I look at pictures, on the fridge, on the wall, on my laptop,
on Facebook. I feel what anyone
feels. I remember the moment, the times. I see myself and I see others. I remember my life in that moment.
I remember weddings, trips near and far, and simple times
with good friends. I feel a sense of
happiness and sadness together; I feel a sense of longing. Remembering the past the way I choose to;
good times, but also good times passed.
I always come back to the same thought. I ask myself where I was in my life.
My freshman year in college, 2002-2003 at Villanova, I knew
a kid named Paul. We all drank a lot,
but Paul would end up on the floor, lying face down or crawling on the hallway
carpet. I didn’t get it. It seemed to me that he hadn’t had any more
to drink than the rest of us, yet there he was, hardly capable of
standing. And there was nothing wrong
with Paul, at least not physically, I guess he was just a sloppy drunk.
I never understood how that could happen. It seemed to me, and admittedly my opinion is
one of an inebriated mind, that I could still run and jump, I could still
execute complicated physical tasks having had several too many.
One day that changed.
I began to notice that alcohol, in significant quantities, was affecting
me differently. I felt that my balance
wasn’t what it used to be; my drunken balance that is. I attributed it to getting older, or having a
lower tolerance for the stuff. I didn’t
feel that this was abnormal, just abnormal for me. I was still within the normal realm of drunken
coordination; I wasn’t Paul.
Of course as time went on these changes became clearer. I found myself claiming repeatedly, “I’m not
that drunk.” And I had begun to see
these changes seep into other areas of my life.
It became harder to attribute my experiences to the effects of
alcohol.
When I look at photos, I think of one thing first: Am I looking at the old me, before I experienced
any signs, or had I noticed changes? When
was this? Which me am I looking at?
And I always know the answer.