Are All These Gin and Tonics Giving Me Boils on My Butt?

I wish I were the type of person who could say, "I've never been much of a drinker." Except that isn't true at all. I've always been painfully aware that I must keep a dutiful eye on the frequency and habit of which I drink. 

Growing up with alcoholism in the family either teaches a person that booze is a great way to quell the complicated emotions of life or it is a strident reminder of "fuck that, I'm never going to mess up my life like that." 

For me, I toggle between the two. 

I'm painfully aware that if left unchecked, I can fall effortlessly into the drunken stupor of alcoholism. 

I find it incredibly difficult and entirely pointless, to be honest, to only have one drink. If I'm putting booze in my body, imma make it count. 

I have never once used one of those fancy reusable wine corks because I've never had the need to re-cork a bottle of wine once it's been opened. 

*Cue me tipping the bottle greedily to my lips to suck down the last dredges of that sweet, sweet nectar.*

Between August 2024 and January 2025, I participated in drinking alcohol one week in mid-October. 

Due to undergoing a challenging separation, the better part of me knew that combining booze on top of all the other mental and emotional hardships I was facing would only be a recipe for disaster. Quite frankly, I'm already enough of a disaster stone-cold sober. 

However, my mom came to stay with me for a week in October, and because it is rare that we spend any amount of time together, we decided to let loose and drink some gin and tonics during her week-long stay.

Mom has never been a big drinker, at least not in my lifetime. So I always love it when we can sit back, play a few games of Rummy and visit over a gin and tonic. It's always gin and tonic with a slice of lime. We rarely sway from the usual. 

Well, except that one time, we found ourselves at a music festival, were drinking anything going, and ended up so sloshed by 11 p.m. that we kept falling into the ditches along the highway while stumbling home.

We were bellowing Janis Joplin's Me and Bobby McGee to the vast open country sky. It's one of my favourite (hazy) memories of Mom and me. 

Over my lifetime, I've found that when drinking copious amounts of alcohol, I'll wake up the next day with not only a crushing headache but also a deep sense of shame.

Even if I hadn't hauled myself up on a Kareokee stage or drunkenly tried to start a fight with a bouncer who was ten feet taller than me, I still always have felt vaguely embarrassed of myself after a night of boozery. 

Is this because of my preconceived notions of alcohol? Growing up with an alcoholic father deeply engrained the concept that booze is dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.

However, it also showed me that booze is fun, and I can't wait to get my hands on some of that! 

From the very beginning, there has been a heavy conflict regarding how I felt about and treated the act of social drinking. 

Perhaps the shame comes from the fact that I'm drinking to suppress feelings I don't want to feel. Deep-seated childhood trauma and anxieties that I have yet to unpack in the safety of my therapist's office. 

In moments of clarity, at 3 a.m., when the world is still, and I am wide awake, I become aware of all the work that is still ahead of me regarding my mental health. 

Unfortunately, to trudge on through this life, we've got to cut the fat somewhere, so we do a shot, gulp down a beer, ask for a 3rd glass of wine in order to "take the edge off" but in reality all we are doing is prolonging the inevitable. 

Recently, I attended a staff get-together. I was anxious about all the people there (150+), so I went up to the bar to grab a trusty gin and tonic. I wanted to feel normal. I wanted to have a fun time. I had been "good" for the better part of six months, barely drinking at all. And it's not like I had real drinking problems. I was aware of my limits. I just shouldn't overdo it. 

I downed three drinks and did a shot of some sort of coconut and rum concoction, and then I promptly left the party. The booze wasn't loosening me up at all.

If anything, it felt as though I was even more restricted. It was like I was feeling the shame even before the hangover could take hold. 

Surprisingly the next day, I wasn't hungover, but instead, I discovered an enormous boil on my left butt cheek. 

Ugh, gawd, I forgot about the boil thing! I groaned to myself while showering. 

I've been noticing it for years. 

Anytime I overindulge in sweets or alcohol (my two comfort vices), I develop enormous boils on my body, mostly on my ass. It's gross, I know, but this is my penance for not taking care of my mental health - having to tell you people about my butt boils. 

The same thing happened when I drank with Mom back in October. Butt boils galore! 

I hadn't even drunk that much, but I still knew in the end it was too much. 

I've been struggling desperately with my mental health for the past year.

Between circumstantial events and the fact that my brain is getting moody and temperamental as she grows older, I am more aware than ever that I need to address my depression and anxiety with healthier coping mechanisms. 

When I Googled, "Can drinking give you butt boils?" I didn't find any helpful information. Perhaps I should have reworded it. 

But I've come up with a satisfying answer. 

Our bodies are magnificent things; they create, rebuild, and destroy all at once without the outside world knowing the better. I believe my body is telling me when I need to take it easy on the toxins.

It's screaming, "Whoa girl, that's one too many gluten-free beers and you are way over your cookie quota for the week!" 

It tells me in the form of a painful festering welt on my asscheek that I need to get to a therapist and deal with my shit. 

And although this body can sometimes quite literally be a pain in my ass, I'm always thankful that bitch has got my back.