I had to cut my first date with Brandon short, as I had other commitments to attend to, including an editor’s birthday dinner and a New York Fashion Week after-party. So, you can imagine my surprise when I woke up in his bed the next morning, with no recollection of how I got there. Feeling disoriented, I swiftly made my exit. I didn’t speak to Brandon for months after that, until we coincidentally ran into each other at a bar in our neighborhood. It turns out, he hadn’t reached out because he thought I had left his apartment in a rush, like a freed hostage. I awkwardly explained that I couldn’t remember what happened after our eventful night. When we unexpectedly crossed paths again the following evening, we took it as a sign and went on a second date to an intimate wine bar. I preferred white wine and he preferred red, but we didn’t let that difference stop us. For our third date, Brandon volunteered to help me move apartments, organizing multiple Ubers to transfer my belongings. I had LASIK eye surgery scheduled the next week, and he kindly offered to accompany me to the doctor and back home. I thought gifts were my love language, but Brandon showed me that acts of service were just as meaningful. He never asked me to be his boyfriend, but he was always there when I needed him. I couldn’t imagine my life without him.
Despite the 20-year age difference between us, Brandon and I had an incredible time together. Our dates were just as exciting as our first encounter at the NYFW after-party. We certainly enjoyed ourselves, but we never had the chance to truly assess if we were meant to be. It’s hard to say when our relationship went sour. It was challenging to measure our happiness and compatibility because most of our interactions after 5 p.m. revolved around alcohol. A few drinks can create temporary friendships that fade away once sobriety sets in. However, I decided to move in with Brandon. We had minor clashes in our personalities. We struggled to agree on movie genres, except for horror. For some reason, we found comfort in the predictable nature of horror films with oblivious protagonists meeting their doom. Every night, we would sit on opposite ends of the couch, sipping our wine glasses filled with his favorite Merlot, searching for a horror movie we hadn’t seen.
I had always made it a rule not to drink at home, until I moved in with Brandon. I started drinking heavily during my freshman year of high school, which resulted in me missing out on certain milestones like prom or losing my virginity. Approaching 25, I realized I didn’t need alcohol. In fact, I would often go weeks or even a month without drinking to prove to myself that I wasn’t addicted. But deep down, I knew my relationship with alcohol wasn’t healthy. I recognized that it couldn’t be a lifelong indulgence, yet I couldn’t bring myself to quit forever. Brandon’s job as head of the legal department for a company with numerous employees and countless lawsuits meant that my job became avoiding anything that would trigger his anger, whether it was leaving a cabinet open or forgetting to close the shower curtain. But I wasn’t easy to deal with either. Alcohol made me go out all the time and live as if I were still single, which only exacerbated Brandon’s anger issues. I justified my excessive drinking by conflating it with networking, thinking it was essential for my career. One Thursday, I arrived at Brandon’s apartment (which had become our battleground) to find my clothes packed by the front door. I profusely apologized for staying out late, but I argued that the 11 p.m. curfew he imposed on me was unreasonable. Brandon screamed that it was actually 6 a.m.! My press event had an unexpected after-party, and a group of us went to Le Bain, followed by a gathering at a renowned fashion designer’s penthouse, and we ended the morning with breakfast. I was simply hungry!
During these moments, Brandon’s anger would explode like scorching lava. However, time would heal our wounds and we would move on, as quickly as we would open a bottle of wine. That nightly bottle (or two) of wine became an essential part of our relationship. Without it, we felt like we had nothing to bond over. Brandon dismissed my concerns about our excessive drinking, arguing that Manhattan was an adult playground for eternal youth. He believed that the only problems in our relationship arose when I left the house without him. We used alcohol as a way to avoid facing the realities of our failing relationship. We became dependent on toasting our glasses as a way to hold us together, even though it was also tearing us apart. Repeat. Alcoholism is a progressive disease that can start with a glass of wine every night, slowly escalating to two, then three. One day, you wake up and realize that being a drinker has become an integral part of your identity. Similarly, I would wake up alone on an empty bed (since the couch became Brandon’s territory during fights), wondering how our relationship had deteriorated so much.
The dynamics of a relationship between gay men can blur toxic behavior. We often think that societal rules don’t apply to us. Substance abuse is unfortunately prevalent within the LGBTQ+ community for various reasons. However, I couldn’t deny the toxicity in my own relationship. I had the self-awareness to recognize it, but I lacked the strength to walk away or stop drinking. I didn’t want to let go of the financial stability and emotional support Brandon provided. I had always dreamed of being in a committed relationship, and I wasn’t ready to admit that I had chosen the wrong person or that I needed to start over.
When Brandon and I finally separated, his friends assumed it was because I got drunk and allowed his cousin’s date to briefly kiss me at his birthday party. My friends, however, knew that it was because Brandon got drunk and physically assaulted me the following day. We were trapped in a cycle of building upon each other’s mistakes, never allowing one side to take full blame for long. Rock bottom wasn’t a physical place for us, but a constant feeling of despair. We had destroyed our relationship so many times that there was nothing left to ruin or any passion left to reignite. The idealized version of ourselves loomed over us like a tired ghost, begging to be exorcised. But just like the many times I swore off drinking after a terrible hangover, I returned to Brandon a few more times before finally breaking free. I struggled to let go of the wonderful image of Brandon and the seemingly perfect life we had. After our final goodbye, I didn’t just leave the relationship, I left the country. I traveled to Mexico and Europe, searching for a sense of belonging. I would return to New York whenever I felt homesick.
Even after 14 years of experience and numerous mistakes, I am still navigating my relationship with alcohol. I stumble occasionally. However, unlike before, I am actively working towards becoming someone who can confidently say, “No, thanks.” I am realizing that I don’t need alcohol or a partner to validate my existence. On my 28th birthday, I celebrated by hosting a private dinner party at a restaurant in the East Village. The night ended with a champagne toast from a friend, who wished for me to keep improving each year. Today, I am committed to doing my best.
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