I remember my first sip of alcohol like other firsts in life – a mix of sweet nostalgia, maybe a hint of bitterness. Like a first kiss or a first desperate tug on a cigarette, coughing, wheezing, delirious with ridiculous happiness. I remember feeling punch-drunk and woozy, no worries except making sure the room stopped revolving.

That was years ago, and while I still have a place in my heart for that first sip, and that first kiss and that first drag, it’s time to make my peace with alcohol.

But breaking up is hard to do. I’m terrible at it. I’m even more terrible about taking responsibility for all things embarrassing, petty or plain disgusting.

I’m depressed. I’m anxious. I struggle with self-consciousness. I’m self-conscious of my self-consciousness. This is an inner battle – and alcohol helps me fight off my insecurities. I’ve started jogging again to help take the place of a few shots and half a pack of cigarettes.

Do I feel ridiculous running through Highland Park with a beat-up pair of Nikes, moving slower than the kids on the high school track? Yes. Do I feel dumb when I try to jog away my demons? Yes. But I get the feeling that (at least to the outside eye) I look less ridiculous running my routes than I did waking up to a pillow caked in vomit. Or when I threw up all over my dorm bathroom freshman year. Or all the times I’ve hurt people close to me, hurt strangers and hurt myself.

Breaking up is hard to do, yes, but I’m trying. We’ll see if alcohol and I can be just friends.

Haidar is a junior majoring in journalism.