I think to myself, I would like to stay here forever.

I would like to stay here forever.