The Kitten in My Head

by Gilliana Hope

I want to preface this by noting that this story does
not involve underage drinking on my part in any
capacity.

Last weekend, for the first time I didn’t feel the
need to drink to have a good time.

The kitten in my head—named “Anxiety”—used
to think a Pink Whitney mixer was a bowl of milk,
purring as a satisfied grin crossed her lips at the last
few sips. I fed her because I wanted to be able to
have fun, to just have fun.
I’ve rarely attended a party or big event without
being at least a drink or two in since I gained access
to alcohol—whether buying it myself or through
someone else.

If not, my thoughts typically take a turn: I would
worry about those around me I saw with dates and
partners and wonder why the ache in my chest
thumps with a green-shaded desire. Or, why the
bigger groups of friends than mine I saw dancing or
snapping pictures at the photo booths or selfies on
their phones would make me feel oxymoronically
grateful and frustrated at the couple of girls in the
photos I unearthed in my gallery among the coming
days.
I cared deeply for my friends at the time—this has
nothing to do with their quality and my appreciation
of their presence. Still, I’d make a point to take
individual pictures with each of them for a reason,
as if some part of me knew they wouldn’t all be
there forever.

In the words of my favorite comedian’s therapist,
“you might be a self-fulfilling prophecy.” And
maybe I am, maybe that’s why I keep coming back
to Taylor Tomlinson and her work as a mental
counsel for my own life on occasion. Everyone
leaves, eventually, and over time my hidden photo
folder feels fuller than my main gallery—a twisted
version of memory lane.

If I wanted the kitten in my head to purr for a few
hours—was that really so bad? For a legal twenty-
something, I don’t think so.

When I drink socially, though, I tend to treat my
friends better than I treat myself.

I’m not the kind of person who follows the golden
rule when the roles are reversed. I’d walk them
home if they were drunk, high, or both—even if, at
the time, I couldn’t tell the difference between one of
them smoking a blunt or a cigarette. I’d insist I was
fine to walk home alone—it’s just across campus,
after all—and I’d text them when I got back. And
I did, but I wouldn’t text them when I occasionally
“broke out” of my room later that night.

Parties. Dances. Festivals. To fully experience them
the way I thought I was supposed to, I accepted
that I might end up spilling my in the middle of the
night or verbally doing so to my mother. Still, she
will say how much she misses my drunk phone calls
with her right before I passed out for the night.

No matter how fun those nights were, the question
always crept in: Was my happiness in those settings
tied to drinking?

And when that question surfaced, a word in big,
bold letters would flash in my mind like a neon
sign: ALCOHOLIC.

As the child of two addicts—each with their own
battles—I’ve always been hyper-aware of my
predisposition. I made myself a promise that
nothing would ever go up my nose like it did my
father’s. I swore I’d never date someone who used
hard substances either.

I don’t believe I’m an alcoholic. At one point, I would
argue, “How could I be, if I’m not dependent on it
regularly?” I’ve since learned that’s not an entirely
sound reasoning. Still, drinking felt like a staple of
the worlds I moved through. In college, but also in
the music scene.

I spend a lot of time in bars for gigs and drinking
always felt like the easiest way to blend in, to stay
just shy of harder vices. A raised cup and polite
head shake work as a gentle way to brush someone
off without needing to explain why I wasn’t doing
anything more. Alcohol seemed like the softest
solution.

Originally, I thought I’d be writing this after my
second time attending my school’s music festival
soberly. But that’s not the case.

Instead, I worked until bar close—thanks to the sea
of students who rushed my workplace just as the
last headliner wrapped up. The swarm of my already
tipsy and borderline-drunk classmates crowded the
bar, as eagerly and loudly as I’d seen the handful
of times I’ve gone out to nightclubs. Of course, I
wasn’t going to leave my coworker in that chaos.
So, I stayed and made some money. I served drinks
in my festival-ready outfit instead of watching a
rapper whose name I barely remembered (I’m sure
they were great).

When I finally stepped out of the bar, into the quiet,
I realized that I didn’t regret a thing. I knew that I
would have made it through the festival fully sober
if I’d gone and wanted to. But that answer ultimately
didn’t feel important anymore.

What mattered was: for the first time I can
remember since my last relationship ended, I
didn’t feel the urge to drink to have a good time. It
isn’t a realization I expected to walk away from the
weekend with, but it is one I hope to remind the
kitten in my head of when she starts kneading at the
edges of my skull once again.

Gilliana Hope is an avid believer in creative
expression as a vital tool for healing, having turned
to it throughout her entire life. With a synergy
between her identities as a songwriter, singer, and
writer, often she feels like a vessel for the words
she composes. The poetic and musical tales she
weaves come from a brutally personal place, for
better or worse. Her work can be found on social
media @justgilliana