INorcos and Chardonnay — A Love Story (That Tried to Kill Me)

Next thing you know, what’s great? Norcos and drinking. A little white pill and a glass of Pinot Grigio, and suddenly I was the chillest, hottest, most relaxed version of myself—until I wasn’t. Until the edge wasn’t softened. It was blurred. It started innocently, as it always does. I took 5mg here and there, mostly for my period, which, to be fair, felt like Satan trying to claw his way out of my uterus once a month. But slowly, my body adjusted. I started needing more. Eventually, I was taking 5mg every two hours. I even started keeping notes on my phone to remember what time I’d taken it, because I couldn’t keep track anymore. Was that pill at 10am or 11? Did I take two this morning or five? Who knew. But I thought that was genius—responsible, even.

And the Pinot? That was never supposed to be part of the plan. It was an accidental discovery, a happy little chemical coincidence. At first, the combo made me nauseous. A little spinny. But once I got past that initial ick? Oh my god. I had found my cocktail. A soft buzz from the wine, a smooth melt from the pill. It was like emotional bubble wrap. I didn’t feel high. I felt fine. I felt like me—but better. Instagram said “wine o’clock.” My friends had wine clubs. I was just adding a little something extra for the pain. Just a booster. Besides, my self-prescription said “take as needed,” and nobody ever asked what I needed it for.

I remember FaceTiming my mom once and she stared at me through the screen, wide-eyed. “You look pale. Like you’re about to faint.” I laughed it off and blamed work. Told her I was just tired. And I was—tired from keeping the lie alive. Tired from constantly timing, measuring, tracking, hiding. But mostly I was tired from pretending everything was fine when I couldn’t go more than two hours without a pill.

And I really believed I had it under control… until Halloween. October 31st. I went out that night and did what I always did—popped a few pills, had a few drinks, floated through the evening like I was starring in my own rom-com, one where the main character is slightly sedated but still charming. But the next morning, something was off. My stomach hurt in a deep, sharp, scary kind of way. Not a hangover. Not period cramps. This was something worse. It was enough to make me call my doctor, and he squeezed me in last minute. He knew I was a social drinker—nothing wild, just wine here and there. He didn’t know about the Norcos.

When my labs came back, he called me personally. My liver enzymes were at 520. If you’ve never seen that number before, let me translate: your liver is inflamed and sending smoke signals. It’s in trouble. It’s waving a white flag. It’s not just irritated—it’s damaged. And in that moment, I spiraled. Hard. Google was not my friend. I convinced myself I was dying. I was sure I had cirrhosis, or hepatitis, or some unnamed fatal liver condition. I stopped drinking cold turkey. I did exactly what the doctor said—follow-up bloodwork, a liver ultrasound, no alcohol for a month. And let me tell you, going sober when your whole nervous system is used to being wrapped in cotton is not cute. It was uncomfortable and itchy and loud. It made everything I’d been numbing come rushing back.

And still—I wanted to believe it was a fluke. A bad batch. A freak one-time thing. Anything but the truth. Which was that my “self-care routine”—my wine and my little white pills—wasn’t self-care at all. It was slow suicide dressed up like coping. But I couldn’t see it, because I didn’t want to. Not yet. Because I wasn’t some tragic cautionary tale. I was just tired. I was just in pain. I was just… trying to survive.

Turns out, I was the only one who didn’t see how badly I needed help