Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget
to exotic locales. But drinking is also the center of everyday life. “Let’s get a drink,” we say to each other, when what we mean is “Let’s spend time together.” It’s almost as if, in absence of alcohol, we have no idea what to do. “Let’s take a walk in the park” would be met with some very confused glances. My old Dallas gang was a group of salty male colleagues who gathered at the bar after work. Not a bar, mind you, but the bar. “The bar” was a complete sentence. It was both a question and a command. (The bar? The bar. The bar!) I had missed those guys, and I flattered myself they might miss me, too. “I’d love to hang out sometime,” I emailed one of the guys. “Totally,” he responded. “You know where to find us.” Well, shit. I suppose it was wrong to be hurt by this indifference to the script I’d written in my mind—the one where he and I went to lunch and talked about real things that mattered. Once upon a time, we’d gathered around that long wooden table and gulped down whatever was being served. We laughed and drank while the sun sank in the sky, and I got a high being the lone female in the foamy man cave. Those guys were all married, but that didn’t matter (to me, at least), and I never quite knew whether we were flirting, or not flirting, and I told myself both stories, as suited my needs. I wondered if I threatened them now that I was sober. The first person to stop drinking in any group can cast a pall—like the first couple to get divorced, or the first person to lose a parent. I also wondered if they threatened me now. I watched their Facebook feeds a bit too carefully, judging them for every babbling 2 am status update, every picture of a whiskey glass hoisted into the lens. How dare they stay on Pleasure Island after I had moved away. I wondered: How long could they possibly keep this up? One of them had just won the National Magazine award for profile writing, so apparently the answer was: As long as they wanted. It took a long time to accept that other people’s drinking was not my business. It took a long time to admit I’m the one who left the bar, not the other way around. You can’t move away for six years and come home to find all the furniture in the same place. Those guys had different lives now. New kids, new jobs. Two of them were divorced and dating 25-year-olds, which must have taken up a great deal of texting time. Sobriety has a way of sorting out your friendships. They begin to fall into two categories: people you feel comfortable being yourself with—and everyone else. Allison was in the former category. We had met years ago on a garden patio in Brooklyn, where we got drunk and declared ourselves great friends. But months went by between visits. Some friendships are like that. They lack an escape velocity. She lived in Dallas now, and we met one night at a Mexican restaurant. She didn’t drink much anymore, a quality I was starting to value in a person. She also looked looser, freer than the striving girl I’d met in New York. “I love it here,” she said, and I kept waiting for her to circle back and revise that statement. Tell me the real truth. But that was the real truth. She was happy. “When was the last time we saw each other?” I asked her as we scanned the menu. And then I smacked the table like it was a buzzer. “I know. Your thirty-sixth birthday party.” “You’re right!” she said. “Oh my God. Do you remember that night?” Dammit. How many more times was I going to get torpedoed by this question? It’s like I needed a
fill-in-the-blank letter of apology. Dear ___________, I’m so sorry I ___________ all those years ago. You must have felt very ___________ when I ___________. I drank too much ___________ that night, and was not in my right mind. “Actually, I don’t,” I said. “You fell down my staircase,” she said. I covered my face with my hands and peeked at her through the slats of my fingers. “Yeah, I used to do that.” “My stairs were marble,” she said. “It was terrifying. Honestly, I’d never seen anything like it. You don’t remember this at all?” No, but I remembered how I woke up the next morning, and I thought: How did that awesome party end? Maybe I should send Allison a text. “Had a great time last night! The part I can remember was amazing!” But I didn’t send anything like that. In fact, I stopped talking to Allison for two years. The psychology of the blackout drinker is one of dodge and denial. Things you can’t remember become epic in your mind. Five minutes of unremembered conversation can be a shame you carry through the rest of your life. Or it can be shrugged off entirely. I did both, and the problem was that you ended up cutting people out without even knowing why. You got a hunch that something bad happened, so—snip, snip. Easier that way. “I thought you hated me,” Allison said, and I was confused. Why would I hate her? She wasn’t entirely off base, though. Not that I hated her, but I avoided her, the same way I avoided every pesky truth that threatened my good times in those days. I spent so much time spinning imaginary stories in my own mind—what might have happened, how I needed to repair it—and very little time finding out what I had done. Over the next years, I would have more honest conversations like this, in which patient friends with understanding faces filled in parts of my story I didn’t recall. No, you didn’t do anything weird that night. Or yes, you were a disaster. Whatever the revelation, it was never as painful as the years of worry that lead up to it. Usually, we ended those discussions much closer. That’s what happened with Allison and me. When we said good-bye that night, we talked about getting together the next week. And this time, we followed through. MY CHILDHOOD BEST friend Jennifer got sober one year after I did. This shocked me. I never thought she had a drinking problem. But when I looked back on the nights we spent together in our late 20s and early 30s, the signs were there. Chronic unhappiness. Chaotic life. Mysterious fender benders. She used to carry a picture of her husband in her car, back before they got married, and she would stare at his face before walking into any party. She had a problem with drunken flirtation and needed to remind herself: This is the man you love. Don’t mess it up. But after building this tiny obstacle of resistance, she’d walk into the party and wash it away again. After having two kids, she became one of those moms who kept a bottle of red wine forever handy. The minivan was not going to change her. Her party plan worked for a while, but then the
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<strong>to</strong> exotic locales. But drinking is also <strong>the</strong> center of everyday life. “Let’s get a drink,” we say <strong>to</strong> each<br />
o<strong>the</strong>r, when what we mean is “Let’s spend time <strong>to</strong>ge<strong>the</strong>r.” It’s almost as if, in absence of alcohol, we<br />
have no idea what <strong>to</strong> do. “Let’s take a walk in <strong>the</strong> park” would be met with some very confused<br />
glances.<br />
My old Dallas gang was a group of salty male colleagues who ga<strong>the</strong>red at <strong>the</strong> bar after work. Not<br />
a bar, mind you, but <strong>the</strong> bar. “The bar” was a complete sentence. It was both a question and a<br />
command. (The bar? The bar. The bar!) I had missed those guys, and I flattered myself <strong>the</strong>y might<br />
miss me, <strong>to</strong>o.<br />
“I’d love <strong>to</strong> hang out sometime,” I emailed one of <strong>the</strong> guys.<br />
“Totally,” he responded. “You know where <strong>to</strong> find us.”<br />
Well, shit. I suppose it was wrong <strong>to</strong> be hurt by this indifference <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> script I’d written in my<br />
mind—<strong>the</strong> one where he and I went <strong>to</strong> lunch and talked about real things that mattered.<br />
Once upon a time, we’d ga<strong>the</strong>red around that long wooden table and gulped down whatever was<br />
being served. We laughed and drank while <strong>the</strong> sun sank in <strong>the</strong> sky, and I got a high being <strong>the</strong> lone<br />
female in <strong>the</strong> foamy man cave. Those guys were all married, but that didn’t matter (<strong>to</strong> me, at least),<br />
and I never quite knew whe<strong>the</strong>r we were flirting, or not flirting, and I <strong>to</strong>ld myself both s<strong>to</strong>ries, as<br />
suited my needs.<br />
I wondered if I threatened <strong>the</strong>m now that I was sober. The first person <strong>to</strong> s<strong>to</strong>p drinking in any<br />
group can cast a pall—like <strong>the</strong> first couple <strong>to</strong> get divorced, or <strong>the</strong> first person <strong>to</strong> lose a parent. I also<br />
wondered if <strong>the</strong>y threatened me now. I watched <strong>the</strong>ir Facebook feeds a bit <strong>to</strong>o carefully, judging <strong>the</strong>m<br />
for every babbling 2 am status update, every picture of a whiskey glass hoisted in<strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> lens. How<br />
dare <strong>the</strong>y stay on Pleasure Island after I had moved away. I wondered: How long could <strong>the</strong>y possibly<br />
keep this up? One of <strong>the</strong>m had just won <strong>the</strong> National Magazine award for profile writing, so<br />
apparently <strong>the</strong> answer was: As long as <strong>the</strong>y wanted.<br />
It <strong>to</strong>ok a long time <strong>to</strong> accept that o<strong>the</strong>r people’s drinking was not my business. It <strong>to</strong>ok a long time<br />
<strong>to</strong> admit I’m <strong>the</strong> one who left <strong>the</strong> bar, not <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r way around. You can’t move away for six years<br />
and come home <strong>to</strong> find all <strong>the</strong> furniture in <strong>the</strong> same place. Those guys had different lives now. New<br />
kids, new jobs. Two of <strong>the</strong>m were divorced and dating 25-year-olds, which must have taken up a<br />
great deal of texting time.<br />
Sobriety has a way of sorting out your friendships. They begin <strong>to</strong> fall in<strong>to</strong> two categories: people<br />
you feel comfortable being yourself with—and everyone else.<br />
Allison was in <strong>the</strong> former category. We had met years ago on a garden patio in Brooklyn, where<br />
we got drunk and declared ourselves great friends. But months went by between visits. Some<br />
friendships are like that. They lack an escape velocity.<br />
She lived in Dallas now, and we met one night at a Mexican restaurant. She didn’t drink much<br />
anymore, a quality I was starting <strong>to</strong> value in a person. She also looked looser, freer than <strong>the</strong> striving<br />
girl I’d met in New York.<br />
“I love it here,” she said, and I kept waiting for her <strong>to</strong> circle back and revise that statement. Tell<br />
me <strong>the</strong> real truth. But that was <strong>the</strong> real truth. She was happy.<br />
“When was <strong>the</strong> last time we saw each o<strong>the</strong>r?” I asked her as we scanned <strong>the</strong> menu. And <strong>the</strong>n I<br />
smacked <strong>the</strong> table like it was a buzzer. “I know. Your thirty-sixth birthday party.”<br />
“You’re right!” she said. “Oh my God. Do you remember that night?”<br />
Dammit. How many more times was I going <strong>to</strong> get <strong>to</strong>rpedoed by this question? It’s like I needed a