I felt awful. My head was throbbing, I felt confused, I was completely lost, and I was wet. Really, really wet.

It was at this moment I realized that I had a problem.

No, not a drinking problem. It would take another couple of weeks before I entertained any of those thoughts. It was my phone; it wasn’t working anymore.

As I slowly figured out my way home, without Google Maps, winding my way through the streets of Surrey, I pieced together my night.

I remembered getting to my friend’s birthday party. I remembered saying I wasn’t going to drink. I remembered feeling socially uncomfortable. I remembered deciding to drink a little, just to feel okay. I remembered feeling depressed. I remembered Jagermeister. I remembered deciding to walk home at two in the morning. I remembered being in a lake. I forgot the rest.

This was the morning I first really began to question my relationship with alcohol. It’s been almost a year now and while I can’t say that we’ve officially broken up, I’ve at least transitioned from being “in a relationship” to “it’s complicated.”

I never imagined I would be someone who could have any sort of a drinking problem. My parents never drank more than a can of beer or a glass of wine, so my idea of alcoholics was based entirely off of fictional characters, like the barflies at Moe’s Tavern. I thought alcoholics were all complete losers — two-dimensional people who obviously had nothing else in their lives.

No matter how much I drank, I could always convince myself it was okay because I was still going to school, working, and trying to make something of my life. I only saw alcoholism as a problem if it destroyed your life on the outside, but as I’ve come to realise, even if it only affects you on the inside, it can still cause a lot of pain.

My early drinking experiences were fairly innocuous. I had my first sip of beer at a New Year’s Eve party and left the full can on the counter to get drained into the sink the next morning. My second drink was a shot of vodka at a friend’s house, and I didn’t feel anything.

The third time I drank, I blacked out and barely made it home. And it was incredible.

In one fell swoop, I broke out of my shell. Out of nowhere I gained the confidence to talk to anyone, and I had more fun than I’d ever had before. It was amazing.

From that point on, I felt nothing except this tremendous effect when I drank. I didn’t do it regularly, but every time I went out, I’d drink excessively — and for a couple of hours, I’d become a different person, and everything was great.

Unfortunately, in my third year of university, I was not experiencing this same success in my regular day-to-day life. I was struggling with social anxiety and depression.

I decided to seek help, and I did it the right way. I went to a psychologist who spoke with me and performed tests. He recommended medication and therapy. He assured me that my problems were curable, but it would take a lot of work and that it might be a long time before I felt any better.

I gave it my best shot. For about a month, that is, before I decided to implement my tried and true method for social success: Drinking. A lot.

For several months, this is how I lived my life. While I wasn’t drunk all the time, I was under the influence of alcohol more than I should have been and more than I still care to admit. I even pre-drank before I went out drinking.

It was a lot of fun, for a while. I made a lot of friends and started to feel more confident about my ability to socialize. I even worked up the courage to talk to the girl I had had a crush on for a long time. I eventually asked her out, something that had previously been unheard of.

Unfortunately, I quickly realised that this lifestyle was not sustainable. Though I continued to achieve success socially, I became more and more depressed. In the sober light of day, my attempt at a relationship was also quickly not working out, which only further contributed to my unhappiness.

In this state of mind, I went to that birthday party with the intention of staying sober. But with none of my problems even remotely solved, I couldn’t handle the situation, and ended up drinking more than I ever had before.

The next day, I not only had to deal with the consequences of the night before — which included replacing a $200 phone and a fair amount of other water-related damage — but it also happened to be the day I had my heart broken.

While I could’ve chalked it up to a shitty weekend and gone on with my life, I decided instead to use it as motivation to take my mental health seriously. While drinking may have seemed like the easiest and most fun way to escape my problems, I’ve slowly realized that confronting my problems head-on is way more rewarding.

In the last few months, I’ve taken my pledge even more seriously, and I’ve decided to completely eliminate alcohol from my life. With drinking so ingrained in so many facets of university life, it certainly hasn’t been easy — but for where I’m at right now, sobriety is the best thing for me.

While someday I hope I can drink just for fun and not as relief for social anxiety or depression, for now, I’m happy just having a Pepsi and working on real social skills and real happiness.

Alcoholism isn’t the same for everyone, and it’s not always apparent from the outside looking in. Alcoholics aren’t just Barney Gumbles, and more often than not you’ll have no idea that someone is suffering because this sort of suffering can often look like a lot fun.

I’m not sure whether I’m an alcoholic, but what I do know is that right now I don’t want to drink. I hope people can understand that, and not only respect my decision, but also be accepting of both me, and anyone else who chooses not to drink. It just feels like the right thing for me right now.

Plus, I like being dry. Really,

really dry.