first drink
By: Emily Alber
When my parents divorced, old wounds of rejection and abandonment rushed back in. It confirmed what I had always suspected— love could leave at any moment. The fear didn’t come from nowhere, but a time I couldn’t remember. My adoption was never discussed at home and I still don’t understand why. I learned early how to fill silence with fantasy— wondering where I came from and who I looked like. I had questions, but not the language to ask them. The silence itself became the answer— one that told me I didn’t belong.
My father announced he was moving on with a new woman, but I didn’t trust her. Complicated feelings festered with nowhere to go. I began lashing out in pain but no one could hear me. The more I was devalued, the louder I became. My relationships with parents and siblings grew strained and suddenly home felt like a house of closed doors. I was primed for alcohol and I didn’t even know it.
By the time I had my first drink, emotional pain had swallowed me whole.
It felt like a long exhale after holding my breath. Euphoric chemicals swirled in my head while Peppermint Schnapps burned in my belly. For the first time, the noise inside me stopped. The flood of warmth emptied my body. Anxiety, self-doubt and the ache of never belonging—gone. This silence was intoxicating. It was the first time I felt relief. I wish I could have seen the danger in it back then.
What started out as freedom quickly turned into a nightmare. Mental health issues began to stack up in high school and by college they consumed me. Mornings began with shame and cigarettes; nights ended in blackouts or tears. I lied to the people I loved, made promises I couldn’t keep and woke up in rooms I didn’t remember walking into. I bulldozed my way through my twenties—dropping out of school, starting over, and moving home more times than I can count. Every attempt to live a life of my own crumbled under the weight of my problems. I thought I was in control, but control was long gone. I was left negotiating with chaos.
My thirties were hell. The same alcohol that once softened everything eventually turned on me. Starting over, pretending to recover, and falling apart again became a pattern. Nights blurred into mornings that felt like crime scenes — too often I found myself piecing together what I’d said, who I’d called and what bridges I’d burned. I kept swearing it would be different the next time, but the next time always came. Each binge took with it a little more of my dignity. I was trapped in a cycle of pain, relief, regret, repeat.
Now when I think about the first drink, I don’t see freedom. I see a portal leading me back to where I was at the height of my addiction.
Life looks different now that I’ve disrupted the pattern—smaller, steadier, real. Sobriety hasn’t been easy, but it’s been honest. It’s taught me how to stick through the discomfort, to feel things I used to run from, and to let people in even when it’s hard. For the first time, belonging doesn’t feel like fantasy. It feels possible.
