Deadweight
Grappling with a forgotten night
Article by Katie Rowley, art by Sarah Bedell
Content Warning: Allusion to violence
Friday, September 3. The first weekend of sophomore year. An unopened handle of Stolichnaya vodka. The night began at Sigma Chi, or maybe it didn’t. I don’t remember the first part of the night. My friends filled me in; we made it to some parties, ones that weren’t fun with only the two shots of vodka we burned off during the walk to East Campus. So we went to get more. Trekked all the way back to my apartment so the night could actually begin.
Last year, I took my first shot alone in my parents’ basement. Before, my alcohol consumption had been limited to White Claws at a New Year’s Eve party, one in which I spent the entire night despondent that the girl my boyfriend was cheating on me with was there. I fell asleep on a couch just a few feet away from her, and when I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache, I thought it best to slip out to avoid seeing her face any longer. Safe to say, the introduction to intoxication was not welcoming. That didn’t stop me from trying again though. After a disappointing start to college, two weeks locked in my room and a week of freedom interrupted by an order to repack my room and move home, I decided I would just have to create my own college experience. So, I took a shot. And eventually, that turned into a lot of shots on a lot of nights. Which eventually led to throwing up on the side of my bed and swearing to never drink again. But, like most who say that, I did not keep my word, though I did lose the ability to take a shot.
This proved to be consequential. As long as I added enough water or orange juice or lemonade to drown out the poisonous taste of vodka, I could lose track of how much alcohol I was actually consuming, which is exactly what I was in the middle of doing. The 99 cent plastic Target water bottle I had bought for the sole purpose of mixed drinks was filled with much more vodka than I realized. I filled up the rest of the bottle with orange juice stolen from one of my roommates.
It wasn’t long until the room started to spin and I found myself much more comfortable lying on the kitchen floor. The flickering yellow light filled my vision. It beamed down on me like the sun but its rays provided no warmth. Of course, the blanket of alcohol was enough to keep any cold air from seeping into my bones. My friends, who were still in the process of sliding shots down their throats, stepped over me. I felt heavy. All of my bones sank into the floor. I couldn’t move. Deadweight.
The only thing that could shock life back into my body and pull my bones from their final resting place was the overwhelming need to pee. At the New Year’s Eve party—the one where I got tipsy for the first time ever—my friends, who had spent the entirety of their high school weekends drinking, advised me not to pee when drunk. “It sobers you up faster.” But it’s hard to ignore the urge of your bladder when you're already wasted, so I made my way to the bathroom.
Next thing I knew, I was lying on the grass outside of Bemis Hall. I’m not sure how I got there or why. I was flat on my back. Deadweight, once again. But instead of the kitchen’s artificial sun beaming down on me, my vision was filled with night sky. I have no clue what time it was. I have no clue where my friends went. All I could see was the sky’s purple hue impeded only by the trees and shadowed in darkness. I couldn’t see clearly enough to make out constellations so instead, I drew them with my mind. Suddenly, I felt six again, my dad standing in our driveway, holding me in one arm, pointing out the Big Dipper. I desperately searched for it. I searched for any remnants of my childhood innocence; it had been strung out of me that year. No shreds to hold onto. There is nothing to hold onto. There is no one.
I lay there forever. My friends hadn’t abandoned me. They returned to gather me. To shock life into my body once again. They helped peel my bones up from the ground, and together, we stumbled into Bemis. I fought with each step in the stairwell. We just had to make it to the third floor. My bones wanted to sink into the ground. My feet cemented to each stair and caught the edges when I mustered enough strength to pull them up. I was dizzy. We just had to make it to the third floor. Then down the hallway. Then I could lie back down.
I made it up. But not without emptying my guts into the trashcan at the top of the stairwell. The cocktail of vodka, orange juice, and stomach acid burned the back of my throat. I stared down into the trash can, unable to see anything I just puked up, which was probably for the best.
I squeezed my eyes shut, in an attempt to block out the dizziness and the uncontrollable feeling that my legs were about to give out. When I opened them again, I was lying on the floor of my friend’s room.
Hardwood floors are surprisingly comfortable. Or maybe it was the rug I was on top of. Or maybe it was the drunken state tricking me into thinking any place where I was lying down could be comfortable. My bones once again sunk into the floorboards, and I felt determined to stay in this spot.
I lay in peaceful contentment. The room was silent, the perfect environment for sleep to finally overtake my body. And it did. The fog grew, interrupting any thoughts from forming and settling heavy on my eyelids. They shut, blocking out the fluorescent overhead light. Completely out. Deadweight.
My eyes flickered open at the sound of my friend hysterically sobbing while pacing around her room. The room is only illuminated by her desk light. It’s pointed at where she’s pacing, like a spotlight. I wondered if she's acting; if her own drunken state drove her to perform a one-woman drama, with an audience composed only of her passed-out friend. Her sobs are too real, though. And, I could not tell if she’s talking to me, or about me. Whoever she was talking to, she kept bringing up calling the hospital and how “she” looked dead. I didn’t think I was that drunk. I tilted my eyes up, trying to establish if her focus is on me. I could barely stay awake long enough to determine what she was so distressed over. Did I throw up more in my unconscious state? Was I really that drunk?
It’s not me she was so worried about. I figured this out when she left the room again. Or at least, I assumed she does. I didn’t actually see her leave, but the sound of her sobs faded from the room and I was able to drift back to sleep.
I felt a presence next to me on the ground prompting me to open my eyes. I was staring at my sobbing friend, lying face down, trying to call her parents. I found myself mustering up the energy to ask her what’s going on, and as she incoherently divulged the events of the evening I have missed out on, I interrupted her, begging her to lay on her side. The funny thing about being drunk is that I am always convinced other people around me are as intoxicated as I am. So, if I needed to be laying on my side so I wouldn’t choke on vomit, she needed to be on her side too. I think she complied. I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open, and I completely stopped listening to the story.
Our one-way conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. EMS was here. My friend got up to talk to them. I could go to sleep now. Before sleep got the chance to overtake me, I wondered if EMS was here for me. They wouldn’t be, right? Before the almost sober part of my subconscious could rationally answer this question, I fell asleep again.
I woke again to the feeling of a hand on my leg and the voices of all of my friends. They were trying to debrief what happened to them that night. I didn’t open my eyes. I just listened. Trying to piece everything together through the fog. It was too thick. Hours had passed since the fog first took over, and I was ready to let it fully consume me. I was ready to close my eyes and never open them again. To become deadweight forever.
Instead, I laid on the floor of my friend’s dorm room, waiting for the crying and detoxing to subside. Waiting for the quiet to return. Waiting to be caught up on everything over brunch tomorrow. Waiting.
Two months later and I’m still waiting. Every minute of the night has been described to me in vivid detail, but I still feel like I’m missing something. I’m the only one who gets too drunk to walk or who throws up on the floor of the lax house. I’m the only one who is not cautious. I’m the only one who wasn’t there. And I cannot go back in time and make myself drink less. I can’t be there.