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The best part of being infamous is that there’s not much more I can do to ruin my own reputation. Last night was a shitshow that ended in the hospital, but mortified I am not — even if I did get wheeled off on a stretcher in the middle of the Tri-House Formal. In my eagerness to become as intoxicated as possible, I counted on my dear friend Nate (also known as NS on this blog) to keep my liver in check. He even brought his roommate Hamilton along for the ride. Between two strapping six-foot tall gentlemen, how much trouble could one petite (albeit excitable) Asian gal be? Apparently, plenty. Especially if all parties are equally blitzed.
After attending the Mather champagne toast, my blockmates and I split up to meet our individual dates. Upon rendezvouing with Nate and Hamilton, I pulled aside the former (my official escort for the evening) and told him that I wouldn’t even set foot in the formal if not for his company. He was a pillar of support. Besides opening my doors, his job for the night was to keep me from drinking too much or in lieu of that, embarassing myself while drunk. We made a mutual promise — I stopped at five drinks and he took care of me. It was on the fourth room of the seven-room Mather pregame that we mutually broke that agreement over group tequila shots (my sixth drink of the evening and the first indication that events would soon spiral out of control).
Happily intoxicated, we somehow found our way to the formal. But for my dates and I, the Mather pre-game was the game, as we recalled very little after entering the Faculty Club. The last thing I remember before having my feet and shoulders lifted onto a strecher was flirting with Hamilton over cheese and crackers. My former freshman fall fuck buddy, Hamilton and I jumped into bed again just a couple weeks ago like an unofficial one-year anniversary celebration of no-strings-attached sex. In my drunken stupor, I thought a repeat encounter would be preferable to sleeping without company, especially considering my strictly platonic relationship with Nate.
It was not to be. Shortly after losing sight of my two boys, the eight or so drinks I had hit me hard. I puked and passed out on Faculty Club furniture while hundreds of my peers dined and danced in close proximity. Then there was a stretcher, an ambulance, and a hospital room at Mt. Auburn where I vaguely recall a nurse saying that my blood alcohol level was at .25, three times the legal limit. This morning, I was driven by HUPD to UHS where I slept away at Stillman until waking at 9:00 a.m. to sunshine and a nasty hangover.
Allie picked me up after the doctor conducted a mandatory interview. A year ago, I might’ve paid attention, but this time, I was impatient to leave and I knew there was nothing that could be said that would induce startling rethinking of my life — I was already in therapy, after all. The doctor asked me what happened, to which I responded flatly, “I had too much to drink.” She asked me how often this happened and as I recounted my drinking habits, I already knew where this was headed. “Listen, I don’t have a drinking problem,” I said. “I have a much bigger problem than that. I think I have a mood disorder.” After explaining that last night was the exception to otherwise responsible sophomore year behavior, I assured her that the mental health professionals at UHS had me covered. She assured me that she’d alert my therapist — how thoughtful.
It was at that point that she leaned in and asked, “So what do you think of the state of mental health at Harvard? I’m always curious to see what people have to say.” In no mood to mince my words, I responded, “Let me put it this way: I don’t think people come to Harvard to be happy or to feel good about themselves. But as banking careers indicate, we sign up knowing that this insanely difficult lifestyle is the one we choose to lead. We’re all masochists.”
I hope she appreciated the honesty, because I couldn’t appreciate the educational handouts less. As a freshman, I never took them seriously. As a sophomore, I finally sought help — not because some authority figure or piece of paper told me to, but because a friend did. As other compulsive behavior surfaced — an eating disorder, a shopping addiction, serial monogamy — I determined the real cause of the rampant drinking that took place all last year: a desire to avoid life. It wasn’t until entering therapy that I pinpointed what I used all this unhealthy behavior to escape. It wasn’t until last night became the exception and not the rule that I discovered my flirtation with alcohol dependency had ended. I hadn’t drunken for the wrong reasons all term, and perhaps I needed to do it once more in order to realize that I was finally over it. Last night will remain an isolated incident. For all that can be said of my other bad habits, alcohol abuse is not one I plan on slipping back into.
December 11th, 2006 at 2:24 pm
“Shortly after losing sight of my two boys,”
Just for the record, I stayed with you the entire time. I was content to leave you sleeping/passed out on the sofa next to me until you were ready to make a more discrete exit, but HUPD/UHS didn’t share my opinion. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry that “Nate” and I didn’t take better care of you. (Not that he faired any better, I hear he had quite a night… )
-Hamilton
December 11th, 2006 at 2:36 pm
Ah yes… first semester sophmore year is when I woke up in the hospital. I too was trying to avoid life.
If you’re like me (which I think you are), this will most definitely be an isolated incident. You know what happened and why. You’ve learned that alcohol is an escape and not a solution.
You are going to rise.
December 11th, 2006 at 4:30 pm
What does it mean to “avoid life”? Do you mean avoiding people? Avoiding decisions? Avoiding responsibility? I would think the only way to avoid life is to end it, because a life of avoidance is a life, after all. In fact, most people spend much of their lives avoiding anything that they don’t like–the dentist, their inlaws, even unpleasant historical truths–that’s one pathological avoidance we experience en masse. So you’ve made the connection between your compulsive behaviors and the desire to avoid, or “escape” from life. So why do you want to escape? Are there real reasons for your ennui, or is it a chemical imbalance that could be corrected with drugs? Could it be that you are attracted to the idea of being troubled, because it’s more romantic and interesting than being well-adjusted? Are you addicted to the emotional highs that only seem to be attainable by accepting periodic corresponding lows? Might your soul be trying to tell you something about the path you seem to be on–a life of success that doesn’t really mean anything other than satisfying mean desires and existential requirements like avoiding starvation? Having no real problems, are you looking to create some in order to justify the feeling that things aren’t right even though you can’t put your finger on why that is? And finally, what are the right reasons to drink, if not to get drunk and escape a mundane moment, if not a mundane life?
December 11th, 2006 at 7:35 pm
Been there, done that — although St. Elizabeth’s (just across the river from Mt. Auburn, actually) isn’t quite as accomodating. Luckily, I’ve heard that Harvard is pretty forgiving with these types of incidents (is that true?), so you won’t have to drop the $500 bill/fine. Good luck working everything out.
December 12th, 2006 at 5:48 am
So when your roommate told me that you had had a “bit too much fun” at Formal… that was a bit of an understatement. Or just unclear in general. In any event, I’m sorry I didn’t inquire further, so I just found out what happened. But I’m glad that you’re alright. Talk to you soon(?)!
December 12th, 2006 at 5:50 am
Blaser, I regret that you and your blocking group chose to opt out of the Formal. We shall chat. Soon.
December 12th, 2006 at 3:09 pm
I don’t really have anything much to say to this–poor you, sucky evening, glad you were okay–except to chime in that comments like the one by Real Truther, if I were in your shoes, would really annoy the hell out of me.
December 12th, 2006 at 7:28 pm
Rumor has it that you’ve caused the end of formals at the Faculty Club.
December 12th, 2006 at 11:37 pm
Yes, please keep the lid on the alcohol thing. You may have noticed that people DIE from binging. Binging on sex…no problem.
December 13th, 2006 at 5:41 am
What was wrong with my comment AMZB? Too thoughtful? Or was it just “sucky”? Hey, at least I had the courtesy not to bring up genital warts on a sex blog! Oops! My cousin told me of an outbreak years ago of these nasty buggers at her college (they never go away you know) where some people ended up getting them in their throats–ever wonder what a dental dam was good for? Now ya know! Good luck in the stacks… :)
December 17th, 2006 at 7:10 pm
You don’t have a drinking problem or a mood disorder. Your “problem” is that you’re actually fucking stupid, and lack the exestential cojones to admit as much.
December 17th, 2006 at 8:10 pm
Mather has pre-games to the formal? Didn’t know that. Anwyays, I’m sorry you had to spend the night at hospital. But hey, it could be worse. You sound a lot better than last year, alcohol-wise. [On another note -- your people nicknames are funny, but waaay too close to their real names. I just skimmed this (don't really read your blog on a regular basis) and was like, "Holy crap I know all of these people!"]
Anyways, take care.
February 24th, 2007 at 12:21 pm
[...] So maybe not. But thanks to Mather golf (different drinks at every hole, i.e. dorm room), we did manage to get nice and drunk and make new BFFs — with boys too, because guys are totally the best drinking buddies. I’ve determined since last night that group drinking is an uber form of co-dependency. Sometime between my third and fourth tequila shot, Aidan stopped pouring drinks, looked me in the eye, and asked, “Lena, are you at your limit?” — a legitimate question considering the last time I golfed. I glanced at everyone else present, including the petite, susceptible-to-suggestion Adia. A dismissive, sober “no” later, and I was on shot number six. I knew I was going somewhere good even if my liver disagreed. Impromptu dance party ensued, Adia disappeared (as she often does), I flirted shamelessly with ‘09 boys (never happens when sober), and Nate made a surprise appearance an hour too late to regulate my ass. [...]
July 8th, 2007 at 10:47 pm
At least your not getting your limbs hacked off in Africa somewhere. Such a tragedy that today we have to create illusory problems to overcome to make our privileged lives meaningful.