You Have The Right…
An easy-going Wednesday turned into a twelve-hour horror in jail. I was booked for a DUI just months ago, dividing me from my past achievements, friends and those who still decide to drink and drive.
Personal essay: Anonymous
Photo: October Yates
The saying, “It was my worst nightmare,” comes off the tongue so easily in a moderately bad situation. But that ache in my stomach as I woke up on the ground, surrounded by four cement walls, a plastic bucket with a piece of ripped paper that had one phone number scribbled on it and the moaning of a sick woman rolling on the bed mat beside me — that feeling of waking up and realizing that I was, in fact, in jail. That was my worst nightmare.
It should have been anyone besides me, at least that is what I thought. I was the tryhard who considered missing a class a failure. Looking down at the wristband that had a small, fuzzy picture of my face, I realized that I would have to explain this absence to my professor.
My mugshot lives somewhere; I’ve searched for it online, but so far, all I have is a local newspaper article listing that day’s jail bookings.
That wasn’t my idea of a news clipping I could add to my journalism portfolio. That wasn’t my idea of a Wednesday night of “going out but taking it easy.”
That Wednesday was an outlier. I decided to be spontaneous, go out and maybe have a drink or two. The venue was usually packed with college kids dancing to music from the ’90s — and early 2000s, and sometimes mid 2000s — after buying the cheapest well drinks. I was used to keeping track of those drinks and used to skipping ’90s Night because I had class in the morning.
But as the cliché states, “no one looks back on their life and remembers the nights they had plenty of sleep.” Sure, whatever.
Leaving the bar, I was doing just fine. Getting to the venue, I was immediately asked by a stranger to get a drink. Free drink? Like most drowning-in-debt students might, I agreed and took it. Almost immediately after, another guy slipped over by my side. “Can I just buy you a drink?” The other one was barely down and I still don’t know why this was the night I decided to keep saying yes. But there I was — accepting yet another.
These two strangers approached me again that night and each bought me another drink. I had forgotten about my easy night. I walked outside to get some fresh air and look for a friend who I later found out had left. Standing in front of the bouncer at around 12:30 or 1 a.m., I dropped my phone and picked it back up. He wouldn’t let me back in.
One of the drink-buyers had followed me out. He was offering a cab. ‘Oh, I know what he is up to,’ I thought.
“Thanks, but I can get my own cab,” I said, determined and blinded by the urge to proclaim my female independence.
Grabbing my roommate by the arm, we started to walk to my car. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” she asked.
If only I could freeze that moment in time. You see, typically, I would have stopped myself for a moment, no matter how much I had to drink. I would have pondered the question, said no and probably have run back to the stranger offering a free cab — I later heard he simply was offering us an Uber separate from his own.
But that room for judgment had passed. I was officially too stupid. I got in the car and, for some reason, I popped in an Usher CD and began to drive home.
I was probably driving for about four minutes. I saw the lights and I remember trying to get myself together. Both my roommate and I were shouting to each other, freaking out, but still drunk enough to think we were going to have a friendly conversation with the police and make our way home.
Usher’s “Yeah” was vibrating through my car; I quickly turned it off.
The officer asked if I had been drinking. I said yes, but I was the designated driver. “When was your last drink?” he said. I had no idea, but I remember guessing. He had me get out of the vehicle and do the toe-to-heel walk in high heels. He had me do the penlight test, which I barely remember.
I thought I was doing fine, but then I took the breathalyzer test, which I knew I wouldn’t pass. Everything sped up after that. I was facing the police car, shaking as cold metal of the handcuffs tightened around my wrists. He began reading me my rights.
I heard my friend yelling out my name, each time more panicked than the last. “What are you doing with her? She has class in the morning!”
I remember sobbing as the reality of what was happening sank in.
I had just been arrested for a DUI.
I was in jail for 12 hours. Every minute was spent trying to keep myself from panicking or crying. My release time had gotten pushed back repeatedly. I stood on my tiptoes to peek out the window and watch the only clock in the hallway tick another minute. I was asked for drugs and I was asked for my food at each meal, which I gladly gave away. I had lost my appetite to the nightmare that kept settling into reality.
It has been months, now. I have taken multiple tests to prove I am not alcohol dependent, as most people who get a DUI are.
A past study from the Journal of Substance Abuse Treatment found 80 percent of DUI offenders reported alcohol-related problems within their social life. Since then, I have been pulled over once for a minor traffic violation. Unable to breathe, every traumatizing memory flooded my mind when I saw the red and blue lights behind me. I showed the officer the breathalyzer I need to start my car, to prove I was not drunk, only scared.
I frequently wake up from nightmares of going back to jail. An Uber would have been a lot cheaper than a DUI. But aside from financial concerns, I know hurting someone would have made it unbearable to live with myself.
According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, 1,921 people were killed in crashes involving a drunk driver in Washington State from 2003 to 2012. The majority of those deaths belong to those in the 21 to 34 age range.
My friends who know about it have still chosen to drink and drive home. The amount of alcohol I had that night was the perfect amount for a peak of false confidence, according to a counselor who had to evaluate my alcohol habits. And with false confidence, my friends think they are invincible.
I pray they won’t have to learn the hard way, because since that moment, I have struggled to feel exactly how I felt before. I have struggled to feel like a good student, a good daughter and a good journalist. And the last thing I want is to feel like I didn’t share what I learned. Because as shameful and embarrassing as it is, it is also something everyone pushes under the rug.
How many people are going to need to learn the hard way?
