I used to get blackout drunk. One drink would lead to two. Two would slosh into seven. I passed out on subway cars. Lost wallets in bodegas. Destroyed many an outfit with my own sick. Once, I slapped a dear friend hard across the face because he dared to mention Reaganomics. I did all these things with no memory of it. As if I were a werewolf who wakes up the next day, naked in a forest, wondering why her clothes are in shreds.

Mornings after, steeped in regret, I would search my bank accounts and pockets for clues. Press bruises hoping the pain would jog my memory as to how I got them. Call friends sputtering apologies and begging them to recount where I had been, what I had done, and who I had tongued or offended. Afterwards, I would vow to be a better human. I would be extra cautious with my drinking, log in good deeds with friends to remind them of my value, and tell myself, “Never again. Never again will I lose myself.” But then four or six months later, I would. I did this for fifteen years.

Some people drink to go numb. I drank to feel. Alcohol gave me permission to say and do the things I usually self-censored. Drunk, loose, and unguarded, I expressed anger and despair, but because I had no personal memory of those feelings I could never fully accept that I was in crisis with a real problem.

It was my husband, Noah, who finally forced me to examine myself after he had almost come to blows with a man at a gas station. It was 1:00 AM, I was blackout drunk, and Noah was trying to steer me home. Belligerent, I screamed, “Just leave me alone!” The man at the gas station thought Noah was a predator and tried to intervene. My husband had to convince him that we were married and that he had my best interests at heart. The following morning, instead of letting me sleep it off, Noah shook me awake. “Why? Why do you get so drunk? You do this two or three times a year!” Then his voice became steely and clear. “Figure it out because I won’t do this anymore.”

I spent the next two years in therapy doing just that: investigating what triggered my excessive drinking; examining why I suppressed my feelings instead of expressing them in the moment; and questioning what event in my life was so big that I could not face it sober. I came to understand it was all related to my adoption. 

In childhood, I perceived that my place in my family was conditional; dependent on my good behavior. Anything from refusing to eat my peas to throwing a tantrum in the grocery store could be met with, “Think it’s too late to send her back?” or “If you don’t stop crying, we’ll just leave you here.” All I was told about my beginning in Korea was that I was left on the steps of city hall. These threats by my parents—meant as exasperated jokes—heightened my awareness that I was not like my sister, their biological child. I had no genetic tether and could be abandoned again at any time. 

When I was ten, my parents received a letter stating that my naturalization paperwork was incomplete and my green card could not be renewed. “Why didn’t you naturalize me when I was baby?” I cried. My mom responded, “Well, you were little and I had my hands full with you. We just forgot.” For months while my parents were resolving the situation, I was plagued by a recurring nightmare. I was on a plane watching my house grow smaller and smaller as I hurtled towards a terrifying unknown. By the time I became an American citizen, I was so shaken that I endeavored, even more than before, to be a perfect child so I could stay with my family.

Not that my family was perfect. As I grew older, I learned that the only time it was acceptable to air your feelings was when completely soused. My mother would only pick a fight after three glasses of chardonnay. My father only ever cried after too much Laphroaig. Deep family grievances only escaped our lips late at night around the kitchen table over a bottle of bourbon. The next day, however, was a new dawn and should be treated as such. If you happened to remember a family member’s slip of emotional weakness, it was impolite to speak of it. Those feelings were expressed under the influence. It wasn’t us. It was the alcohol. 

Today, I have a healthier relationship both with drinking and expressing my feelings. I still catch myself swallowing a rising emotion or censoring an impulsive thought, but at least now I can recognize it. I am able to say, “You know what? That really makes me mad!” Or I can tell my husband, “This is irrational, but I’m afraid you’re going to leave me.” And Noah will wrap me in his arms and say, “I’m never going to leave you.” “Never?” I ask. “Never,” he answers. I hear him. I remember it. I don’t black it out.