Showing UP for Sophia: Oh April, What a Fool I Was

As a survivor of child abuse and sexual assault, April 1st not only starts month-long awareness campaigns for both causes, but commemorates my three-month sobriety. I share my story to raise awareness that victims and survivors of these types of traumas are more likely to use and abuse alcohol, at times losing their lives and closest relationships. 

I started drinking soon after I was raped. I was fifteen and was told booze made you feel good. I didn’t know what that meant. 

In a canyon behind a supermarket, my friend’s boyfriend handed me the five-finger-discounted bottle of rum. Store brand, closest to the front door. 

I knew nothing and expected the same. I got what I wished for because for a few hours all the ugly thoughts left my head. 

I didn’t care that I had been raped by a man I had a crush on. A man I had trusted. I didn’t care that I had been scared to tell my mother for months and had nightmares on end about contracting an STD. I didn’t care that my mother made me promise not to tell my brothers and father about the assault for fear that they’d treat me differently, after I had my first Pap smear and a round of testing. I didn’t care about anything. 

Shortly after being introduced to rum, I met others. There was vodka, and tequila, and beer. I hated beer. It was too weak. Didn’t get the job done because my motto quickly became: I drink to get drunk.

What was the point otherwise? It certainly wasn’t the taste. Maybe beer or wine, but alcohol? That was straight up poison meant to do it’s job... bring me a happy hour. Or two, or three. I hardly remembered. That was the point.

Then came December 1, 2019.

The night before, John and I had sex. We were already broken up, but desired each other just the same. It was intense and delicious. Dare I say, our best. But almost immediately thereafter, I felt guilty and ashamed. I cried and apologized for crying, then cried for apologizing. I was drunk and by morning, I was a mess.

John left for work around 9am, after sharing his plans about moving to Illinois and taking Sophia with him. I imagined it and couldn’t stop. I wanted to. While retrieving Sophia’s morning vitamin, I noticed his bottle of rum in the cabinet. I knew the bottle would help.

It did. It didn’t. I forgot most of the day. Thankfully Gia was home to take care of Sophia, because I was out.

The next day I woke up with a bump on the back of my head and bruises down the side of my body. I still don’t know why. I wish I could say it was the first time. 

I drank to survive. The rape, the countless physical, verbal and sexual assaults I suffered before and since, and the loss of people I trusted, especially myself. It’s why I gravitated toward John and other men when I was under the influence, because sex became senseless and made me less afraid to be naked and vulnerable. Booze made me believe the lies of love and fooled me to feel what I wanted.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to run and numb since I stopped. I’ve had every reason and excuse to. There was Christmas and New Year’s, screaming matches and verbal threats. I wanted “just one” to “unwind” or “get through”. Instead I took a breath. I thought about Sophia. I thought about her sisters. My mother. Our patterns. All introduced to the same spirits by our parents. No mas.

I understand why I drank and am grateful for the coping skills I knew to survive. Alcohol served its purpose on the rocks and left me at rock bottom. Now I know better and want to model differently. I’ve been learning and practicing healthier habits, ways to heal instead of deal. Supportive people have entered my life, joining me for alternative activities and sharing recipes for mocktails. 

Life has been clearer. I remember everything, regret nothing, and finally feel good because I survived to thrive.