Daniel Gillion

My first time getting drunk was when I was 15. It was the summer of 2008. I was hanging out in the bedroom I shared with my three brothers. I was lying on the floor paging through car catalogs, fantasizing about what kind of car I wanted to buy, something I often did out of boredom. It was my dad’s payday. One thing he’d do when he came across money was to buy a few 40 oz cans of beer, bottles of spirits, and mixers. I’d usually get excited when my dad drank. Not because he was spending money that we desperately needed but because he was always nicer to my siblings and me. He was never an angry or belligerent drunk. Although, he would be angry and belligerent when he was in withdrawal or craving. But tonight, it was going to be a good night. Dad was getting drunk downstairs in our small, unfurnished, rented East Las Vegas townhouse, and I was safely upstairs enjoying my little magazine.

I was staring at a picture of a yellow 2008 Pontiac Grand Prix for sale when I heard my dad’s heavy feet pounding up the stairs. I immediately froze. My ears shot up to scan the other side of the closed door to see which direction he was heading in. Once I heard him reach the top of the stairs, I listened to his feet padding towards the other side of my closed bedroom door. I felt my face flush, and my heart began to beat faster. My dad usually came upstairs to yell, hit, or order my brother and me to do something. “What did I do? Why is he mad at me?” I assumed.

I was surprised, confused, and relieved when my dad opened the door with two large cups and a smile. I can already tell his was buzzing. He looked at my brother and me and exclaimed, “Get up, boys, and try this!” We stood up, and he gleefully handed us the cups. I smelled mine. It smelled like rubbing alcohol and Coca-Cola. “Drink it!” he commanded us. I took my first swig, my face winced, my eyes closed, and my throat tightened. “Yuk!” we both said. “Stop being a bitch!” my dad sneered. “Drink it!” That’ll put some hair on your chest, boy!” he cried out. Strangely, when my dad was drunk, I felt at ease. I knew that Drunk Dad would be loving, fun, and giddy. I wished he was always like this. I wanted to make him happy and proud. So, without another word, my brother and I chugged the entire 12 oz blue cup of rubbing alcohol-scented Coca-Cola. “Damn, boy! Gimme that cup, you damn alcoholics, before I tell your mom,” he jokingly exclaimed. When my mom overheard the commotion from downstairs, she immediately knew what was going on upstairs. “Don’t let them drink that!” she shouted at my dad. “Shut up, woman! I’m having a drink with my boys,” he yelled down the stairs. I somehow knew that he wanted to see me and my brother drunk. Within minutes, I felt a warm, giddy, and fuzzy feeling. I felt like all my worries and stress were gone. I saw the room begin to spin. I enjoyed every moment of it. I was hooked. I wanted to feel this feeling again.

I didn’t drink again until I was 18. By then, I had moved to California to live with my extended family. My cousin began taking me to San Jose to hang out with her cousins on her side of the family. One night, one of her gangster cousins bought me some sort of alcoholic sweet tea in a can he had gotten from the 7-11 down the street. I wanted to fit in and seem as cool as I thought they were, so I drank it without any hesitation. That warm, giddy, and fuzzy feeling returned. Once again, all of my worries and stress were gone. I wanted this feeling to stay.

From there, alcohol became an increasingly regular part of my social life. On weekends, I began drinking with friends at their houses when their parents were away, or we’d wait until the sun went down and go to the park. Often, we’d have to ask their older siblings to buy it for us because we were still underage. I loved how alcohol made me feel like everything was okay. I felt like everything was simply enjoyable. Every experience while drunk was the best experience. “I wish the whole world was drunk all the time!” I would exclaim. I felt so bonded with my friends. Often, we’d open up to each other while drunk, sharing our innermost feelings and secrets, which made me feel closer to them. I felt like I finally belonged. I felt like alcohol could do no wrong.

After I turned 21, I started going to clubs and bars with friends and classmates. I was in college, and almost every weekend, I’d be in downtown Oakland or San Francisco, drinking and dancing. I’d be one of the first people in and one of the last ones out. I’d only leave once 2 am came around, and the clubs and bars closed. I remember getting sad when the DJ would make a last call for the night, and the lights would turn on. I wanted to feel drunk forever. I didn’t want the party to end. I didn’t want to go home or face reality. I wanted this weekend escape to last forever.

Slowly and without ever noticing or acknowledging it, I started drinking more. On weekends, 1-2 drinks at the bar or club started to become 3-5 drinks. Long Island ice teas and AMFs were my favorites. They were loaded with so much alcohol and got right to the point. I started skipping dinner on purpose so that I could get drunk faster and cheaper on an empty stomach. I felt so happy when I was drunk. I wanted this feeling to increase.

I was 22 at a club in the Castro District of San Francisco when I was first kicked out of a bar. I had gone alone to support a friend performing at a drag night. I remember yelling, clapping, and singing along to my friend’s performance when I felt a man’s hand firmly grabbing my arm. “What are you doing??” I questioned. “You fell twice, man; it’s time for you to go,” I remember looking around at all the other patrons, my friend, and the bar security. I remember the look of disapproval on all of their faces. Even while heavily intoxicated, I was embarrassed.
Getting kicked out of bars and clubs began to be a regular occurrence. When going out with friends, I’d behave the best I could and drink moderately. When they’d leave to go home, I pretended like I was following suit by ordering a rideshare for myself. However, once I’d confirmed that their rides were gone, I canceled mine and returned to drinking. My ability to curb my drinking began to disappear. I’d drink until it was too late in the night to buy alcohol legally and the bars closed. That was the only thing stopping me from partying all night.

By 26, my drinking began to damage my relationships. I started upsetting and disappointing the people closest to me. I began to risk my health and safety by putting myself in situations that sober me would never have. By then, I had lost many close friends, put my career at risk, and had been assaulted. My judgment was cloudy, and I was making poor decisions. By this time, I had a Masters degree from a prestigious university, a good job in downtown San Francisco, a car, and a roof over my head. I thought I finally had the stability I’d been looking for my entire life. My alcohol abuse was putting all of those things at risk. At work, I began to slack off. I started coming to work late and hungover. I was always irritated, depressed, and moody. My coworkers avoided me, and my supervisors watched me with concern. I knew they would terminate me eventually, so I resigned before they had a chance to. Luckily, I was able to land a job doing similar work in Las Vegas. My drinking became worse.

Shortly after turning 27, I moved out of San Francisco. I was disappointed with myself. The Bay Area was where I accomplished a lot in my life. I loved living there. But, it was also a place where I experienced a lot of trauma as a child and my teen years. My move to Las Vegas was my chance to start over and make better decisions. Unfortunately, my drinking continued. I rented a room at the home of a Las Vegas police officer I met at a bar in San Francisco. At his house in Centennial Hills, he had a fully stocked bar right off his kitchen. Shortly after I moved in, I started exploring his alcohol collection. When he was working, I’d sneak into the kitchen and take huge gulps of the free alcohol. Sometimes, I would fill an entire plastic cup and take it upstairs to my room. I’d drink to feel good. I was never happy sober. I just wanted to enjoy things, and deep down, I hated living in Las Vegas, and I was disappointed with myself for having ended up here. Before alcohol, I loved my life in San Francisco and felt like a failure for ending up in the desert. Eventually, I was kicked out because I got too drunk one night after sneaking too much alcohol from the kitchen. I staggered upstairs, mistook my housemate’s bedroom for my own, took off my pants, and laid down in his bed. He woke up and told me to “get the f*ck out” of his room. The following day, I was so embarrassed and ashamed. I hid from him by leaving the house to stay with a friend and hunt for an apartment. After 3 days, he texted me, saying I needed to pack up and move out of his house.

My drinking didn’t stop. I rented my first apartment by myself. I was living alone for the first time. Finally, I didn’t have to hide my alcoholism from anyone. I was free to get as drunk as I wanted in the privacy of my own home. I’d grab a few cans on the way home from work. I’d start drinking on the commute home. By the time I got home, I began to feel a buzz. When I started feeling the good, warm feeling, it would make me want to go out and be social. I’d head to a dive bar and drink more. During the weekdays, I’d stagger home late in the night, get minimal sleep, and then struggle through my headache the next day. On weekends, I’d drink all night and then stay in bed the following day, regretting my decisions and nursing my hangover.

Unlike California, in Las Vegas, there is no last call. Drinks are served 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It was easy for me to drink until I ran out of money and the sun came up. I drank so much that my abdomen was always sore. My face was bloated, and my eyes were sunken in. I hated looking at myself in the mirror. I remember going to get a haircut, looking at my reflection, and feeling utterly disgusted with myself. I looked so sad. The skin on my face was blotched and discolored. I felt like I lost myself.

Similar to what happened in San Francisco, my work performance was suffering. My supervisors were disappointed with my performance. I was always angry and annoyed and would pick fights with colleagues. Looking back, I was just trying to justify my bad behavior by making them the “bad guys.” They hated me, and I hated them. I had no real friends. I isolated myself from everyone. The only thing I wanted to do was go home and drink.

One of my rock bottoms (among many others) was during one of my weekend binges. I went to a dive bar near downtown and got drunk late into the night. I must have had enough for the night and wanted to go home. I remember trying to look for my car. I could not find it. I couldn’t even remember if I had driven to the bar or taken a rideshare. I started wandering. Things became dangerous on a busy arterial road with no sidewalks. I remember trying to stay on the shoulder and navigate through the rocks and boulders on the side of the road. I fell. Twice. Each time I fell, I felt the sharp pain of each ankle twist, crack, and sprain and the burning feeling of the sharp rocks tearing through the skin on my hands and knees as I fell.

I remember the desperate feeling I had in my soul as I cried out of desperation to get home. I remember walking onto the busy road with hundreds of cars loaded with tourists driving by 50 miles per hour in the middle of the night. At some point, I ran out to a taxi loaded with people who stopped at a red light, banged on the passenger window, and begged to be taken home. I remember the terrified look on the passenger and driver’s faces as they accelerated away as soon as the light turned green. I felt embarrassed, ashamed, and desperate. As the sun rose and my mind cleared, I finally called 911 before my phone died. When I finally got someone on the line, I sobbed, wept, and begged for an ambulance. I did not know where I was, but I knew I was still near downtown. I sat on the sidewalk, watching the sunrise, gritting my teeth through my injuries. I couldn’t walk, and the skin on my legs and hands was torn. I remember feeling relieved when an ambulance finally came to get me and take me to the hospital. I was ashamed of the way the first responders stared at me. To them, I must have been another drunk tourist making horrible decisions.

I wish I could say that this event was a wake-up call. But my drinking continued. I was on a downward spiral.