Alcohol, Drinking, and Alcoholism - Confessions of a Teen Alcoholic :: Personal Narrative Essays

Confessions of a Teen Alcoholic The beginning, was innocent in appearance - merely a bottle of my fathers beer, in order to calm myself forward the big exam. My first drink, an experiment recommended by a friend in the senior class, was meant only as a last resort - I infallible to pass this test, you realize. Ah, but how that amber liquid metamorphosed to pure silk in my mouth, sloshing down my throat at first, cursorily changing to a tender caress. The first sip, followed by a second, and a third, and so on in rapid sequence. I proceded to a nonher bottle, just as possessed of tranquility as the first. When my temples throbbed with the excruciating sit downuration of a thousand bass drums the subsequent morning, the lucidity gained from the previous nights feast with Bacchus had somehow slipped from my grasp. I failed the exam, so piercing was my headache. Upon arriving home, I made my way flat to the liquor cabinet, in the hopes of discovering a tangible comfort to assuage t he misery brought on by my bookish defeat. A mostly filled bottle of bourbon sat in the foremost corner of the cabinet. I swallowed it all down that afternoon, and was left field with an empty decanter - which I stowed away in the cellar, lest my parents know of this newfound pursuance and a somewhat intriguing sense of inebriation. Days, weeks, months passed, and I found myself indulging in alcohol much more often, for a myriad of reasons. One day, I had a terrible quarrel with my girlfriend - a bit of Jack Daniels put that unpleasant place out of my mind. Once, I had a rough epoch with my coach at soccer practice. Not a problem, simply gulp down a a couple of(prenominal) glasses of mothers Bordeaux. The more time I fatigued with my dear friend John Barleycorn, the more difficult it was to be away from him. The cravings grew to the point where I take a drink to get myself awake in the morning, while another was necessary to last through my afternoon classes. Alcohol was t he focus of any accessible activity, it was my entire life, and yet I would not claim it. I hid my addiction every moment of every day, storing empty cans and bottles in the attic when there was not a single inconspicuous space left in the basement.Alcohol, Drinking, and Alcoholism - Confessions of a Teen Alcoholic Personal Narrative EssaysConfessions of a Teen Alcoholic The beginning, was innocent in appearance - merely a bottle of my fathers beer, in order to calm myself before the big exam. My first drink, an experiment recommended by a friend in the senior class, was meant only as a last resort - I needed to pass this test, you realize. Ah, but how that amber liquid metamorphosed to pure silk in my mouth, sloshing down my throat at first, quickly changing to a tender caress. The first sip, followed by a second, and a third, and so on in rapid sequence. I proceded to another bottle, just as possessed of tranquility as the first. When my temples throbbed with the excruciating intensity of a thousand bass drums the subsequent morning, the lucidity gained from the previous nights feast with Bacchus had somehow slipped from my grasp. I failed the exam, so piercing was my headache. Upon arriving home, I made my way directly to the liquor cabinet, in the hopes of discovering a tangible comfort to assuage the misery brought on by my scholarly defeat. A mostly filled bottle of bourbon sat in the foremost corner of the cabinet. I swallowed it all down that afternoon, and was left with an empty decanter - which I stowed away in the cellar, lest my parents know of this newfound pastime and a somewhat intriguing sense of inebriation. Days, weeks, months passed, and I found myself indulging in alcohol much more often, for a myriad of reasons. One day, I had a terrible quarrel with my girlfriend - a bit of Jack Daniels put that unpleasant situation out of my mind. Once, I had a rough time with my coach at soccer practice. Not a problem, simply gulp down a few gla sses of mothers Bordeaux. The more time I spent with my dear friend John Barleycorn, the more difficult it was to be away from him. The cravings grew to the point where I needed a drink to get myself awake in the morning, while another was necessary to last through my afternoon classes. Alcohol was the focus of any social activity, it was my entire life, and yet I would not admit it. I hid my addiction every moment of every day, storing empty cans and bottles in the attic when there was not a single inconspicuous space left in the basement.