How to stop crying in bars

When I arrived in San Francisco in the fall, my cousin Cory told me: Always carry cash. Lots of places don’t take credit cards. And always pack a light sweater, because there are microclimates from one part of town to the other. Dolores Park in the afternoon will fool you into thinking a warm day will stay sunny (as you sip a mimosa on a picnic blanket), but then when you get to Richmond, just a couple hours later, the dense fog and crisp air will tell you otherwise. 

I missed Los Angeles already. I missed the dining table at home, where I often sat as I did my homework and filled out grad school applications. I read my official acceptance email at that dining table, skimming my phone as my heart started beating faster. I was getting my graduate degree in art history because I wanted to be a curator. I’d spent my senior year of college interning with no pay at a local paper, driving around the city and interviewing artists and curators. I wrote short stories and poetry on the side and shared my writing about street art on a blog. I wanted to be a successful writer, to see my name on the shelves of bookstores. Now, it was a matter of months before I would move out of LA for the first time to pursue those dreams. 

Before the move to San Francisco, I had spent the summer between college graduation and my first year of grad school slipping into friends’ cars wearing nothing but a tight skirt and a halter top. One of us told the other, “Did you hear that story about the girl in the bandage dress? She got into a car accident, but the dress saved her life.” I didn’t think it was true, but I couldn’t help imagining a girl in an ambulance, thinking about how her form-fitting dress stopped the bleeding. Many of us grew up in strict households where, even though it wasn’t hard to hear raunchy jokes or see scantily clad women on Spanish-language variety shows, girls were expected to be modest. 

Some evenings, I stole my friend’s auxiliary cord and blasted music as the car glided down the freeway, my fingers lightly hanging out of the window to catch the night air. I didn’t bother to bring a sweater with me. My tongue was often sticky from the shots we did at someone’s place before heading out for the night. Our sweet perfume and cologne filled the car, and the bravest of us brought a flask along. We ignored the sound of someone’s phone ringing as their mom tried to get a hold of them and figure out where we were going for the night. 

At the end of those nights, we tip-toed across living rooms and past parents’ closed bedroom doors. When one of us got too drunk at a house party, the other drove our car back to the dorms or our parents’ house. 

Other nights, I hopped into my boyfriend Frank’s minivan and played the role of musician’s girlfriend, wearing pleather shorts and fishnets to a gig at someone’s house or a local dive bar. He kept his drum set in the back seats and liked to headbang while he was driving. I went to Frank’s shows and often felt inspired to work on my writing when I got home late at night. He had recently started his own band, writing and recording all the material on his own before he could solidify his lineup. 

We went to house parties to see his musician friend play bittersweet songs or sing loudly about heartbreak. We almost always got tacos on the way home, pulling into the shopping area right next to the freeway. During the day, shoppers milled about the racks of Ross or ducked into the convenience store for medicine and cold drinks. At night, the taco truck workers took orders quickly and deftly, their hands working to wrap each order up and hand the bag to a waiting customer. We got in the car and Frank drove me home, to those palm-tree lined streets that I knew so well. 

Four months into dating, I told Frank the news about moving to San Francisco. 

“I really like you, but this was my dream before we met,” I told him. “I take work seriously, that’s something you should know. And I don’t change my mind for anyone.” 

He told me he was excited, that I should go.

“What about the distance though?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he said, calmly. 

Frank and I shared a love of art. We met at a museum and visited art shows during our first few times hanging out. He didn’t shy away from my fiery personality—he blasted the radio as loudly as I wanted, listened to my impassioned rants about whatever reading I was doing and drove to my undergrad campus to bring me Diet Coke as a motivator.  

In San Francisco, there was no boyfriend to scoop me up, no friend waiting in the driveway. I only knew two people: Cory, who worked a busy, high-powered job, and another cousin who lived in South San Francisco with his family. 

At my new school, everyone around me seemed so confident. Moving from a large campus to a much smaller environment, the world felt so much closer—less like I was pressing my nose up against the glass and seeing things happening, more like I was inside and couldn’t find my way out anymore. I was being asked to defend my opinions and cite fancy theoretical writing instead. My family told me how proud they were: not just one degree, but two. The possibilities would be so open for me. Never in my early thoughts of grad school was there a chance that I could fail. 

I needed to graduate from the program to prove that I was smart, that I could make my family proud. So, I could show my nieces and nephews that they could do it, too, one day. Frank and I resolved to talk over the phone as much as possible; we made it a goal to see each at least once a month. 

Our grad school campus was separated into two locations: one floor of an industrial building in the Dogpatch, and the more photo-friendly campus near North Beach. The latter had a Diego Rivera mural and an exhibition space that was open to the public. The courtyard had two resident turtles, and near the computer lab you could look out onto the water and see a clear view of Alcatraz. 

I was used to one central campus and the ability to walk from dorm to dorm to see friends. I was used to riding my beach cruiser from the architecture library where I worked to the campus cafeteria where a friend could swipe me in for lunch. From my undergrad campus, I could take the bus a few stops to the store owned by my childhood friend’s family. I could take that same bus and connect to another line at an intersection I knew well, where a pawn shop and an optometrist office sat diagonally from each other. 

I didn’t know any major landmarks in this new city. On days when my new classmates and I finished classes together in the Dogpatch building, which shared space with other businesses like a chocolate factory, we crossed the street to a nearby bar branded as a “saloon,” with wood booths and an old piano that no one ever played. We sipped dark beers, chatting about new genres, thesis advisors, and what we wanted to do that summer. But, somehow, I often went over my limit. I told myself I wasn’t drunk just yet, as I reached for another beer or cocktail. I could still speak without slurring. It always felt like I could drink for longer, until I was suddenly browning out and missing parts of the conversation or wondering how I got from one bar to the next. 

I told myself: Don’t go out alone too often, especially when drunk. I was still getting used to the layout of the city, and I didn’t want to get lost. I didn’t dare think about calling either of my cousins while drunk, because I didn’t want to bother them. 

But it was easier to get drunk and not overthink my responses about the reading in class or whether this artist or that was making boring work or not. Plus, I felt looser, more charming when drunk. I liked talking to strangers back home when I got a good buzz going. 

I slid into the booth next to a handful of my classmates—a group of painters, sculptors, and experimental artists in the MFA program—and told myself that I was really doing it. I was living a new life that I’d created on my own. Halfway through my first semester, the pieces were falling into place: I had friends, a schedule, and a familiarity with another part of the city. There was a liquor store, a couple of coffee shops and an Asian restaurant near the campus, all of which I started visiting often. The train was nearby, making it easy to get from the dorms to campus. I learned to slide the hanging loops on the train towards me so I could hold on, often bending my knees to keep my balance. 

But even on the days when I seemed put together on the outside, there was a sadness I couldn’t totally conceal. I didn’t want to name it, but it appeared the more I drank. After a few drinks one evening, my friend Jake walked me to the bar so I could close out my tab. I held the pen in my hand, my vision blurring as I shakily looped my signature onto the line. I can’t remember how I got home that night, but I must’ve hopped on the train nearby, the one everyone took to get to the dorms. Or did I take an Uber? 

It wasn’t until later that my friend told me it was a weird night. While everyone else was chatting away, he made sure I grabbed my credit card and started the journey home, because I was really drunk—and really upset. 

“The bartender was mad at me,” Jake said.

“What, why?” I asked.

“Because you were crying,” he said. “He asked me what was wrong. He thought I did something to you.” 

He sounded annoyed, yet a little worried—that tone of voice you hear when someone’s telling you about how they took care of you. That tense energy when they have to fill in the gaps of your memory. I told him I didn’t remember why I was crying. I didn’t have any answers for him. 

It would be different, I thought, if I was in LA with friends, with Frank. During our phone calls, I told him how much I missed him; I saw his Instagram photos and ached to be next to him immediately—but I had to wait weeks at a time to see him. 

 On the phone with my mom, I talked to her about how much work I had, how stressful it felt sometimes. She asked me if I was eating well, if I was feeling okay. I told her I was fine. I held that illusion lightly in my hands, refusing to tell her that many days, I felt extremely insecure about my place in grad school. I refused to tell her that I was getting so drunk, I kept forgetting what I said to people, or why I was crying. 

* * *

Another night, another bar. This one was a bit more upscale than the usual one near campus. I was on Polk Street with classmates, unsure of the name of the bar, but glad to be out with people from my cohort. I thought, vaguely, that the late-night donut shop might be nearby, the one everyone loved. 

That night, the drink special was something sticky and sweet, and I kept going back for more. The more I drank, I reasoned, the more confident I’d look. My classmates all seemed so sure of themselves: one of them was maybe six or seven years older than me, with a chic haircut that matched her intensity and precision in class. The other was gorgeous and tall; quiet, but extremely smart. The third was someone I’d messaged on Facebook before getting to the city. She seemed friendly online but cooled considerably when I met her. 

I couldn’t put my finger on it then, but something about their personalities made me feel like “too much.” Too short, too young, too eager. In that crowded San Francisco bar, with my insecurities clouding my mind in a new city, and a new school, I ordered another drink. And another. I got into a heated conversation with a classmate, and started crying, again. Even through my drunken fog, I felt like everyone was looking at me. Here I was, pretending to be a smart graduate student, but I couldn’t even handle critique. My classmates were so much more experienced than me; they’d worked full-time jobs, traveled, read a ton. I’d never worked a full-time job in my life. I’d never been to Europe to see the classical art I learned about in textbooks. I had so much left to learn. 

I was barely wiping my tears when a tall, lanky guy came over to our table. 

“My friends said I should come talk to you,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?”

I said yes, because I reasoned that this meant free alcohol and I was already racking up my credit card limit by ordering drink after drink. I was paying the bare minimum on my payments and often over drafting my checking account. I said yes, because I needed the validation. I said yes, because I wanted to numb the feelings of embarrassment and loneliness I felt in this city – to block out the disappointment in myself. I knew I could drink until I didn’t feel cold outside. I knew I could drink until I didn’t feel my limbs anymore. Until my face felt warm, and I felt beautiful. 

I got up and teetered over to the bar with the guy. Once he handed me my drink, I took one sip and put it back down. I was too drunk. I immediately knocked it over, the liquid spreading across the bar top—my guilt spreading, too. The guy said something like “Oh, that’s okay,” while I watched the bartender come over with a towel. I can’t remember what she said, only that a fresh drink was placed in front of me. I kept my eyes low, not daring to look at anyone near us. 

We sat near my classmates, but not so close that they could hear us talking. 

“You’re really cute, do you want to go out sometime?” he asked. 

I took a long sip of my drink and stared out at the crowded bar, suddenly seeing myself as if from above. 

“I’m sorry,” I said, smiling a little. “I have a boyfriend. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to marry him.” 

In that moment, I yearned for Frank, six hours away and likely playing a gig at a bar, much less drunk than I was at that moment. We were in parallel universes, both trying to be the versions of ourselves where we felt the most authentic. Frank was playing three to four gigs a week to make music a major part of his life. He played at Irish bars, classic Hollywood venues, house parties, line dancing nights. We kept buffing and shining these versions of our dreams, existing on little sleep and cheap food.

I couldn’t stand the heat of the bar anymore. The table felt too sticky, the noise too loud. 

I walked down a steep hill without losing my balance somehow. I remember wiping tears from my face, looking bedraggled but holding on to my cell phone and the wallet that dangled from my wrist. Who knows if I even brought a jacket, or if I left it at the bar, snug against the back of a chair. Strangers’ laughter ricocheted into the night, amplifying my loneliness. 

Something pulled me to walk through another set of doors, into another bar. I entered a dark space with a grimy floor. When I walked up to the bar, the bartender flung a thin napkin at me and asked what I wanted.

“A dirty Shirley,” I said, slurring my words.

“What is that?” she asked.

It’s just sprite, vodka, grenadine, I told her. Listing these ingredients took a lot of effort but I said them carefully. The bar was small and not too crowded, the perfect place to blend in.

I took my drink and followed the clink of pool balls to the table nearby. Someone asked me if I wanted to play. I said yes, I guess. At this rate, I probably couldn’t handle any more alcohol in my system — my stomach was beginning to bloat, my mouth was turning sour. It was hard to concentrate on any one spot, my vision flicking from one person to another. 

I teamed up with a Latinx man, maybe in his forties, for the pool game. I didn’t pay much attention to the opposing team. He was readying his pool cue, eyeing his target. Once he made his shot, he looked over at me. Even as my vision doubled, I felt him looking. He seemed leery, curious about me and watching me intently. That’s the feeling that settled on my skin.

I held on to the pool cue for stability and asked him in Spanish: “Do you have a daughter?”

“Yes,” he said, hesitantly. “But she’s back home.” Back home, I knew, meant somewhere outside of the country, somewhere in Latin America, I thought. 

“But she’s probably around my age, right?” I asked. I remember pushing the question. I remember he said yes, but that I pushed him for more. 

What I wanted to say was: Please don’t hurt me, please don’t take advantage of me. Think of her, think of me. He felt like a tenuous connection to home, a strange reminder of my family. I grew up using calling cards to talk to my aunts and cousins, who asked me about school and home. I grew up going to Guatemala about every other year, until I got to high school. I knew family members who made a business out of encomiendas, shipping goods and gifts to other countries on behalf of families in the U.S. Our family friend owned a store dedicated to Guatemalan trinkets, snacks, and clothing. 

I clung to this idea, even while I felt afraid of him.

My mind started to slip. Next slide: the sidewalk, my hand on the pavement. Next slide: Someone extends a hand, helps me get up. Next slide: I’m fluttering my fingers out of a car window, my eyes flickering over blurry visions of the city at night. 

The next morning, I woke suddenly, wondering how I even got back to the dorm. I woke up with a stomach ache, somehow feeling both nauseous and extremely hungry. I ran to the bathroom a couple times, throwing up until there was only bile left and I started dry heaving. 

I told myself: Get a fucking grip. You’re in the same state as your family, just a short flight away. Do you know what it must have been like for your parents to be in another country altogether, to learn another culture? And you’re here to learn, to chase what interests you. What is so difficult about that? Why can’t you wrap your head around those fancy words on the page? 

You are the daughter of a butcher, but you’ve never once had a job where you had to get your hands dirty. 

* * *

In undergrad, I had sought out counseling because of my anxiety and constant feelings of sadness, so I did the same in graduate school. Occasionally, I thought about my dad, and how he had been in Alcoholics Anonymous. I thought about the friends around me that went through substance abuse. How did I know I wouldn’t fall down a slippery slope? Was it in my nature, already? 

After doing some research, I started seeing a counselor through my grad school. I read and re-read my assigned texts, trying hard to wrap the words around my finger the way I used to—everything seemed indecipherable. I told myself I only needed to make it through one more year of my program. I didn’t want to ask for help. Not with my homework or with my readings, or with the drinking. It would mean thinking about why my mind loved to put me in risky situations. It would mean fessing up.

I thought: I can make my siblings’ endless hours of driving me to and from high school worth it. I can make my mom’s sacrifices worth it—the payments she made for my private school tuition as a single mom, the uniforms she ironed every morning. But even in my sober moments, it was hard not to feel worthless, sad. 

Frank started to notice during his visits every month or so, and our phone calls. I was exhausted, and I was considering dropping out. 

“I know how much this means to you,” Frank said on the phone to me one day. “You’re going to be so sad later if you don’t finish this, for yourself. Would it help if I moved there with you? To give you emotional support?”

I couldn’t possibly ask him to move, I thought. But another part of me welcomed the comfort, the familiarity, of his presence. And I thought: What a great adventure, to keep falling in love with this person, in a new city. What a rush to think about us moving in together. 

So a little before my second year, Frank packed his things and made the drive to San Francisco. We rented a bedroom in a four-bedroom, two-bathroom space in the Presidio, where you could hear the ocean waves at night if you listened closely enough. 

Frank moving up to San Francisco didn’t silence all my insecurities. It didn’t stop me from drinking too much and blacking out. Figuring out my relationship to alcohol was going to take longer. But in that apartment, Frank and I worked together to make our space cozy and artsy, often napping on the small yellow couch in our living room. We watched Game of Thrones on a projector. I sang along to my roommate as he played the piano and pushed myself to go to the nude side of the beach with my other roommate. Frank brought home my favorite ravioli from the grocery store and massaged my shoulders while I typed. I learned what it meant to build a home that was lively, warm. I collected these moments and fell in love with Frank even deeper in that home by the water. 

We ate brunch with our roommates, clinking our mimosa glasses over the table. On the weekends, we went to the local bar with fishbowl cocktails, squeezing ourselves into an old booth to drink and laugh. It felt easy, finally. Maybe, I thought, I can finish the second year, and see what life becomes after grad school. Frank and I went to art openings, soaking in all the creativity of the city. I shared some of my new favorite artists with him, telling him about my homework assignments and research. He got to attend openings at the Dogpatch studios, seeing the work of my classmates for the first time. My love for art grew, even while I still couldn’t wrap my mind around all the theory we read. I photographed murals throughout the city and kept up with new art shows by reading articles and staying updated on the work of LA artists. 

As my second year began, I tried to leave that other girl behind, the one with the fuzzy memory and uncertain legs. The one that cried in bars and never seemed to run out of tears. I tried to imagine that she made it home on her own all those nights, that she didn’t doubt her ability or her place in the world. I judged her for letting go so easily, for embarrassing herself in front of complete strangers. But then, I’d think: It’s not that deep. Everyone drinks. Maybe I was just a messy drunk. There were places to be, people to see—especially now that Frank was in the city with me. It was easy to pile into his gray van and go to the bar near us or an opening for someone’s new art show. 

Gazing out at the postcard view of the Golden Gate Bridge, just steps from our apartment, felt surreal. The tide ebbed and flowed, leaving marks in the sand. It felt, in some ways, like I’d arrived. In the distance, I could make out the edges of the next chapter.