Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget
goddamn nosy she was. It was a grudge I’d nursed since she had called my house. “I really thought you liked me,” she said. “I do like you,” I said, because what was I going to say? She was the one who started it? Every one of those girls got grounded except me. My parents didn’t believe in grounding. I was in bed when my mom came into my room. She had one of the notes in her hand, and I hated that she was seeing me like that. “Help me understand why you’re so angry,” she said. But I wasn’t the one smashing dishes and arguing with my father after the kids went to bed. My parents’ fights were bad that year. I turned up the radio to drown out the sound. I listened to the Top 10 countdown every night, and I tracked the movements of songs by Madonna, and Michael Jackson, and Prince the way other children might count sheep. “I’m not angry,” I told her. “Then what are you?” she asked. I thought maybe I was bad. A lot of crazy things were building up inside me, and the more they accumulated, the stronger the suspicion that I was messed up and wrong. I shrugged my shoulders. Tears dripped down my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” my mother said, pulling me into her, and I was so confused. My family made no sense to me. I had screwed up, but somehow she was apologizing. I GOT DRUNK for the first time in the summer of my sixth-grade year. Kimberley was 16 and working at an arcade so epic it was called Star World. Dark rooms lit by neon, full of clinking machines and 25-cent shots at redemption. A bar for people who can’t drink yet. My self-consciousness had become overpowering by then. I couldn’t stop dreaming about those shaggy-haired boys playing Galaga, but words were staple-gunned to the back of my throat. I hung around the arcade all day, but I never said a word. Someone actually asked Kimberley, “Is your cousin mute?” The staff of Star World threw an end-of-summer party in a house by the lake. For the first two hours, I stayed in my usual spot on the sidelines. Teenagers played quarters on the table and drank potions I understood to be off-limits: peach schnapps and orange juice, rum and Coke. But then the pudgy assistant manager handed me a beer. He must have felt sorry for me: Kimberley’s little cousin, watching from the benches again. Or maybe he had reached the euphoric point in your buzz when stupid ideas seem brilliant. Let’s pee our names in the snow. Let’s get the dog drunk. He grabbed a Budweiser out of the fridge and handed it to me, like he was sliding me a winning lottery ticket. Hey, you’re cool, right? I was two weeks shy of my twelfth birthday, but I had been practicing for this moment for years. I knew how to pop open the can with a gratifying pfffffft that sprayed like the lightest afternoon shower on my face. I knew how to tolerate the zap on my tongue and the way my glands squeezed like a fist. I knew how to sip, and I knew how to glug. Yes, sir. I was cool. I drank the beer. Then I drank another. And the evening began to glow in my veins. Words rolled out to me on red carpets. The perfect comeback. The fastest burn. And I kept drinking: a syrupy mixed drink, a shot of clear liquor like a grenade down my gullet. That shit tasted awful, but who cared? I was transformed. Pierced by divine light. Filled by a happiness I’d longed for all my life.
I threw up seven times. Hunched over the toilet, Kimberley at my side. The Star World manager tucked me into bed in a room upstairs. “You’re too young to be drinking like this,” he said. He was a sweet guy, with a hangdog face, and I nodded in agreement. He was wise and ancient, twice as old as me. He was 22. The next morning I was so shaky I could barely force blueberry yogurt in my mouth. And Kimberley was asking me weird questions. “Do you remember when you took your pants off last night?” And I laughed, because I knew that couldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t even undress in Kimberley’s room when she was there. I sure as hell didn’t strip off my clothes at a Star World party. But she had the unsmiling voice of a state’s witness. “You sat at the bottom of the steps, crying, and you said everyone loved me more than you. You don’t remember that?” I did not. It’s such a savage thing, to lose your memory, but the crazy part is, it doesn’t hurt one bit. A blackout doesn’t sting, or stab, or leave a scar when it robs you. Close your eyes and open them again. That’s what a blackout feels like. The blackout scattered whatever pixie dust still remained from the night before, and I was spooked by the lost time. I had no idea this could happen. You could be present and not there at all. Those first few drinks gave me hope for escape. But I knew from Stephen King stories how hope could boomerang on a person and what looked like an exit door turned out to be the mouth of a more dangerous maze. So I swore I’d never drink like that again. And I kept the promise for many years. I kept drinking, but not like that. Never like that. I assured myself it was a first-time drinker’s mistake. Instead, it was a blueprint.
- Page 3 and 4: Begin Reading Table of Contents New
- Page 5 and 6: PRELUDE
- Page 7 and 8: The guy isn’t bad-looking. Slight
- Page 9 and 10: WOMEN WHO DRINK I was 33, and lying
- Page 11 and 12: she did not get—but I’ve never
- Page 13 and 14: In my 20s, friends called with that
- Page 15 and 16: I discussed roofies with Aaron Whit
- Page 17 and 18: a while, a columnist would come alo
- Page 19 and 20: ONE
- Page 21 and 22: when no one was looking, and I woul
- Page 23 and 24: steps, not talking. As much as my f
- Page 25 and 26: Our home was on a major artery thro
- Page 27: She’d transformed, like Olivia Ne
- Page 31 and 32: STARVED One of the curious aspects
- Page 33 and 34: more successful her eating disorder
- Page 35 and 36: orrowed. She couldn’t miss the si
- Page 37 and 38: To make it more confounding, Miles
- Page 39 and 40: efused to be won. I drank cup after
- Page 41 and 42: DRESSING IN MEN’S CLOTHES I start
- Page 43 and 44: coffee. But that seemed like a very
- Page 45 and 46: you to imperil our amazing friendsh
- Page 47 and 48: I FINALLY GOT a boyfriend near the
- Page 49 and 50: FOUR
- Page 51 and 52: The production guy passed my desk a
- Page 53 and 54: drank myself to the place where I w
- Page 55 and 56: ehind me, and told him I was moving
- Page 57 and 58: my Harp as soon I walked in the doo
- Page 59 and 60: FIVE
- Page 61 and 62: “Your key, mademoiselle,” said
- Page 63 and 64: My friend Meredith lived in an apar
- Page 65 and 66: “This was fun,” I said. He was
- Page 67 and 68: OF COURSE. OF course I’d gone to
- Page 69 and 70: like you should not be crying,” h
- Page 71 and 72: SIX
- Page 73 and 74: When the bottle was drained, I’d
- Page 75 and 76: But no, really, I had it this time.
- Page 77 and 78: off a gargantuan diamond. I thought
I threw up seven times. Hunched over <strong>the</strong> <strong>to</strong>ilet, Kimberley at my side. The Star World manager<br />
tucked me in<strong>to</strong> bed in a room upstairs. “You’re <strong>to</strong>o young <strong>to</strong> be drinking like this,” he said. He was a<br />
sweet guy, with a hangdog face, and I nodded in agreement. He was wise and ancient, twice as old as<br />
me. He was 22.<br />
The next morning I was so shaky I could barely force blueberry yogurt in my mouth. And<br />
Kimberley was asking me weird questions. “Do you remember when you <strong>to</strong>ok your pants off last<br />
night?” And I laughed, because I knew that couldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t even undress in<br />
Kimberley’s room when she was <strong>the</strong>re. I sure as hell didn’t strip off my clo<strong>the</strong>s at a Star World party.<br />
But she had <strong>the</strong> unsmiling voice of a state’s witness. “You sat at <strong>the</strong> bot<strong>to</strong>m of <strong>the</strong> steps, crying,<br />
and you said everyone loved me more than you. You don’t remember that?”<br />
I did not.<br />
It’s such a savage thing, <strong>to</strong> lose your memory, but <strong>the</strong> crazy part is, it doesn’t hurt one bit. A<br />
blackout doesn’t sting, or stab, or leave a scar when it robs you. Close your eyes and open <strong>the</strong>m<br />
again. That’s what a blackout feels like.<br />
The blackout scattered whatever pixie dust still remained from <strong>the</strong> night before, and I was<br />
spooked by <strong>the</strong> lost time. I had no idea this could happen. You could be present and not <strong>the</strong>re at all.<br />
Those first few drinks gave me hope for escape. But I knew from Stephen King s<strong>to</strong>ries how hope<br />
could boomerang on a person and what looked like an exit door turned out <strong>to</strong> be <strong>the</strong> mouth of a more<br />
dangerous maze.<br />
So I swore I’d never drink like that again. And I kept <strong>the</strong> promise for many years. I kept drinking,<br />
but not like that. Never like that. I assured myself it was a first-time drinker’s mistake. Instead, it<br />
was a blueprint.