Sobriety Diary: Week 4—Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde Part 1

The Origins of My Drinking.

Content Warning: This piece contains references to sexual trauma, bullying, and alcohol abuse.

Dates: August 18th-August 24th

Days Sober: 28

As I complete week four of sobriety, my mind isn’t just clear—I’m gaining sharper and deeper clarity about why I drank. Once you stop muddying the water and let it settle, you can finally see what was there all along.

This isn’t some la-di-da “let’s try being sober for fun” kind of stint. This decision has been years in the making. Those who read my piece Pivot will know I made a huge effort to change my lifestyle, and much of that included drastically reducing my alcohol intake. But it would be amiss not to openly explore the turbulent, at times destructive, relationship I had with alcohol before those changes.

This is the hardest thing I’ve ever written. It’s taken me ten years to find the words, but it has to be said. I can’t write honestly about this journey without naming the reasons the bottle once became my best friend—nor do I want to gloss over just how extreme it got.

It’s only thanks to time, therapy, and distance that I’m finally able to write this. I lead a happy life now, but I didn’t always.

Where the Seeds Were Sown

I remember living in London at 18 and my crush coming over to the flat. He was bringing snacks and said, “I’m bringing a beer. Want one?” I said no and didn’t think any more of it. Save for weekends, alcohol was rarely on my mind, and I genuinely gave it no thought to consume any.

I often think about that moment, because not long after, I didn’t know a day where I wasn’t actively thinking about drinking.

Less than a year into my stay in London, I moved back to Switzerland, heavily depressed.

My first relationship emotionally crippled me in every sense of the word. I’m glad to say that time in my life now feels like a distant memory. It doesn’t take up any more space in my mind, and sometimes I catch myself feeling so thankful I’m no longer in that phase.

But for the sake of understanding where my problematic relationship to alcohol developed, I have to cover some scar tissue.

Not long after getting back to Switzerland, I was hospitalised for clinical depression—the relationship being the catalyst. I was supposed to fly back to London to pack up my things, but it ended up being my sister, brother, and dad who did it, as I was hospitalised. My mum stayed behind and visited me every day in the clinic. If that’s not a united family front, I don’t know what is.

My dependency on wine had already started by the time I got to the clinic. I was allowed to spend the weekend at home as long as I slept in the same room as my mum. The key to the room would be under her pillow to make sure I wouldn’t go and hurt myself. I remember being largely motivated to go home during the weekends because of wine.

In Switzerland at the time, all houses had to have a bunker room. Ours was used as a wine cellar—and my parents have good taste in wine… at least we would die in good taste should we ever have ended up there.

Every night, there would be wine. And every night, I’d join—and once the bottle was done, I wanted more. It wasn’t long before I was polishing off at least a bottle a night to myself. Wine became my anaesthetic, the potion that would rock me to sleep and save me from the nightmares (or so I thought).

A year after the clinic, I moved to the States to finish my bachelor’s degree. At that point, I was aware wine was an issue. I told myself that as long as I wasn’t waking up and craving alcohol, it was okay. It was just in the evening.

The Wrong Decision

During the spring break of 2012, I visited several US campuses—and I really liked one. It was cute and quaint. My first picture from there is of me sitting underneath a cherry blossom tree. There were no students on campus because of the holiday. I wonder now if their presence might have changed my mind.

But some of my family friends from the same little town I’d grown up in in Switzerland had gone there a few years back, so I felt confident this was the right choice. If only I’d known that being a man meant having a drastically different experience.

I thought my move to the States would mean a recalibration of my relationship with alcohol. I did have days where I didn’t drink, much influenced by the fact that my roommate’s bed was an arm’s length away from mine. Living in such close proximity to someone else means all your habits come under scrutiny.

Still, we frequented the liquor store. I looked enough like my older sister that I was able to use her old driver’s license to get alcohol. We’d buy 3-liter bottle wines—I was amazed by the size and choice… and how good the wine actually tasted despite the price tags.

This was supposed to be a new, bright chapter in my life. After the clinic, I really needed a win, and for Amanda to shine again.

But the States would be my first real taste of being bullied.

During my first week, a boy from my dorm came up and told me, “No one likes you. You have eyes that rape people.” Welcome to America.

In hindsight, I now know it was a cruel way to knock my confidence. I found out he had a crush on me, but I didn’t like him—which hurt his ego. So obviously he did what many weak men do when their egos get bruised: hurl insults at the woman who rejects them.

Fuel was poured on the fire when a girl spread a false rumour saying another girl and I liked to have threesomes. We both started receiving messages from men asking if we’d be available for them. Then I found out the person she’d told this to was none other than the guy who had a crush on me. The rumour spread like wildfire.

By the time I moved to America at 20, I knew my limits with alcohol. I therefore started getting suspicious when, on multiple occasions, I’d wake up in the morning fully clothed, with absolutely zero recollection of the nights before.

People would piece together the night for me—telling me what rooms I’d been in, who they’d seen touching me. I would wince as they recounted the night for me.

Yes, I’d experienced being blackout drunk before, but the next morning I’d always be able to recognise I’d consumed far beyond a reasonable amount. These nights simply didn’t add up, and it worried me.

During a session with a school therapist (another reason I’d chosen this college—I felt I’d have support that was still needed after the clinic), I remarked I had a suspicion my drinks were being tampered with. Rather casually, she remarked that yes, it was an issue on campus.

I’d never really felt less than for being a woman until I moved to the college campus. This was my first firsthand experience of what it really meant to be treated like a second-rate citizen simply because of the genitals you’re born with.

The behaviours were so extreme, I began noticing microaggressions toward women much more once I returned to tamer Europe.

I’d recount stories to family and friends—things that happened not just to me, but to the women around me—and their jaws would hit the floor. One friend said, “I thought this only happened in the movies.”

It was also my first taste of bro code and the culture of silence. I even wrote a newspaper article about the prevalence of sex on campus, about how loaded with shame it was, how double standards reigned, and how deeply misogynistic it all felt. It was never printed. Obviously.

Later, I tried to escalate something I believed had crossed a line. I was told I’d have to go through school court and prove what had happened. I knew exactly how it would go: my sexual history would be weaponized against me, my word pitted against the popularity of others. It would be social suicide.

Eventually, I moved off campus, no longer feeling safe. I was determined to finish my degree there. I couldn’t fathom having to move to a new school again.

I’d already been to two colleges in London. It had not been for academic reasons—my first college was a fashion design course, and I realised I was a terrible seamstress, so I moved to a liberal arts college. But my depression was hitting hard and that’s when I made the choice to move back to Switzerland, meaning I had to up and leave again.

I thought moving off campus would give me some distance from the problematic behaviour on campus, but it didn’t.

The Breaking Point

On a previous visit home, I’d been out walking with my mum and the dog. She told me I was like Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde—that she could no longer recognize who I was when I was in the US.

Every time I returned to the States, as the plane landed, a protective shell formed over me. I would become stoic, trying to be unfazed by what was happening. It was also happening so often—and not just to me—that you couldn’t help but become desensitised.

On a layover to Canada, my mum visited me. During her brief stay, my façade cracked.

It sounds melodramatic, but I was so distressed I don’t even remember breaking down in front of her, saying, “There were men in my room. I don’t remember it. I don’t remember it.”

Not long before her arrival, I’d received another message on my phone asking me for a threesome. I replied that I didn’t do that, annoyed that this rumour still had legs. He replied, “You liked it the other night.”

Some moments stay with you forever. I’ll never forget the sun shining, the silence on campus, or the building I was standing in front of when I read that message. I have no memory of that night. And I never want one.

After my meltdown, I woke up the next day to my mum sitting at the end of my bed.

“You’re going back to Switzerland.”

And back I went.

I’d love to say this is where it all turned around for me—but abuse has long talons. Consciously, I convinced myself I was unaffected by my past, but subconsciously it was another story. The States were meant to be a reprieve; instead, I walked head-on into an environment I wasn’t equipped to handle.

My body was violated more than once. Yet each time, I told myself, “No emotion will ever be as heavy as the ones I carried in the clinic.”

If I could get through that immense heartbreak, get through wanting to kill myself, and get through the clinic, then I was God. Untouchable.

Except God liked to drink.

If you or someone you know is struggling with alcohol or sexual trauma, you’re not alone. Support is available.

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