Read This Before You Say "I'm Fine to Drive”

Every 39 minutes in America, someone dies in a drunk driving crash. Every 39 minutes, someone's family gets destroyed because another person thought they were "fine to drive."

Listen up, because I'm about to tell you something that might save your life, or someone else's, or keep you from becoming that statistic.

You think you're fine to drive. You always think you're fine to drive. I thought I was fine to drive too—every single fucking time.

Maybe you're in high school and you've never even had a drink yet. Maybe you're thinking this doesn't apply to you. Maybe you're thinking you'll be different, smarter, more careful when the time comes. That's what I thought too.

I totaled two cars. Two. The second one happened on November 24th, 2019, and that was the last drop of alcohol I ever put in my mouth. Not because I suddenly got smart, but because I finally got scared enough of what I was becoming.

But let me back up even further, because this story doesn't start with either of those crashes. It starts with all the times before that when I told myself the same lie you might tell yourself someday: "I'm fine. I can handle it. I'm not that drunk."

Before that first major crash, I'd already hit fucking mailboxes while driving drunk and using my phone—because apparently being drunk behind the wheel wasn't dangerous enough, I had to add texting to the mix. Blew out both passenger side tires, left my headlight hanging off the front of my truck like some kind of twisted Christmas ornament. And what did I do? I drove almost a mile with my truck falling apart around me.

A mile. On blown tires. With a headlight dangling. Because that's what drunk logic looks like—your vehicle is literally disintegrating and you think, "This is fine. I can make it."

But did I learn? Did that wake me up? Fuck no. Because we tell ourselves these aren't real accidents, they're just mishaps. Just bad luck. Just... incidents.

The first major crash was in my pickup truck. I had a friend with me—someone who was just as drunk as I was but still trusted me to drive after a day full of drinking. Two drunk idiots making one monumentally stupid decision. We side-swiped a guard rail, hit a telephone pole hard enough to take out a chunk of it, then ended up wrapped around a tree. My friend wasn't wearing a seatbelt and his face went straight into the windshield. I fractured my wrist and got a concussion.

I don't even remember seeing him after the accident. The concussion scrambled my brain, but I'll never forget the sound of that impact, the crunch of metal, the knowledge that I was behind the wheel when it all went to shit. I still carry the guilt of what I put him through. What I put everyone on that road through that night.

But did I stop drinking? Did I stop driving drunk? Of course not.

I had more incidents after that crash. I once got into a fight with friends while on vacation about whether I was capable of driving. They knew I wasn't. I knew I wasn't. But I was drunk and pissed off and my ego was bruised, so I took my keys back from them and instead of going back to the hotel like a rational human being, I drove almost 200 miles home.

Two hundred fucking miles. Drunk. At night. Because I was too stubborn and too drunk to admit my friends were right.

You want to know what "fine to drive" actually looks like? It looks like me weaving slightly between lanes, taking turns a little too wide, stopping a little too hard, telling myself that the reason other drivers are honking is because they're assholes, not because I'm driving like one.

It looks like the night that changed everything. I started my day going to a party about 45 minutes away. Should have been a celebration, right? Instead, it became the setup for what could have been multiple funerals.

I brought my own alcohol because I had a habit of drinking way too much. By the time I left that party, I had consumed enough alcohol to kill a horse. Then I drove back into town. Yeah, you read that right. I drove 45 minutes after consuming enough alcohol to put me in the hospital, and met up with friends at a bar.

I don't remember much of that drive. I don't remember much of being in the bar either, but I kept drinking. Shots. Mixed drinks. Beer. More shots.

I was drifting in and out of consciousness. Not quite blacked out, but close. And that's when I decided—against my friends' advice—to drive to another bar because I was talking to some girl who wanted to hang out.

I don't remember the drive over. I remember walking into the bar, ordering drinks, meeting her and her friends, taking a few sips. Then everything went black.

The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed with a police officer at my bedside.

That moment... fuck, that moment still haunts me. Everything was white and sterile and wrong. My mouth tasted like stale booze mixed with whatever the hell they'd given me in the ambulance. There was this constant beeping that felt like it was drilling into my skull. The cop wasn't what I expected. No anger, no lectures. Just this look like he was trying to figure out what to say to someone who'd almost killed themselves and potentially others.

I kept trying to piece together how I got there. My brain felt like it was wrapped in fog, and every time I tried to remember something, it slipped away. But the dread... the dread was crystal clear. That sinking feeling in your gut when you know you've fucked up beyond repair.

Somewhere in that blackout, I had gotten behind the wheel again and tried to drive home. I hit a telephone pole about a mile and a half from my house. It was the early morning hours when I crashed.

My blood alcohol level came back at .287. Point two eight seven. That's not just drunk—that's nearly dead drunk. Most people would be unconscious or in a coma at that level. I was driving a fucking car.

Then came the real consequences. Lost my license. Had to shell out almost $10,000 total between fines, legal fees, alcohol classes, and all the other shit that comes with a DUI. My insurance jumped almost $200 a month. $200. Every fucking month. For years. That's $2,400 a year just for being a drunken idiot behind the wheel.

But the money? That's nothing compared to the guilt. The shame. The knowledge that I could have killed someone.

The fucked up part? I was lucky. Both times I totaled cars, I walked away. My friend walked away from that pickup truck crash too, even after his face met the windshield. But luck runs out. And when it does, you don't get to take back that moment when you decided you were "fine to drive."

Think about the people who get in cars with drunk drivers. Think about my friend, who was too drunk to make good decisions but still trusted me—another drunk person—to make good decisions for both of us. Think about how we both failed each other that night, how we both could have died, and how that guilt sits with you forever, even when the concussion fades and the bones heal.

So before you get behind that wheel, before you turn that key, before you tell yourself you're fine—think about this: Every drunk driver who ever killed someone thought they were fine to drive too. Every family that got destroyed by a drunk driving accident started their day thinking their loved one would come home safe.

Your car isn't just a car when you're drunk—it's a weapon. A two-thousand-pound missile that you're aiming down the road with impaired reflexes and compromised judgment. And everyone else on that road—the mom picking up her kids, the guy coming home from his night shift, the teenager driving for the first time—they're all trusting that you won't be the selfish asshole who destroys their life because you couldn't be bothered to call someone for a ride.

I don't care if you're in high school and haven't started drinking yet. I don't care if you think you're different. I don't care if you've done it a hundred times and nothing's happened yet—that just means you're due. I don't care if calling someone is expensive or inconvenient. I don't care if you have to come back for your car tomorrow. I don't care if your friends think you're being dramatic.

You know what's more expensive than a ride? A funeral. A lawsuit. A lifetime of guilt because you killed someone's child.

You know what's more inconvenient than waiting for a ride? Prison. Or living with the knowledge that you're the reason someone else isn't living at all.

Here's what I wish someone had told me before I ever took my first drink: You're not special. You're not different. You're not the exception to the rule. You're just another person who might someday make the same stupid decision that drunk people have been making forever.

The only difference between you and the drunk drivers who make the news for all the wrong reasons is timing and luck. And both of those things run out.

I'm 31 now. It's been a little over five years since that night, and I still feel sick to my stomach when I see someone stumbling toward their car keys. When I'm at a bar or a party and I watch someone who's clearly wasted insisting they're "good to drive." It's like watching a slow-motion car crash that hasn't happened yet.

I want to grab them. Shake them. Tell them they're about to make the worst decision of their life. But most of the time, they won't listen. Just like I didn't listen.

November 24th, 2019 was my last day drinking not because I'm some kind of saint, but because I finally understood that the next time might not end with me walking away from twisted metal. The next time might end with me walking into a courtroom as a killer, or not walking anywhere ever again.

That's the thing about this addiction—it makes you think you're invincible right up until the moment you're not. It makes you think you can handle anything right up until you can't handle jack shit.

So put the fucking keys down. Call someone. Call anyone. Download Uber right now—before you need it. Program a friend's number in your phone. Make a plan before you start drinking.

Sleep in your car if you have to, but don't drive it. Walk home. Call your parents. Call your ex. Call someone you hate. I don't care who, just don't get behind that wheel.

Because "I'm fine to drive" are the last words of way too many people who turned out to be very, very wrong.

And if you haven't started drinking yet? If you're still in high school thinking this doesn't apply to you? Remember this story. Remember that it starts with one drink, one bad decision, one time when you think you're different.

You're not different. But you can choose to be smarter.

Every 39 minutes. Don't be the reason someone's family gets that phone call.