Decisions and Consequences
I believe in making intelligent conscious decisions and being responsible their consequences.
It was three weeks before Christmas and I had been out shopping for gifts. I stumbled through my front door, bags in-tow, and my roommate popped her head out from behind her door. “Guess who got arrested last night?” she asked. Since we were the only two in the room, and I could recall my previous night not involving my arrest, I guessed her.
This news didn’t shock me. Over the past few months I had seen her spiral out of control, with no sign of slowing down. We lived only four blocks from the metropolis facsimile dotted with bars and clubs we all know as Front St. in Wilmington, North Carolina. Our location was convenient for walking home after a few, or many, drinks. It was a privilege we had taken advantage of. My roommate, whom I will call Ganielle, had been mixing her prescribed medication with binge-drinking. I thought it was a well known fact combining anti-depressants and alcohol could be deadly. Ganielle chose to disregard this fact, and on nights we went out she was always “that girl”. I can’t count the number of times I had to physically carry her home because she had lost the ability to sit; yes, sit.
Two months later we moved into a house that backs up to campus. It is quite a difference from a two-century-old haunted apartment. Our access to bars was now limited to The Triangle Lounge.
“I got a DUI,” she said with exasperated breath. I was still ecstatic about the eleven dollar wrap-dress I had bought earlier and tried to avoid the conversation.
A few days later, I was layed-out on the couch with my dogs watching a Law and Order marathon. She came in and plopped down on the love seat. “So, what happened the other night,” my other roommate asked. And then it started.
“Well, my sister was way too drunk and I said I would drive. So after we left this guy’s house I was driving to Matt’s house and I guess I was swerving or something. So this cop pulls me over…,” all I wanted to do was watch my program, and I had been sucked into her inebriated version of what had happened. She went on, “…so I guess I failed the sobriety test and they put me in handcuffs. When I got to the station, the cops were just laughing and goofing off. I was so pissed,” and I’m thinking, ‘Well, what do you do at your job, act serious all the time?’ It continued, getting more and more pitiful, “… so they finger printed me and took my picture. Then took me into this room where they recorded everything I was saying. When I told them I was on medication, they asked me which one. I just broke down and started sobbing hysterically, all I wanted to do was come home and swallow a bottle of pills.”
Whoa. Now she had my attention. While I believe suicide to be a serious matter, I do not condone using it in discussion to detract from a serious situation. It may sound harsh, but if she had wanted to eat a bunch of pills that night she would have; and she would not have been sitting in front of me telling this story.
Later I learned she had blown a blood alcohol level of 0.17, double North Carolina’s legal limit of 0.08, at nearly five in the morning. Bars close at two.
To this day, she refuses to take responsibility for her actions. “It’s not one person’s fault,” she casually said to me a few weeks ago. It baffles me that a twenty-two year old can still deny the consequences of her actions. At an early age I was taught to make my own decisions, hopefully the right ones, and be prepared to deal with the consequences. I believe responsibility to be the difference between poor decisions and mistakes. Mistakes are poor decisions that we learn from, and without taking responsibility we cannot learn.
It was three weeks before Christmas and I had been out shopping for gifts. I stumbled through my front door, bags in-tow, and my roommate popped her head out from behind her door. “Guess who got arrested last night?” she asked. Since we were the only two in the room, and I could recall my previous night not involving my arrest, I guessed her.
This news didn’t shock me. Over the past few months I had seen her spiral out of control, with no sign of slowing down. We lived only four blocks from the metropolis facsimile dotted with bars and clubs we all know as Front St. in Wilmington, North Carolina. Our location was convenient for walking home after a few, or many, drinks. It was a privilege we had taken advantage of. My roommate, whom I will call Ganielle, had been mixing her prescribed medication with binge-drinking. I thought it was a well known fact combining anti-depressants and alcohol could be deadly. Ganielle chose to disregard this fact, and on nights we went out she was always “that girl”. I can’t count the number of times I had to physically carry her home because she had lost the ability to sit; yes, sit.
Two months later we moved into a house that backs up to campus. It is quite a difference from a two-century-old haunted apartment. Our access to bars was now limited to The Triangle Lounge.
“I got a DUI,” she said with exasperated breath. I was still ecstatic about the eleven dollar wrap-dress I had bought earlier and tried to avoid the conversation.
A few days later, I was layed-out on the couch with my dogs watching a Law and Order marathon. She came in and plopped down on the love seat. “So, what happened the other night,” my other roommate asked. And then it started.
“Well, my sister was way too drunk and I said I would drive. So after we left this guy’s house I was driving to Matt’s house and I guess I was swerving or something. So this cop pulls me over…,” all I wanted to do was watch my program, and I had been sucked into her inebriated version of what had happened. She went on, “…so I guess I failed the sobriety test and they put me in handcuffs. When I got to the station, the cops were just laughing and goofing off. I was so pissed,” and I’m thinking, ‘Well, what do you do at your job, act serious all the time?’ It continued, getting more and more pitiful, “… so they finger printed me and took my picture. Then took me into this room where they recorded everything I was saying. When I told them I was on medication, they asked me which one. I just broke down and started sobbing hysterically, all I wanted to do was come home and swallow a bottle of pills.”
Whoa. Now she had my attention. While I believe suicide to be a serious matter, I do not condone using it in discussion to detract from a serious situation. It may sound harsh, but if she had wanted to eat a bunch of pills that night she would have; and she would not have been sitting in front of me telling this story.
Later I learned she had blown a blood alcohol level of 0.17, double North Carolina’s legal limit of 0.08, at nearly five in the morning. Bars close at two.
To this day, she refuses to take responsibility for her actions. “It’s not one person’s fault,” she casually said to me a few weeks ago. It baffles me that a twenty-two year old can still deny the consequences of her actions. At an early age I was taught to make my own decisions, hopefully the right ones, and be prepared to deal with the consequences. I believe responsibility to be the difference between poor decisions and mistakes. Mistakes are poor decisions that we learn from, and without taking responsibility we cannot learn.
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