It’s a glorious Saturday morning in Ann Arbor. The weather forecast looks good, the birds are chirping, and I am pulling myself out of bed at the crack of dawn. Despite only getting four hours of sleep, I am ready to rock and roll. My alarm went off at 6:30 and I’m double fisting an iced coffee and a White Claw by 7:00. My friend Greg is downstairs banging on the front door, yelling, “Wake up! Wake the fuck up! Gameday! I’m seven beers deep!”. He has in his hand a hot dog from his fraternity house, breakfast for me. I eat it while I put on blue eyeliner, struggling to perfect the wing with one hand and trying not to get ketchup on my desk. While I was in the shower a few minutes earlier, I could hear the unmistakable thumping bass of Big Booty and Wonderwall remixes from the houses around me through the window screen, and my adrenaline is just getting higher. My roommate Katie is queuing up The Black Eyed Peas as loud as our speaker will go, and the house is soon filled with the sweet sound of Will.i.am. My neighbors to the back already have a keg tapped and it’s not even light out yet. The energy is electric and tangible. Greg is right. Wake up! We are already behind compared to the rest of the school. 

Claire, another roommate, has some friends visiting from Philadelphia this weekend, and while I blow out my hair, they’re sitting cross legged on the floor of my screened-in porch writing names on their borgs with thick black Sharpie. A borg is a gallon of vodka, flavoring, and water. It is the perfect day drink of choice, as you can barely taste the alcohol, you’re hydrated, and you get drunk as shit. There’s also a convenient handle for easy carrying! You have to name it something creative by implementing the word “borg”. I don’t know why, but it’s very lame if you don’t. String lights twinkle above them as they bounce their heads to the blasting music and carefully tracing the words to make them as dark as possible. The song is now “Love in This Club” by Usher. Someone’s decided it’s a throwback day, I guess. The blue borg is called “Certified Lover Borg”, a nod to Drake, of course, and the orange is “Curious Borg,” which feels self-explanatory. Claire is wearing a yellow hat, a nod to the outfit of Curious George’s caretaker and his own yellow hat, for the photo op. Champagne is popped, mimosas are poured, and shots are being thrown back with practiced dexterity and speed. No one even makes a face as the tequila goes down anymore. The drinks are hitting, everyone is getting along easily, and I’m making conversation effortlessly. I feel confident, liked, and genuinely happy. Our neighbors come in from next door to play stack cup, and the chaos comes to a head when my new friend (!) Josh (?) gets the last cup, aptly named bitch cup. Everyone is chanting his name as he downs it, a haphazard mix of vodka, White Claw, and a splash of Red Stripe. It looks disgusting, but hey, it will get the job done. 

I’ve been a senior for a few weeks now, in a sorority for a few years, and if there’s anything I’ve learned in college, it’s that I love drinking. I think I love it more than anything else, sometimes. “Would you like to start with something to drink other than water?” Yes, please. “Wanna catch up over drinks?” Absolutely. “Should we have a drink or two before we go?” Twist my arm! It can be a glass of wine on the couch with my roommates after a long day, a craft cocktail at a fancy dinner that matches my outfit, or a beer midafternoon simply because I can. That first sip, that feeling is a lifting of the pressure on my shoulders and constant stress of how I’m being perceived that seems to be there regardless of weekly therapy sessions or increasing doses of Zoloft. My issue is, though, that I am forever chasing that first drink feeling. The sixth or seventh or twelfth drink never hits quite the same, but I don’t seem to realize that until the next day, and then force myself to forget it by the next weekend.

It’s 10:00 now, and we’re pregaming the pregame, so we won’t be sober when arriving at the next place to drink. Everyone is comfortably buzzed, so one can assume it will only go downhill from here. There’s no such thing as moderation once I have at least a full drink in my system. It would appear to be an unconscious goal of mine to be among the drunkest at any function, something I’ve shamefully accomplished since I was sixteen years old. A wise twenty one now, I’m wearing a pair of men’s sweat shorts and a tank top that says “Get Outta Your Mind,” which is the goal for the day. I am actively avoiding thinking about the inevitable anxiety that will hit as soon as I sober up, when I will lay in bed until 1:00 and hope no one remembers seeing me the night before. That feels like a tomorrow problem. Katie has a t-shirt with a smiley face, below which is tastefully written: “Boobies make me smile!”. Mara comes out onto the porch with a yellow shirt that says “I need supervision”, and Claire is wearing overalls and yellow rain boots, in preparation for the variety of spills coming up. There are two cups in my hand again. I’m on drink number four, I think.

Whenever I reflect on my own idea of happiness, I think the best way I can describe it is connection. I am an extrovert and I adore going out and seeing people. Growing up, I was rarely alone, as I have four siblings all within five years of my own age. My depressive episodes started in high school at a time when I didn’t have any friends to go do things with on the weekends, and I would lay in bed wishing I was somewhere else, anywhere else, with people to talk to. Ironically, I have social anxiety that can be fairly inhibiting, and I put myself in a lot of uncomfortable positions. There have been plenty of times where I was nervous and my nerves translated into terrible first impressions and a resting bitch face, which resulted in my being labeled as “intimidating”. But, by the time I was sixteen, I discovered beer. Alcohol was a secret weapon of sorts, something that made my interactions with strangers seamless and easy. I no longer had to think about how I looked or what I was saying and to who. I could make jokes and friendships without having to try. I was viewed as “fun”, “friendly”, or “super awesome!”. It felt like a gift.

As we head out for the frats, my house is littered with cans and empty red solo cups. I’m holding drinks five and six as we walk down South University, two seltzers stacked one on top of the other. One is cracked open, but I keep it on the bottom so I won’t get an open carry ticket. I’m well versed in how to drink as much as possible while avoiding any repercussions, and I am taking sneaky sips when I can. We are walking at a brisk pace, impatient to get wherever we’re going (it doesn’t matter because at this point, I’ll probably remember very little of it) and stumbling over curbs. Gamedays in Ann Arbor are chaotic, and there are students and football fans everywhere, all varying degrees of drunk. Weaving through the oncoming groups and occasionally bumping into shoulders, I find myself in a deeply emotional and intimate conversation with my friend Mary. We are chatting very earnestly about the boy she’s in love with, and my own recent drama with my ex-boyfriend. The conversation is surprisingly in depth considering the ridiculous circumstances of our walk, drunk and dancey and looking incredibly full of school spirit. There are parties in full swing on either side of us, music blasting. As we walk past a group of fraternity boys in an intense game of beer die, Mary says, “I think about him all the time, and it’s just never gonna work long distance. I hate it, ya know?” I nod my agreement, spilling my White Claw on my shorts. “It’s just a weird age to be in love,” I say, “and past relationships are so weird. I mean, I hated my Sam for over a year, and then drunk called him last weekend and now can’t tell if I have feelings for him or not. I don’t think I do, right?” Before she answers, we see a mutual friend, and the conversation ends like it never even began.

We finally reach the trash littered lawn of Alpha Sigma Phi’s satellite house. As I approach the tailgate (the same one we go to every week, with the same people), I see Mollie, a girl from my hometown. I am thrilled to see her, and say as much, flashing a wide smile and giving her a big hug before launching into a conversation about how sweet her boyfriend is. I don’t know either of them that well. I grab her hand and lead her into the yard like we have known each other for ages. Drunk people are everywhere! Sitting on walls, dancing with no abandon on elevated surfaces. My friend Aidan is standing on the DJ stand playing the trumpet, as everyone sings along. I get introduced to two sets of parents, an uncle, and a grandfather. I was incredibly friendly, asking about their time in Ann Arbor and about their other children. I’m  only swaying a little bit. There’s a boy peeing in the corner near some trampled Natty Light cases. 

In the back, there is a tent from a dispensary, and as soon as I walk in, three people rush to tell me that they’re handing out “free weed!”, and from their excited delivery, it sounds like it is the best thing to happen, ever. And it kind of is. I don’t have my ID on me, so I cannot get my own, but everyone else appears to have brought theirs, as I don’t speak to a single person who doesn’t offer me a hit of their joint. Drunk acquaintances are always so generous and so kind, complimenting my outfit as they offer me their prizes. I, obviously, accept each and every invitation to get just a little bit more fucked up. It’s gameday, and I’m on drink seven. Or eight.

At this point, there are at least one hundred very drunk and, now, very stoned, people in coordinating clothes at 11:00 am on a Saturday. Everyone looks so genuinely happy, dancing and laughing and hugging people they just met. My friends and I are no exception. All week I sit through classes and write papers and run errands and wait for this exact moment, to feel good, to be drunk. I came home early on Friday night in preparation for the amount of alcohol I was planning to drink today (I took it easy on Friday, naturally, only drinking a bottle of wine and two beers). I planned my outfit on Wednesday, fake tanned on Thursday, toned my hair on Friday. My friends arranged a carpool to Falsetta's and spent $200 on vodka, champagne, seltzers, beer, and vapes. My entire week has revolved around the most efficient way to get drunk in the five hours I’ll be awake before a noon (NOON?!) kickoff. I’m invested and I’m committed. I am not really sure what the appeal is. I’m committed? To what? For what?

For the last few weeks, I have been discussing alcohol with my therapist. I come from a long line of alcoholics (on both sides!) and although my parents have long cautioned me about the genetic predisposition, I was always under the impression that it wouldn’t be like that for me. It was just something I enjoyed, I wasn’t addicted to it. I wasn’t my sweet grandmother, falling down stairs at a formal cocktail party, because she drank four glasses of whiskey before she arrived. I was a college student, falling down the stairs at Skeeps, because I was celebrating my friend’s 21st birthday, so it was okay. Yet, in my senior year, I have come to the conclusion that addiction is not the only problem associated with drinking. For me, I just lose all self control and compulsively down drink after drink, while my behavior gets more and more foolish with each one.  I’ve recently been struggling with the concept of party culture, something I’m hyper aware of as I look at the crowd around me. They’re all familiar faces, drinking buddies from the last three or more years, yet I doubt I could have a sober conversation longer than a minute with a majority of them. What are we connecting over? And although drunk words are sober thoughts, does it count if you don’t remember a single one of them the next time you see the person?

The idea of happiness is elusive to me. It always has been. As I stand on a piece of spray painted plywood sloppily nailed to a couple of four by four wooden posts and dance and sing and drink drink number 9 (?), I feel amazing. “Electric!”, I keep telling people when they ask how I am. They find something about that amusing, but whether that’s the word itself or the way I am slurring it, I won’t think about it until tomorrow. I’m having the time of my life. I haven’t spent more than a few seconds since I’ve arrived worried about how I’m acting or what I am saying or how other people feel about me. Even if I have a questionably unpleasant interaction with someone where the conversation awkwardly slows and we run out of things to say, it bothers me for a minute before I’m swept up into another interaction. Even when we go to Mister Spots, and I knock over some of Certified Lover Borg while pouring it into a plastic cup to enjoy with my lunch because I can’t handle a lull in my inebriation. I spill it all over Katie and Sarah, making it look like Sarah peed her pants and causing some general havoc, and that would normally cause me to lose my mind and assume everyone at the table hated me. But it was already (only?) drink twelve, and I was having a genuinely wonderful time, too wonderful to ruin it by thinking, let alone stopping. Yet, it leads me to question the legitimacy of my happiness if it’s a figment of alcohol, nicotine, and weed.

Most of my friends have experienced bouts of sadness over the last few years. I go to pretty extensive treatment with my psychiatrist once a week for my own Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Does my happiness count on the weekends if it’s the result of three or four or five margaritas and a cute top? What is another round going to help with if you know you’re going to freak out about your drunken behavior for the next week, just waiting to do the exact same thing in four days? Yet, the questions have no answers, because at the same time, I do feel like I am making connections with the people I talk to when I’m out. Mary and I get a little bit closer every time we drink because we know a little more about each other. A girl I met at the last tailgate saw me on the diag the other day and waved hello. Most of my close friends are people I met at apartment pregames my sophomore year. The issue remains complex, because despite the hangovers and scrapes and bruised egos, sometimes something that provides me true happiness and connection is the result of a few beers.

If you stop and look around at everything that’s happening when you’re out and you’re drunk and you’re dancing, it’s a little bit of pandemonium. There’s rarely a party where at least one person isn’t crying. Drinking brings out emotions, and not all of them are joy. In fact, most of them are pretty bad. It reveals the rawest versions of ourselves. I’m not sure how to feel about it. I ended up going to the game for the two downs and the halftime show. And I like watching football. I don’t know why we didn’t stay. I don’t really recall.

A few hours later, I’m standing in my bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The blue eyeliner I did so meticulously this morning is smudged on my brow bones. There’s absolutely no makeup left on my nose, and the rest has melted into my face, showing my acne almost more clearly than if I had no foundation on at all. My shorts are twisted and there’s a large purplish bruise already forming on the front of my thigh. I decidedly am not a fan of the person looking back at me from the glass. And the anxiety starts, as I wonder why anyone would be.

I wash my makeup off and lock myself in my little bedroom, putting on an episode of Downton Abbey on my phone so I don’t have to think about my day as I fall asleep. I wake up to pounding on my door as Katie is yelling, “Wake up, Al! C’mon! We’re going to the bar!” I groan as I stand up, but there’s a little pang of excitement in my chest, and a small smile comes to my face at the prospect of going out. Hitting the town! Again! My worries are already fading as I grab a warm Corona to drink in the shower. Katie woke me up at 8:00, and by 8:30 I am sitting at my desk, a beer in one hand and my eyeliner in the other. The music has started up again, this time “The Motto”. “How you feel, how you feel, how you feel?” Drake asks, the lyrics swimming in my head. And the answer, like my answer to the questions in my head all day, like the answer to how drunk I’m gonna get tonight, like the answer to if I want to cut back or stop drinking completely, like the answer to if I even can, are all the same. I’m not really sure.