The Birthday Party
*
How to not be better.
My birthday had been unforgettable—alive with laughter, friends, and the free buzz of drinks.
The memories of the chaos rang through my brain as the assembled cast of my carefully curated collection of friends arrived, segmented by their connection to me.
My soccer friends: the girls I played in an indoor league with three years ago, and now we get drunk at Major League Soccer matches together.
My former work friends: Four individuals I met through various jobs since leaving them, and we celebrate birthdays and one happy hour per year together.
Finally, the vicinity friends: People whom I happened to befriend because we lived in the same building, frequented the same bar, coffee shop, or comic book store.
I led this mismatched collection of friends to celebrate at an adult arcade, where the beer wall became the unspoken star of the evening. I could hear the laughter still, and as I swallowed, feeling my throat raw, I knew this morning would hit harder than any celebration.
Sunlight pierced through the thin curtains too early, and my head throbbed in sync with my heartbeat. My arm lay draped over Robert’s back, his body tense beneath my touch.
I kissed his shoulder softly, hoping to bridge the uneasy silence with affection. He flinched, pulling away as though my touch burned him.
“Rob, are you okay?” My voice was hoarse, thick with sleep, and an unsettling dread.
He groaned, barely turning toward me, and spoke with irritation laced into his words. “If you don’t remember last night, maybe it’s time to admit you have a drinking problem and get help.”
The sharpness in his voice cut through the haze of my hangover. I shot upright, the sudden movement triggering nausea. His words hung in the air, heavy and unforgiving.
“What happened?” I asked, my voice shaking. “I remember going out, having drinks…”
Robert faced me fully, his jaw tight and his eyes cold.
“You drank too much. When I tried to get you to leave, you got pissed and convinced our friends to gang up on me, mocking me until I couldn’t take it anymore.
I left. You didn’t come home until three a.m., and we fought when you finally showed up. None of this rings a bell?”
His words unraveled fragments of the night, blurred by alcohol—scenes of laughter turning sour, arguments erupting, and my resistance to leaving. The shame crashed over me. I knew my limits, and I’d still bulldozed past them.
I struggled to piece the night together.
Someone had handed me shots, and I’d downed them like water.
Robert had offered me actual water, which I waved off.
I had wanted the night to stretch on, fueled by my friends’ cheers.
When Robert tried to rein me in, I pushed him away, resenting his attempts to protect me.
His patience snapped, and he stormed off after asking the bartender to get me into a cab.
The rest blurred into a drunken haze. I vaguely remembered stumbling outside, flirting with strangers, and sending Robert a garbled text: Hedding hom—I’m sorry—I love you so much. C u soon.
The text was the only evidence I had of last night.
I woke up on the couch at four a.m., unsure how I got home or what occurred when I arrived.
I was plagued with a hammering headache and nausea that turned my stomach inside out.
I shot up, panic coursing through me as memories of vomiting surfaced, seeing it on the side of the couch.
I needed to clean it before Robert noticed.
As I stood, the world swayed, and I barely made it to the bathroom before dry-heaving into the sink. I told myself to go lay in bed and deal with this once I woke up. I collapsed next to a sleeping Robert, unaware of the harm I had caused.
I sat up and covered my mouth in shame, then leaped out of bed and rushed to the living room.
The moment I turned the corner, the sour stench of vomit hit me.
It still clung to the carpet, showing my lack of control.
I grabbed carpet cleaner spray and paper towels, and crouched down to clean it, scrubbing with shaky hands.
Robert leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “I heard you throwing up last night.”
His nose shriveled in disgust as he continued, “I assume it’s all over the couch. I’m grabbing breakfast and some space FROM this.” He motioned to the living room as he walked out the door. “Clean it up. Let me know if I need to ask Matt for his carpet cleaner—again.”
His words stung, dredging up a memory of last Christmas when I spilled wine on the carpet. My brother had shown up the next day, teasing me with a carpet cleaner in hand. The embarrassment lingered even now.
After Robert left, I cleaned silently, the guilt pressing down on me. I knew why I’d done this—why I always pushed too far. I craved attention, the validation of being the life of the party. But Robert didn’t like that version of me, and truthfully, I didn’t either.
By the time he returned with breakfast, I had finished scrubbing. He set a bag of burritos and electrolyte drinks on the table and unpacked them without a word.
I sat across from him, bracing for a lecture, but he handed me a burrito instead. We ate until he finally broke the silence.
“When you got home last night, you pounded on the door, thinking it was locked. You didn’t even try the damn handle.”
I looked down at the table. I could remember flashes of our argument—him yelling at me. I was yelling back. His suggestion that I was trashy for making so much noise when I came home.
“I wasn’t just mad at you last night,” he said quietly.“You accused me of being pissed because you were having fun and you don’t need me to have a good time.”
I looked up, my eyes searching his face as I could see the weariness.
“I wasn’t mad because you had fun. I was mad because you put yourself in danger and left me no choice but to walk away.”
I nodded weakly. I could have defended myself. I could have snapped that I didn’t need him to protect me from danger. Yet, I could not form the words.
“You turn into someone I don’t recognize when you drink like that.”
His words settled over me like a lead weight. “I know,” I whispered. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
“It’s more than that,” he continued, his eyes meeting mine. “You become someone I don’t like.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. The sting of his honesty cut deeper than anger ever could.
“I don’t like her either,” I admitted, trembling.
“I know you regret what happened,” he said, his tone softening, “but it still hurt when you called me controlling.”
I winced, the memory of those words surfacing like an open wound.
“I didn’t mean it—”
“I know,” he interrupted gently. “But that word…control…it takes me back to Tony.”
His voice faltered, his vulnerability raw. “That’s a trigger for me. I didn’t want to force you to come home last night because I’d be no better than him.”
Guilt flooded my chest. Without thinking, I stood and wrapped my arms around Robert. He hugged me back, his grip firm yet tender.
“I can’t promise I’ll always follow your advice or respect your opinions over my own,” I whispered. “But I’ll try. I’ll work on it.”
He held me tighter. “That’s all I ask.”
It felt like we stood on steady ground for the first time in a long while. I rested my forehead against Robert’s, the silence between us filled with a quiet understanding.
I let out a soft laugh, breaking the stillness. “So what now? Are we both teetotalers?”
Robert chuckled. “Do we need to be?”
I smiled, shaking my head. “I don’t think so, but if we do, the craft beers in the fridge are wasted.”
He laughed, but his eyes didn’t. Not fully. “If that day comes, we’ll do it together. No dragging each other down.”
The word “addiction” echoed in my mind, a distant warning. I’d always viewed drinking as fun, an escape from the world’s pressures. But now, I realized a line had been crossed. The thought of falling into the same patterns that plagued our families gnawed at me.
My stomach lurched again, and I broke away, racing to the sink before nausea overtook me. From the corner of my eye, I saw Robert gag and bolt for the bathroom, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
The conversation wasn’t over. Like everything else, we had work to do together.
I was afraid to try, to ask myself hard questions, but it was time. I didn’t like the version of me who needed a birthday to justify blowing everything up, but I had invited her in. Again.
Nevertheless, I knew my squeamish spouse would do everything he could to help.
As I wiped my mouth and stared at the mess, I knew there were more apologies and cleaning to do.