Hi. My name is Kevin Sullivan, and I have a problem.
Hi, Kevin!
I’m not going to lie; it’s surreal being up at this lectern, looking down on others who share my addiction and are brave enough to share. I really don’t know where else to begin except the beginning. I didn’t know I was an alcoholic until this past week, Wildcat Welcome, and all I wanted was a drink with my friends.
If you had told me last Monday that I’d be standing here today, I probably would have laughed at you. “I’m not an alcoholic,” I would have said. “I simply enjoy an occasional, casual drink in appropriate social situations.” It wasn’t until my eyes were opened that I saw that what I consider to be an appropriate social situation can be the foundations of a problem.
A restless field of chatter filled Ryan Auditorium as a Wildcat Welcome staffer took the stage in front of the peer adviser trainees. We had been there for a few hours, and the topic’s discussion seemed inevitable. The infamous alcohol contract is one of the first things you learn about your job as a peer adviser. It hadn’t been discussed in detail yet, but those very same details are my reason for being here today.
“As you guys know, there is a strict alcohol policy for all Wildcat Welcome staffers. When you break up into your small groups, your peer coordinators have alcohol contracts for you. The contracts state that for the entirety of Wildcat Welcome, you will neither be in the presence of alcohol nor consume alcohol. And guys, this really isn’t that big of a deal. I mean, if you can’t go a week without a drink, you have a problem.”
It made complete sense. It was a week without drinking. I’ve done it before without even trying. Plus, they made an excellent argument. My advisees could need me at a moment’s notice and I needed to have my wits about me. They deserved a great adviser that could be there for them. It was why I volunteered for the program in first place. I wanted to help people, give them the transition from high school to college I wished I had. They deserved my best effort.
Leaving that training, I felt confident in my ability to honor the ink on the contract and keep to my promise, but would it really be an indication of a problem if I just had one drink? That question kept bothering me after the meeting, but I was determined to keep my contract. It was the responsible thing to do. Come September, I would be ready to give these baby Wildcats a proper welcome.
After a summer of manual labor, nothing could have been a more welcome change of pace than a week of freshman orientation. I was ready and willing to be the best peer adviser I could be. The only thing standing in between me and my responsibilities was four additional hours of extra training. The same sentiments from before were echoed.
“Just to remind you guys, you guys signed the alcohol contracts, promising you wouldn’t be in the presence of alcohol during the duration of Wildcat Welcome. Seriously, you guys, if you can’t go a week without a drink, you have a problem. That’s what CAPS is for.”
That last sentence struck me immediately as blatantly wrong. That is not what Counseling and Psychological Services is for. CAPS is for people with real problems, not peer advisers unable to go a week without drinking. That sentiment seemed to demean and lessen the seriousness and importance of the services by CAPS. I tried not to let it bother me.
The beginning of Wildcat Welcome went by smooth enough, aside from that safe I had to carry to the fourth floor North Mid-Quads (I wish I was joking). I met my advisees, and they were exactly what I was hoping for: eager kids excited to start the next four years of their lives. They were the type of kids I joined the program for, and the experience was entirely satisfying. It was near the middle of the week when I discovered my problem.
I wanted to drink. My friends began moving into my house. I had missed these people all summer, and with the stresses and responsibilities of new student week, all I wanted was to relax and share a drink with my old gang. It seemed like an innocent desire, but the words echoed in my ears.
“Seriously, you guys, if you can’t go a week without a drink, you have a problem. That’s what CAPS is for.’
It was spelled out clearly by the staff of Wildcat Welcome: I had a problem. Not only did I have a problem, I needed psychological help. I was an alcoholic.
It’s kind of jarring saying that. I’m an alcoholic. It’s one of those lows you never think you’ll reach, a compulsion to drink.
But wait.
It wasn’t a compulsion. It never was a compulsion. I didn’t need a drink. I simply wanted one. Does that really constitute a problem?
Now that I think of it, all of the talks and reminders of the contract never talked about want, only need. There was no gray area. Either I needed a drink or I didn’t. There was no room for want, but that’s what it was, and last time I checked, CAPS wasn’t for people that occasionally wanted a beer. CAPS is for people with actual problems with compulsion to seek help, not for light social drinkers.
Maybe, I’m not the one with the problem. Maybe Wildcat Welcome has the problem. Everything in the contract made sense to me, but when it came time to relate it to peer advisers, it got lost in translation.
Wildcat Welcome is a great program, and the alcohol contract is well-intentioned. It just has some problems it needs to work through. And as we all know, step one is admitting you have a problem.
I’m going to go have a beer.