I have a confession to make.

Please don't laugh, I know this sounds rather cliché, but it's hard for me to admit to something like this. I mean, this isn't something people would normally associate with the type of person I am. It just… I don't know what came over me during that period of time.

It was a mistake. Really, it was… a terrible mistake I don't plan on repeating. But it happened, and since I can't rewrite my past, I guess I should just 'fess up and get it out of my system.

A few years ago I started drinking.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "Oh my God how could you?!" This behavior simply isn't suitable for someone in the top five of the class; we're supposed to be role models for the rest of our school, right?

Not to worry, this was before I entered that prestigious clique. It was the summer of eight grade, I was home alone and bored, and I'd been hearing so much about alcohol and its negative consequences and why I shouldn't drink that I just had to. Soon—immediately—before my head exploded with all the reasons why not to. You could say it was my last act of rebelliousness before I straightened up for high school, class rankings, the SAT, and college applications. I was planning on taking just a little sip, not too much to actually leave a lasting effect—just a tiny sip to satisfy my curiosity and to find out what the hype was all about.

Obviously, the experience didn't go according to plan, and after that first sip, I was hooked. Thinking back, I still can't believe it actually happened—to me, of all people. Back in grade school, my friends and I scoffed at the stupidity of those who got trapped in the web of drugs, sex, and alcohol. I recall asking my 6th grade DARE teacher why anyone would willingly do something that obviously had adverse consequences on the lives on those involved. But once I had tried it, I, too, fell into the trap. It was nice, that buzz I got, that feeling of invincibility, the welcome lull from my constant stressing.

The last month of that summer was an absolute hell. It was centered on alcohol: sneaking drinks when my parents weren't home, desperate last minute attempts to hide any signs that I had touch their liquor collection, guilt trips that resulted from indulging in something that I knew was so very wrong, but couldn't resist continuing. That was nothing, though, compared to what happened when my parents found out. It was bound to happen sooner or later; I had just been hoping that I could cure myself of this addiction before they noticed.

They reamed me out, of course. I remember it was about a week before school would start up again, and I hadn't heard the garage door opening. The caught me, despite my efforts to quickly hide everything, and then my punishment started. My father yelled, my mother cried, and then they'd switch, with my mother yelling and my father glaring mutinously at me. This went on for hours on end, until they tired and I was sent to my room. My punishment was relatively light considering the severity of my crime; I was merely prevented from going to any of the last-day-of-summer parties I had been planning on attending and given extra chores to do for the following month.

You could say I was forced out of my addiction. No nice easing out of it for me; it was a cold, hard, skid back to normalcy, complete with that discordant noise tires make when teenage drivers are in control of the wheel. I suppose I should be thankful that my addiction hadn't been any worse than it was, or else I might have seriously gone into withdrawal. Luckily, I just suffered from some pretty shitty first days back to school, nothing that caused anyone alarm or aroused suspicions.

In the end, the benefits were much greater than the harms: I had my life back in my control, and I was grateful. I'll take having to obsess over every inconsequential detail of my daily existence over the frighteningly consuming obliviousness induced by alcohol any day.

And I don't regret it that much. It would have been better if I had never tried it, I admit, but in reality, it could have been a lot worse. I'm glad I got over my curiosity before entering high school, and the much more dangerous, and possibly illegal, temptations that accompany that rite of passage. To be less cryptic, I've always prided myself on having a wide array of friends, and among them is the less savory kind, the ones who like to, putting it bluntly, experiment. Experiment with drugs, to be more precise, and other sorts of endeavors that I'd prefer not to contemplate too closely. When offered drugs by one of them to, as he put it, "help me stop stressing out", I was able review my past history with addictive substances and resist the temptation.

It was hard, even knowing the consequences, even after experiencing the horror of being an alcoholic, to refuse. The powdery block of white offered a release from my anxieties, a release into an oblivion I desperately needed. Had I not already fallen into the trap of substance-induced euphoria, I probably would've taken it.

I'm not saying you should try alcohol just to ensure you don't do drugs. In no shape or form am I promoting the use of inoculating yourself of drugs by drinking. It might not even work in different circumstances with different people. I'm just saying that in my case, I did get something good out of all that horror. I mean, had it not been for that month of my eighth grade summer, I might not even be writing this. I could be skipping class with all the other potheads to smoke weed behind the portable buildings on the side of the high school.

Don't you think that would've been worse?

A/N: That was fun to write. Any useful criticism would be highly welcome, in fact, I'd love for someone to pick apart my story, as long as you're nice and logical about it. Give reasons that make sense. And of course, encouraging reviews are cherished as well. I do have a very low self-confidence that needs raising, you know.