Five years ago, a dangerous man sent my father face-first into the pavement outside a family Christmas party. Blood gushed down his forehead as I screamed into the winter night, my own face soon to meet the same fate. That violence — dealt by a stranger — would become my unlikely salvation.
In December 2019, I flew home for the holidays. Ahead of my departure, I called my parents and let them know that I wanted a peaceful stay. I was at my lowest point, struggling with severe depression while switching from Cipralex to Wellbutrin. Rock Bottom had a basement littered with empty beer cans, and I was sleeping on its cold, hard floor.
I wanted my substance abuse kept to a minimum. I was holding on to a thread, desperate for a calm, wholesome, and comfortable time with my loved ones. I didn’t want to spend any of the Christmas Day festivities, as I often had before, excessively drinking and doing drugs.
Substance abuse is a love language for wounded families. It’s been how I bond, share space, and make memories. Trauma often masquerades as tradition. There has been a ritualism tied to my indulgence of substances. It has helped me bridge the gap between the loud silence of what is left unspoken. On many mornings, as a child, I waded through passed-out bodies and empty cans to use the bathroom or grab a snack after a night of family partying. But I am not traumatized. I recall those times with warmth.
As a teenager, things were different. I began to experiment with drugs and alcohol to cope with childhood trauma from sexual violence. My struggles with these substances were never that I needed them all the time, but rather that I couldn’t stop once I started consuming them. I do not have impulse control. If something is offered to me, for the majority of my life, it was nearly impossible for me to decline.
This Christmas, I wanted drugs out of sight and out of mind. It was okay if I drank but just a little. I wanted to laugh and reminisce over a warm, home-cooked meal. I wanted to celebrate with a Lord of the Rings marathon or Mario Party game. I wanted a lighthearted, carefree occasion. But sadly, for me, when it comes to substance abuse, everything is fine until suddenly it isn’t.
I know the story well. It’s played out over and over again in my adult life. I tried running away from narcotics, only to trade them for alcohol. On countless weekend mornings, 4000km away from Vancouver, I would wake up after a night out with a “shameover” — the paralyzing dread that I had said or done something embarrassing, or, even worse, unforgivable. Often I had.
In 2018, I joined a 10-week harm reduction program for LGBTQ+ young people and tried desperately to control my intake of alcohol. While incidents became less frequent, they still happened. I’d wake up after having blacked out with no recollection of the events of the night previous, only to find out I’d said or done something embarrassing. People were angry or disappointed with me. I’d pity myself and start drinking again.
On Christmas Eve 2019, we were invited to a relative’s home. Things were eerily normal, laid-back. It was calm before the storm. I poured myself a deep glass of red wine and jumped headfirst into bullshitting. I made the rounds, saying hello to each of my cousins, aunts, and uncles, and their friends and partners in the game of musical small talk. The once-in-a-blue-moon occasion started well with awkward hugs and “How’s the big smoke back east?”
I was surprised to see that some in attendance were drinking water out of wine glasses and to find that I was enjoying myself, too. Dad suggested leaving early, but I insisted we stay. He instinctively knows when it’s time to go, but my eagerness to indulge won him over. He was right. We should have left.
At this point in the night, I realized there were people that I wasn’t familiar with around. One in particular had a reputation for trouble. Things quickly escalated as the night wore on. As people got louder and more intoxicated, tensions rose, and suddenly there was an altercation.
I was in the middle of a conversation when everything took a sudden turn. I heard yelling and screaming outside. I rushed toward the front door, and my heart plummeted when I saw my father sitting on the steps. Blood was rushing down his face from an open wound on his forehead.
He had tried to intervene in the confrontation, only to be knocked face-first onto the pavement.
The sight of my dad seriously injured threw me into hysterics, as the year previous, I had been in Toronto when he had a heart attack and nearly died.
The chaos had spilled out into the front yard. The dangerous man and his entourage were at the end of the driveway. People tried to hold me back as I screamed and bolted toward them. Before I could get close, the man extended his massive arm and, in one fell swoop, shoved me face-first into the concrete.
It’s hard to say what happened next. Before the police arrived, people had fled. I remember screaming at the cops to do something, only to be taken to my parents’ house in the back of a cruiser with no shoes on. My brother was also injured in the altercation. That night marked both my lowest point and the beginning of my recovery.
I haven’t had a drink since.
It’s a strange feeling for someone else’s traumatic impact to stir in you the desire to do better. The next morning, when I woke up, a sobering realization came over me. I knew with certainty that if I didn’t stop drinking, I would die, either in a tragic accident or by my own hands. I had to love myself enough to change.
