Alcohol is many things to many people—a social lubricant, a celebratory ritual, a source of relaxation. But for those who come to depend on it as a way to numb pain, alcohol can become something much darker. In “Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget,” the title reveals a paradox: how can one remember what was consumed to forget? This contradiction speaks volumes about the complexity of addiction, trauma, and healing. In this article, we’ll explore the emotional and psychological dimensions behind drinking to forget, and the hard-earned journey of confronting those buried memories once sobriety begins.
The Allure of Forgetting
For many, drinking starts innocently enough. A glass of wine after work, a couple of beers with friends, or cocktails at a wedding. But when alcohol becomes a coping mechanism—a way to escape reality—the line between casual use and dependency blurs quickly. The allure of forgetting is potent. Alcohol offers a temporary escape from anxiety, heartbreak, loneliness, shame, and the nagging voice of past trauma. The irony, of course, is that forgetting never truly works.
Emotional pain doesn’t disappear; it waits. While drinking might push unpleasant thoughts to the periphery for a night, they resurface—often more powerfully—once the buzz fades. And when that pain returns, the cycle begins again. A drink to silence the noise. A bottle to hush the guilt. Eventually, a blackout. Not just of memory, but of self.
The Shame Behind the Glass
One of the most destructive aspects of addiction is the shame that shadows it. It’s not just what we do while drinking—slurred arguments, missed responsibilities, risky decisions—but the reason we started drinking in the first place. The secret traumas and unspoken wounds that never healed.
Shame thrives in silence. And many drinkers learn early on to keep their pain locked away. For women especially, as memoirist Sarah Hepola writes in “Blackout,” society often layers additional judgment on top of addiction: the expectation to be composed, responsible, nurturing. When women drink to excess, they’re not just seen as troubled—they’re seen as failures of femininity.
This shame becomes a hidden weight. It fuels the need to escape and deepens the guilt that follows each blackout. The more someone drinks to forget, the more ashamed they feel when the fragments of memory return—and the more tempting it becomes to drink again. It’s a vicious loop that feels impossible to break from the inside.
Memory, Loss, and Recovery
One of the cruelest tricks of heavy drinking is its impact on memory. A blackout isn’t simply “getting drunk”—it’s a physiological shutdown of the brain’s ability to store new information. Entire hours or nights are lost. People wake up in unfamiliar places. They hear stories of their own actions from others like they’re reading about a stranger.
And yet, memory is more than a log of events. It’s the foundation of identity. When you can’t remember what you did or said—or why—you begin to lose your sense of who you are. Sobrietys, then, isn’t just about quitting alcohol. It’s about rebuilding a relationship with the self, piece by piece.
In recovery, many people begin to recall what they drank to forget. Sometimes, the memories return suddenly—triggered by a smell, a location, a voice. Other times, they emerge slowly, like photos developing in a darkroom. And although painful, these memories are necessary. They offer clues to the root of addiction. They mark the path to healing.
Therapy, support groups, and writing—like Hepola’s raw and unflinching memoir—become tools for remembering safely. With help, people begin to stitch their stories back together, no longer trying to erase the past, but to understand it.
Choosing to Remember
In a society that often romanticizes alcohol while stigmatizing addiction, choosing sobriety can feel like a radical act. But it’s also an act of profound courage. To quit drinking is to choose clarity over fog, presence over escape, truth over denial.
Remembering, in this context, is more than just a return of memories. It’s a reclamation of power. The ability to say: I was there. I lived through that. I survived. For many, the process of remembering the things they drank to forget leads to a new sense of purpose. Some become advocates. Others become artists. Many simply become better versions of themselves.
Sobriety doesn’t erase the past, but it transforms it. What once felt like a weight becomes a source of strength. The memories no longer control you—you own them. And in doing so, you begin to live fully in the present.
In the end, “Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget” is not just a title—it’s a truth. Every blackout hides a story. Every forgotten night points to a pain that wanted to be unseen. But when we stop running, stop numbing, and begin to remember, we discover something remarkable: our lives are worth facing, and we are strong enough to face them.
Let me know if you’d like a related memoir excerpt, discussion guide, healing resources, or recovery reflection prompts.
