I slowly opened my eyes, finding myself in a place I didn't recognize. It wasn't my room, home, hotel, or anywhere familiar. I was lying on a cold bed, dressed in a pair of pants and nothing else. My surroundings were a blur.
A man stood over me, gently rocking my body back and forth with one hand. In his other hand was a pen and a piece of paper. “Sir, do you have insurance?” he asked repeatedly. “Your stay with us will cost 982 euros.” Before I could respond, he added, “Sorry, this is Monaco." Suddenly, it clicked. I was in a hospital, for reasons unknown to me.
Drinking was never about pleasure for me, it was a means of numbness. The courage it lent, the funny absurdities it encouraged, and the brief escape it offered from my tribulations made it an effective remedy. Yet, it often led to overindulgence, leaving me to wake up the next day with a complete blackout, feeling terrible, and demoralized.
Despite the toll alcohol took on my marriage, friendships, all my therapists, and many professional relationships, I refused to believe it was a problem. I even risked my life more than once when I chose to ride my half-ton Harley Davidson while drunk. That was until one day when my son had to rescue me from under the motorcycle. The fear and disappointment on his face were heart-wrenching, pushing me to promise I'd never touch alcohol again. A promise I kept for about a year.
I wrote about it a few years ago and titles it "The Last Drop." Spoiler: it wasn't the last.
Covid saw me return to “responsible drinking," which started as a glass of wine here and there but quickly escalated. Though I wasn’t drinking every day, when I did, I wouldn't stop until I blacked out. This habit led to losing more acquaintances, a string of public embarrassments, and depressing episodes.
Fast forward to a wedding party in Monaco. Dressed up and feeling good, I thought I was ready for a night out with a few drinks. After downing several glasses of expensive champagne someone brought in this massive bottle of vodka. I poured myself a full-sized glass and downed it, shot style. That's my last memory of that night. The next thing I remember is waking up to the harsh reality of healthcare in Monaco.
Following my blackout, I was told that I had been wheeled out of the party and taken to the hospital in an ambulance. This decision, made in panic by those around me — real friends don't call for an ambulance in Monaco unless you've been shot in the face — would cost me more than my dignity. And despite being where I was, there was no royal treatment. To my knowledge, all they did was move me from the stretcher to the bed. A terribly expensive Uber ride to hell.
I left the hospital in the morning, disoriented, and wandered the famous streets we see in the Formula One races. With a dead phone and no direction, I looked for an open shop to ask for help. Eventually, I made it back to my hotel, took a shower, and confronted an unsettling truth: I was on a collision course with a day when alcohol would win. I had to make a change. Again.
Hopefully, this time, it'll stick. But I'm not making any promises.
21 Days, 21 Hours, and 33 minutes without a drink. And counting.
Rodrigo Bressane
Connecticut, USA
You got this! I believe in you. 🙌🏻
Beautifully written and I am glad you’re ok. Let’s celebrate small victories; one day at a time.