The Truth

"Haha, you put up quite a fight the other night."

It's not something I expect to hear from a friend. Last night I went out and got so blasted I tried to sleep on a train platform. Some guy carried me home from the train stop (romantic, I know, too bad I was a wreck at the time) and a bunch of friends tried to feed me some water and put me to bed. I was sick and nearly unconscious, but here's what really worries me: apparently I told one good friend, "I need to talk to someone who knows what they're doing." Then, when she went and got another friend, I refused to drink water again, and snapped at her, "Look, I just need to go to the bathroom."

And this morning, yet a third made the "fight" remark. They've all been very sweet and considerate to me since, the first even stopped by to make sure I hadn't curled up and died wretchedly in the night. This was nice of her, considering I was such a meanie. I've always had a lot of contempt for two groups of people. The first is people who drink and get sick. Having never done it, I simply couldn't understand how someone could so underestimate their own limits. Now, several strong Rum and Diet Cokes later, I know.

And the second group I hate are mean drunks who don't have enough discipline to stop drinking. Last night, I was aggressive and rude and impossible to people I cared about. I've been around plenty of drunk women. None of them were ever rude. And that worries me. I've always said alcohol brings out your real personality. I've always been a friendly little drunk, until last night.

The truth is, growing up, I was famous for having a bad temper. I fought with my sister and yelled at my parents all the time. I got it from my father - he had such frequent violent outbursts that my sister and I hid in locked rooms to avoid being slapped and yelled at. My grandfather is famous for his vicious temper. In his case, it borders on a pathological disorder (I would normally never share this with anyone but I'm pretty convinced no one reads this blog). I remember when my aunt committed suicide ten years ago. She set herself on fire. The family hushed it up and pretended it was an accident, but after a few careless remarks I learned the truth: that she'd always been unhappy. When she was my age, my grandfather broke his lifelong prohibition against sending his daughters to college. He let her go to school while she lived at home. One day, she went to a movie theatre with some friends after school. A family friend saw her there and told her father. He was in a bad mood. When she returned, he demanded that she drop out of school. Then he took off his belt and beat her within an inch of her life. Mind you, she was 21. I'm not saying he caused her depression, but that's when the rest of the family started to notice it: when she dropped out of college and stayed at home, and eventually got married off to another man with a bad temper.

The point is, I am terrified of inheriting that legacy. Seeing my father's rages growing up, I developed an early contempt for people with no self-discipline, who express their anger by screaming and throwing things. I remember him getting so angry he picked my younger sister up by the arm and yanked her up the stairs. He would shake her, throw her against the wall. And there I was, standing on the stairs, crying and shouting, "You can't treat people like this!" But of course, he could.

Even now, I remember standing on the stairs and feeling nothing but absolute red fury. I wanted to kill him - and it took me a long while to get over the urge. Sometimes I think I didn't get rid of it, I just supressed it to the point that it was no longer a part of my personality. I disciplined my own temper and mannerisms, partly because I cared, but partly because I knew I would rather die than hit my own children, or hurt my own family. I was not one of those people.

The truth is, I'm shaking to think that's what I descended to. That I hurt someone who was trying to care for me. That it wasn't a change of my personality, but the deep and shameful self I've put away. And at the same time I'm frightened because I enjoyed not being responsible for myself. I don't remember the last time I wasn't trying to change, control or manipulate myself. The other day Erica accused me of having problems with intimacy and it's true. And I wonder if this is why: because deep down I don't know if I like my naked personality. I don't know if I was born a good person, with only good urges. Or if I've tried to make myself into a good person because I have seen bad people, and I have seen them hurt other people, and I refuse to be one of them.

I really can't ever drink that much again.