I've realized I'm at a point where I can't control my drinking, and it's ruining my life

Both my parents are alcoholics. It destroyed their marriage when my mom got sober and my dad didn't want to. Now, I don't even know if he's still alive.

Somehow, I didn't connect the dots that I might be susceptible to addiction too. Not just alcohol, but mostly alcohol. In college, I had a string of awful, terrible relationships that pushed me towards a dark place. My drinking got so bad I had to take a year off of school.

I got therapy. I worked. I got sober. I got in shape. I went to 12-step meetings with my mom. We learned a lot about each other. We worked through it.

I went back to college, stayed sober, and graduated. I got a job teaching second grade. I met an amazing guy and we started dating. That was about a year ago.

This was my first real relationship. This was the first relationship I ever had with someone I admired, that respected me, that loved me and made me want to be a better person. I loved him.

But.... I was brand new in my career. I wanted to build friendships and relationships with the other teachers I worked with. The easiest way to do that? Social activities after work. And that means social drinking.

I didn't drink at first. My coworkers were generally respectful of this. Not all, but most. But still, the constant chorus of "why aren't you drinking" begins to wear on me. I'm not comfortable telling the truth, that I'm an alcoholic.

I start to reason with myself. Everyone drinks too much in college. I'm an adult now. I'm responsible. Look at all these other people drinking, they're doing fine. And I'll just have one vodka soda, I can handle it.

And for a while, I keep it together. My mom's not thrilled, but I'm not drinking at home and that's her rule. My boyfriend is okay with it. He doesn't drink, but he sees me handling myself. He trusts me. His only limit is that he can't handle being around me if I'm drunk. That's simple enough; I never drink enough to get drunk.

But... occasional after work drinks turned into occasional after work bar crawls turned in to occasional after work blackout drinking and sleeping at a coworker's apartment. I knew it was wrong. I hid it from my boyfriend. I hid it from my mom and siblings. They know I'm drinking, but they don't realize the extent of the problem. I don't blame them, I don't realize the extent of the problem. I'm only drinking with friends. It's only socially. I'm responsible. I have everything together.

Two days ago, it was warm enough I decided to walk home. I walk past the liquor store and on a whim pop in to pick up some vodka to for what's left of the iced tea in my water bottle. What's the harm? I think. I'll finish it before I get home. I'm not breaking the rules.

So I do it. And you know what, it's great! I'm feeling a nice buzz, the weather is nice, and I polish off my concoction just as I pass the mailbox at my mom's house. This takes maybe thirty minutes.

I, a woman of 120 pounds, drink 200mL of vodka, on an empty stomach, in half an hour.

I am hammered. But even in my stupor, I recognize I'm not going to sober up in the hour or so before my boyfriend gets home. My boyfriend, whose only limit is that he can't handle being around me when I'm drunk.

Do I do the boring thing, and text him, apologize for my bad decisions, and let him know he may want to take the long way home? Of course not. I'm drunk.

Instead, the cloud of ethanol between my ears comes up with a genius plan: Just have sex! Then he won't notice!

A half hour passes. I hear my mom get home and turn on the television. Another half hour. I hear my boyfriend coming up the stairs. I lie back on the bed, nude, posed in a way that I'm certain is definitely sexy and not in any way reminiscent of a vodka-soaked Raggedy Ann.

My boyfriend opens the door. The room smells like a distillery. I blink at him. I can't wink.

He closes his eyes. Inhales deeply through his nose. And his posture collapses. Like he just gives up. He turns around.

"I'll be back later. We can talk then."

Now, to a clear and rational mind, this is a very mature and appropriate way to handle the situation. He has encountered something he is absolutely, 100%, not okay with, so he removes himself from the situation while promising that we can talk when we're all of clear minds.

My mind is not clear or rational. It's drunk. And apparently, my boyfriend has spurned my advances.

So I get angry. Irrationally, pointlessly angry.

I get up from the bed and sloppily stomp after him, demanding, repeatedly and at full volume, to know what is so wrong with me that he took one look at me and decided to leave. This continues to the top of the stairs where, in full view of my mother seated on the couch, I stop and glare at him as me makes his way to the front door.

This is my last chance. I'm angry, and I'm hurt, and I'm drunk. One chance to hurt this person I love. So, I take it.

I honestly don't remember the exact words I shouted. My mother doesn't either. All I know is, it was to the effect of "I cheated on you."

Words carefully selected to be as hurtful as possible. Because he rejected me. Because I violated his one limit about my drinking.

A limit, I realize later in a more lucid state, that probably exists because he is also a child of alcoholic parents.

I don't know much about his parents, or his childhood. He's barely ever talked about them to me. But these are clearly not happy memories.

I don't remember the rest of the evening. Maybe I blacked out. But I woke up, fully dressed, in my mother's bed. And the realization of what I had done comes crashing down on me, and I start to sob.

Of the four people in his life who he has loved, one is his sister and three are alcoholics who did whatever they could to hurt him.

I went upstairs a bit later and most of his things were gone. My mom said he came back in the middle of the night, moved his belongings to his car, and gave her his key.

I don't know why I said that I'd cheated on him. I don't even think it's true.... I have no memory of it. Even the mornings after it had never felt like I had had sex the night before.

But.... maybe I did. I was occasionally getting blackout drunk, if it really happened of course I wouldn't remember. Maybe I did have sex, but didn't notice the next morning because of a hangover. I've been texting my friends all day trying to confirm, trying to get any shred of information about what I got up to when I was drunk. They've all promised me that of course I didn't, that they'd never let that happen, that I wouldn't shut up about my boyfriend when I was hammered.

I want to believe them. And they're probably telling me the truth. But.... I can't trust them completely. And if I can't even trust myself, how could he ever trust me again?

Maybe I'm just a mean, stupid drunk. Maybe I was just drunk and stupid and trying to hurt him for no reason. Maybe my friends are all telling the truth, and my memories are intact, and I never did what I claimed.

Or maybe I did.

I don't know. I can't know. The only thing that is clear is I threw away the only worthwhile relationship I've ever had, and that I hurt a person that I loved.

Today is day two of my sobriety.