too poor to party

My phone dings, and I receive a text inviting me to a bar. I check my bank account—I have $50. Okay, so I can’t get drunk because I can’t afford an Uber there and back. Plus, it’s a thirty-minute drive. I do have a cute outfit in mind; I have been needing an excuse to wear it. And I haven’t seen my friends in a while. I look down at my legs, covered by the heated blanket I bought. Keeping warm in my house is too expensive I have had to take extra measures. I am quite cozy and comfortable as is.

I wonder, is it worth the money I would waste going out?

I decided no, it’s not worth it, just in case I don’t have a good time. I have a low tolerance for annoying people, I can’t stand being the only sober one at the bar. I didn’t realize until I couldn’t afford it anymore that I needed a certain amount of alcohol in my system to have a good time going out. It never used to be a problem.

People are lying to themselves when they say you don’t need to get drunk to have fun at a bar. I agree with the statement that I don’t need to be drunk to have fun, in general. But y’all don’t know unless you‘ve tried it how awful these places can be sober. At a bar or a party, you need that clutch. I need that clutch.

I am not a naturally outgoing girl. I mean I am your stereotypical writer. I prefer to sit back and watch people interact than to have to contribute.

Bars are overwhelming—the loud music, the people bumping into you, sticky stuff on the floor, and the high energy you need to socialize, it’s a lot. Maybe it is fine if you’re an extrovert, but as someone who is an introvert — I can’t always hang sober.

On a night like that, when I can’t afford to take up my friend’s invitation to go out, I am left in a state of loneliness and annoyance with my life.

I am alone because I am still single—oh, and I also had a brutal friend break-up last year—so I feel more alone than ever these days. And my best friend lives hours away.

I’ve finally learned my threshold for the amount of time I can spend alone.

I am not upset I am not going out over a fear of missing out. I have lived so many drunk nights the last decade and for the most part, they are all the same.

This is bigger than a surface-level problem.

Partying has always been my main way of socializing. But my priorities in the last year have had to change. Having a fun drunk night out isn’t worth the price, literally.

This might sound silly to care this much about not partying anymore. But you have to understand I learned how to make friends through red solo cups in my hands.

Meeting someone new was easy then, it would happen by accident. Like them joining my drunk mirror selfie in the dirty bathroom. Before that, I didn’t have many friends in my younger years. I was too anxious and far too awkward to be cool.

Don’t worry, I am still fairly awkward now. I have learned how to make it charming.

It all started at fourteen, I somehow slipped my way into the circle of underage drinking and rebellion. It’s not as though I didn’t want to join my fellow delinquents—I mean, I was a huge fan of Skins. The lifestyle was enticing. But I never planned for it to become a part of my personality. It just kind of—happened?

All it took was showing up to one parentless house party before I was invited to all the next ones. If I wanted to see my friends then I had to be at these parties. It was simple.

I wasn’t there to get fucked up like many others; it was just my social hour. I didn’t chase a blackout. Yes, I would have a few beers and enjoy feeling the buzz that caused me. That just subtly lightness of no longer being scared to talk was nice.

Maybe the best part was just being a part of the action. I loved contributing photos and videos of what I captured. Certainly, there was an elite feeling that came with it. Not everyone gets an invite to parties, but I did. Back then I didn’t want to miss out.

Now, I don’t care, I can’t care.

(Dating a drug dealer at fifteen also definitely jump-started me into this social circle. That’s a looong story for another day. When I can start putting my writing behind a paywall, I will share. I can’t reveal everything for free.)

Anyway, the point is: I was/have been in the party group most of my life. And once you’re in it, it’s really hard to get out. It feels like most of my friends who left the lifestyle have just left because they are now sober, so you know, they had to leave.

I am in a strange spot where I don’t have a drinking problem. Thats not why I have stopped going out. It might be less annoying if I felt I was staying home to better myself than the truth that I just can’t afford to party anymore.

It’s like when someone used to buy fancy iced lattes and has to now learn how to make coffee for the first time because it’s too expensive. It’s a lifestyle change that one wouldn’t expect to impact your daily routine but, it does, more than expected.

I think of student-athletes as a good comparison to how I feel.

Stick with me here— They train their whole life for a sport. It becomes where they make their friends, how they spend their weekends, and how they learn how to function in a group. Then they go off to college, continue to succeed at the sport, and then they graduate. Left with no idea who they are without playing. Because their whole life was about the sport, and without it, it feels like they have to start all over.

I can’t help but be angry because if I could afford it, I would go out once a week—at least, I think so… I mean, I don’t know for 100% certain. If I am really honest the longer I am away from drinking, the less appealing it has become. It’s hard to know for sure since everything seems like it would be nicer if I wasn’t broke.

Although, even when I just got paid, I still feel it’s not worth the money to get drunk. I want to save the money instead for a tattoo, a haircut, or a new pair of shoes.

When I first wrote the first draft of this essay, I focused only on how I’ve phased out of partying. I indeed have — but I found as I wrote that what was more interesting to me was trying to pin down the reason. Which is simply that, I can’t afford it.

I don’t know if the results would be different, perhaps it was written the stars no matter my financial situation that I would outgrow the party girl version of myself.

It has been somewhat life-altering for me. Being poor truly isolates you.

I can still afford the necessities (food, water, electricity). In this economy, I am aware that it’s a privilege that I can live alone and pay my bills. But I can’t emphasize enough how I am just scraping by—and some months, I still have to ask my parents for help to afford a normal life. Again, I am lucky to have loving supportive parents, I know.

I used to be even more poor. Back when I was laid off from my job in 2023, I had to go on unemployment. I learned firsthand the shame that comes into place when you have to beg the government for money. Even getting on unemployment was way more difficult than imagined. Plus, they barely give you enough to survive.

It felt like I failed at being an adult. I, like many others, couldn’t make it in this economy. I never believed I would dig myself out of that hole. I thought that year I would lose it all and have to move back in with my parents.

I am not asking for sympathy. I don’t want a handout. I don’t like people paying for me. I don’t care about being rich. I don’t aspire to make a lot of money.

I never grew up having a lot of money. Quite the opposite—I grew up already instilled with the knowledge that money is scarce. At this point, I am not even sure I ever will be “well off.” If I ever have a lot of money it should go right back to my parents for all the help they have given me.

I am only writing this because I haven’t seen an essay discussing the impact of being too poor to socialize.

I have read a lot of people discuss their struggles with drinking too much on Substack. I do somewhat relate to those. I was on board with the quarantine-fueled alcoholism, which lingered a few years after. Then I moved out of my parent’s house and quickly realized that lifestyle is a luxurious one. I have not partied as hard as I did when I was living at home, and I don’t see myself ever going that hard again.

Also, I am painfully aware that I am one of the lucky ones with addiction in my blood, and at the end of the day, I suppose I am grateful that I can’t afford to be partying hard anymore. I barely even drink at all lately. Because as I buy my groceries, that wine that I would love to sip on with dinner is not a necessity—so I won’t buy it.

I often joke with friends that thank god I didn’t get rich young because I probably wouldn’t be here. I didn’t used to have any sort of impulse control.

I am left in a strange predicament. I am in my late twenties, having to learn how to socialize as a person whose friends mostly spend time together partying. I don’t want to make different friends. I like the ones I have. The only problem is our closeness is not deeper than talking any other time besides when our words are slurred. Which is fine, I don’t need those relationships to be deeper.

Party people are my people. Or they were… ugh I don’t know anymore.

I hate money so much, and I often feel envious and confused about how my peers can afford the lifestyle they have. Am I just unlucky?

I will say despite not wanting this change to happen, I can see that this new lifestyle has changed me for the better.

It’s made me more creative, it’s made me start reading again and going on walks to fill the time. But it’s undeniably a boring life I have been living.

And that’s what I’m struggling with. Who do I become from here?

I can only handle falling in love with the mundane so many days in a row before I miss the old me. She had no idea how expensive living in general was going to be. And I want to say that the drinking was a facade of how much fun I was having but how can I be sure? Even if the partying wasn’t truly that fun for me, it sure felt like it was more fun than now. My therapist suggests I should join a pottery or yoga class, but guess what? Those also cost money that I don’t have.

Socialization is expensive and isolation is becoming more comfortable.

I’m not unaware that I put this sacrifice upon myself. If I paid less in rent or got a roommate, I’d probably be less lonely. The problem is that at the end of the day, I love living alone, I love the space I decorated, and I love my home. Affording my rent each month has become the highest of my priorities. I wish I didn’t have to choose a home I adore over my social life. Don’t a lot of people get to have both?

I don’t believe everything happens for a reason but I do believe everything has a lesson to teach us. Being poor has destroyed the foundation for how I connect to others. I am left with a bulldozed stack of connections unsure where to go from here.

Maybe if I win the lottery then everything will be okay.