I have never consumed alcohol. More accurately: I have no desire to consume alcohol. Most accurately: I have no desire to ever consume alcohol. Not after graduating college, not after turning 21, not with the right people—never.

I can’t really explain why, either, except that I am so terrified of losing control of myself that I plan on having my wisdom teeth removed while I am awake and able to hear the tools scraping. Better than laughing gas. The idea of being vulnerable, my subconscious coaxed out and exposed, makes my skin crawl.

When I tell adults I don’t drink, their approving responses—if they believe me at all—always imply I am wise beyond my years. But I don’t want congratulations for making one valid decision instead of another.

Drinking is a personal choice. It’s a choice I honestly wish I could make. I want to feel something besides discomfort and mild fear when confronted with my peers doing it.

Because abstaining from alcohol may be the “responsible” decision, but I’m not making it to protect my future or to follow any sort of moral code. I’m just pathologically afraid of surrendering control.

And that’s not a reservation that’s going to magically disappear when I turn 21.

I watch my favorite sitcoms, and I see the characters going out for drinks with friends, and I worry I will never have that kind of closeness with other people if it’s not over a ring of beers.

After all, I’ve also seen the slogan “alcohol: because no great story ever started with a glass of milk” plenty of times.

When my family hosts barbecues or parties, the adults drink. Not all of them, and not in excess, but it’s still an intrinsic part of the gathering.

If I don’t have an open bar at my wedding someday if I’d rather spend the night with my friends and family in their most genuine conditions, will people avoid my celebration?

If my eventual coworkers want to unwind by going out for drinks, how will I explain to them that I don’t drink without delving into my psychological sticking points? It’s not as if I have an easy answer, something they could understand, like a religion or a medical condition.

How will I make friends in college—or beyond—if I won’t let loose with them at some point?

What am I missing out on?

I never had these doubts in high school. Maybe it was because my friends didn’t drink, and since we graduated in a class of 700, I was well insulated from the portion of that number who did.

Maybe it was because Fairfax County, Virginia—the fast-paced, uptight home to D.C. spillovers; one the nation’s top school systems; and an effective academic pressure cooker—didn’t encourage much of a party culture. Maybe I was just oblivious.

Whatever the cause, in high school, parties with red Solo cups might as well have been a hoax. Sure, all fictional high schoolers attended them, but no one I knew did. No one ever suggested that we break into their parents’ liquor cabinet or sneak out of the house to go to a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend’s party.

After the homecoming dance, we went to IHOP. After prom, we roasted marshmallows and tried not to fall asleep on each other’s shoulders. After graduation, we went to the school-sponsored all-night party to get free massages and airbrush tattoos and raffle prizes.

In college, I don’t want to gain a reputation for being stuck up or boring. I do want to fit in. I want to support others’ choices. I want to have fun. I want to make friends. I don’t want to be isolated in my bubble of sobriety, watching others have “the classic college experience” while I have to make do with whatever is left over.

I want to understand what the big deal is about champagne on New Year's and wine after a long week and beer at baseball games and cider during the holidays and cocktails by the pool.

But I don’t want to—won’t, can’t—drink. No peer pressure or politeness or curiosity is stronger than my fear of losing control.

So, what now?