I woke up to the scent of something putrid. Unable to open my eyes, lest the light of the sun burn into my retinas. Subconsciously not wanting to see the results of another night out. So my eyes stayed shut but I continued to smell whatever it was that made me want to vomit. 

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A split second later, as if God had in that moment gifted me the ability to be conscious, I immediately knew. The smell was me. It was the alcohol, the xanax, and the adderall from the night before. Seeping out of my system, rancid. 

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I could tell by the way the cloth pressed into my skin that I was in the same clothes as I went out in. I wiggled my toes- at least my shoes were off. 

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Then I realized my head was resting on something solid and foreign, certainly not my pillow. Almost simultaneously my eyes snapped open and my body shot up straight. Looking around at the strange room and then to my bedmate, who I had just awoken.

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“Who are you?” I asked. 

“My name is Devon. When the bar closed you were wandering around like you were looking for someone to take you home, so I brought you back to my place.”

“Oh. Well thanks.”

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We sat in awkward silence. 

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“Do you want some breakfast?” he offered. 

What a generous man, I thought to myself. 

“Thanks, but I should probably go.” 

I got out of bed, stumbling around to gather my belongings, and saw myself out the door without another word. 

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Another walk of shame. Like last week and the week before, these weren’t even embarrassing for me anymore. Between the overwhelming smell of alcohol leaking out my pores and the discomfort of living in a strappy, bodycon dress for the last 16 hours, there was no room for regret. The only brain capacity I had on these mornings after was for navigating my way home.

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But today was different. 

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I could tell by my clothes and by the way my pussy felt that sex didn’t happen. You’d think a girl being blackout, even passed out, would be an immediate turn off, but surprisingly it’s not for some people. The thought that saves me from calling “rape” every weekend is that they are probably as fucked up as me. Whether that’s true or not, it’s the only way I can mentally survive this conundrum. 

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Normally, I don’t think much about it. It's a conscious decision on my part to get absolutely blitzed multiple days a week and, hopefully, enjoy the company of some handsome guy that will make me feel less alone for a few hours. 

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But what Devon said made me cringe. Like a lost little puppy, I was looking for my owner. Where do I go? Who wants me? 

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I vaguely remember this. Walking up to men, trying to hit on them, some having girlfriends standing right next to them. I remember being nicely let down and completely ignored. Before I blacked out and Devon took me home. 

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Angel Devon. 

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The sunlight was harsh, but not as harsh as my mind. Coming to the realization that this is not the life I want for myself. How embarrassing. And underneath that embarrassment- disgust. 

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Too afraid to build relationships with the men who actually want me, so instead I drug myself up to get surface level love from men I won’t even remember. 

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I’ve been aware of my substance issue and my intimacy issue, but Devon unlocked something for me. He gave me a key I didn’t know I needed, to the door that I had been banging on the last few years. 

Until today, I knew my issues, but I didn’t know other people knew them too. I thought I hid them well behind the Dean’s List, volunteering, and the outdoor club. I thought excelling at my job, school, and social life masked the very real lack of self-worth so no one else could see.

But it seems I’ve let it slip.

It’s much easier to ignore problems when they’re yours alone. It becomes much harder to turn away when someone else holds up a mirror and shows you what you’ve been avoiding.

I’ve almost made it home now—across the city, over the bridge, and around the corner to Augusta Street. I couldn’t help but wonder, Is this metaphorical? All the self-inquiry, the spiritual practices, and the religious texts I’ve studied for the last two years—all of it was supposed to guide me toward answers, toward healing. Yet nothing ever seemed to stick the way I hoped it would.

Maybe that was the problem. I thought healing was something I had to figure out alone, something to conquer in silence. But now, I see it clearly: sometimes, the answers we seek are not in solitude but in the reflection others give us.

As I step onto Augusta Street, I feel something shift. It’s not a grand epiphany, but it’s enough. Healing doesn’t have to come all at once. Maybe it’s in the small moments when we realize we’re not as invisible as we think—and maybe, that’s a good thing.

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