Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget
I had this great idea: I should try antidepressants. And another great idea: I should toss the antidepressants and join a gym. And another great idea: What about a juice cleanse? And another, and another. My body was starting to break down. After an average bout of heavy drinking, I would wake up in the mornings feeling poisoned, needing to purge whatever was left in my stomach. I would kneel at the toilet, place two fingers down the back of my throat, and make myself vomit. Shower, go to work. I had to quit. I would try for a few days, but I never got further than two weeks. I became paranoid I was going to lose my job. Whenever I sat down to write, the words wouldn’t come. The pressure and the doubt and the stress could no longer be sipped away. I was completely blocked. “I’m going to get fired,” I told my boss one afternoon, freaking out over a late deadline. “Look at me,” she said. “You are not going to lose your job.” And she was right. But she lost hers. The second layoff came a few weeks later, in August of 2009, and when the list of the damned was read, my boss’s name was on it, along with half the New York office. I couldn’t believe it. All those months I was convinced I’d be axed, and I was one of the only survivors. Why did they keep me? I’ll never know. Maybe I was cheap. Maybe I was agreeable. Maybe my name never got pulled from the hat. I suspected my boss never let them see how much I was floundering. She protected me, and she got the pink slip. I was left with my job, my fear, and my guilt. After work, I went straight to the bar. I had built up a week of sobriety at that point. But no way I was staying sober for this bullshit. STEPHANIE WAS THE one who finally confronted me. She took me to dinner at a nice little Italian restaurant in Park Slope. She adjusted the napkin in her lap with pretty hands that displayed a gargantuan diamond. “I need to talk to you,” she said. The bugle call for a horrible conversation. She needed to talk to me because, at a gathering at her place, I burst into tears talking about the layoffs while we all smoked on the balcony. “You kind of freaked people out,” she said, which stung, because I thought everyone had bonded that night. She needed to talk to me because, at a recent dinner, I told the story of a hideous romantic breakup with such heart-wrenching detail that one of Stephanie’s friends held my hand on the way back in the cab. That’s how moved she’d been. Meanwhile, Stephanie diverted her sigh into her hair. She’d heard the story three times before. For the past few months, I had been hearing about girls’ dinners and group trips taken without me, and I thought, well, they probably knew I couldn’t afford it. I tried not to get my feelings hurt. No biggie, it was cool. But sitting across from Stephanie, I began to realize it was not cool. Something was badly wrong between us. And it wasn’t some minor incident on the balcony, or a cab, but the long string of incidents that came before it. Discord is often an accumulation. A confrontation is like a cold bucket of water splashed on you at once, but what you might not realize is how long the bucket of water was building. Five drops, a hundred drops, each of them adding to the next, until one day—the bucket tips. “I don’t know what you want,” she said. The words scraped her throat, which spooked me, because she was not a person whose composure faltered. “What do you want?” And I thought: I want fancy trips and a house in the Hamptons and long delicate hands that show
off a gargantuan diamond. I thought: I want to not be having this conversation. I thought: I want to not be abandoned by the people I love. I thought: I want a fucking drink. “I don’t know,” I said. She took my hand, and she did not let go for a long time. I wish I could say this was the end of my drinking. Instead, Stephanie and I didn’t see each other for about a year. What I told her at dinner was true, though. I did not know what I wanted. Or rather, I knew exactly what I wanted, which was to never have to face a day without alcohol and to never have to face the consequences of keeping it in my life. I wanted the impossible. This is the place of pinch and bargaining that greets you as you approach the end. You can’t live with booze, and you can’t live without it. ONE MORE LAST great idea: I should move to Manhattan. Brooklyn was for kids, but the city was for adults. I moved in the middle of an ice storm, on December 31, 2009, just in time for a fresh start. My studio was 250 square feet. I misjudged its size, having first seen the place without furniture. Living in a space that small was like stacking my belongings on the middle seat of an airplane. There was nowhere to sit but my bed, so I stayed under the covers and drank with the lights out and the door chained, like a blackout curtain drawn over my entire life. I stayed home most nights, because it kept me out of trouble. Sometimes I watched soft-core porn for no other reason than I was given free Showtime. I was down to mostly beer now. Beer was good to me. I have always relied on the kindness of Stella Artois. Anna came to New York to visit me. She slept beside me on the bed in that teensy studio and never complained. She was five months’ pregnant, with no luggage other than a small backpack, and she glowed. I felt like a bloated wreck next to her. She had great ideas, too: Maybe I could eat healthier. Maybe more activity outdoors. She found a yoga studio in my neighborhood and brought back a schedule. I promised I’d try. But I was too far gone. There is a certain brokenness that cannot be fixed by all the downward dogs and raw juice in the world. My therapist said to me, “I’m not sure it makes sense to keep doing these sessions if you’re not going to stop drinking.” I must have looked stricken, because she refined it. “I’m worried the work of therapy isn’t going to help if you don’t quit. Do you understand why I’m saying that?” Yes, I understood: Fuck off. Go away. Done with you. I did not want to give up therapy, any more than I wanted to give up my friends or the memories of my evenings, but the need to hold on to booze was primal. Drinking had saved me. When I was a child trapped in loneliness, it gave me escape. When I was a teenager crippled by self-consciousness, it gave me power. When I was a young woman unsure of her worth, it gave me courage. When I was lost, it gave me the path: that way, toward the next drink and everywhere it leads you. When I triumphed, it celebrated with me. When I cried, it comforted me. And even in the end, when I was tortured by all that it had done to me, it gave me oblivion. Quitting is often an accumulation. Not caused by a single act but a thousand. Drops fill the bucket, until one day the bucket tips. On the evening of June 12, 2010, I went to a friend’s wedding reception in a Tribeca loft. It was lovely. I had red wine, and then I switched to white. I was sitting at a big round table near the
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off a gargantuan diamond.<br />
I thought: I want <strong>to</strong> not be having this conversation.<br />
I thought: I want <strong>to</strong> not be abandoned by <strong>the</strong> people I love.<br />
I thought: I want a fucking drink.<br />
“I don’t know,” I said. She <strong>to</strong>ok my hand, and she did not let go for a long time. I wish I could say<br />
this was <strong>the</strong> end of my drinking. Instead, Stephanie and I didn’t see each o<strong>the</strong>r for about a year.<br />
What I <strong>to</strong>ld her at dinner was true, though. I did not know what I wanted. Or ra<strong>the</strong>r, I knew exactly<br />
what I wanted, which was <strong>to</strong> never have <strong>to</strong> face a day without alcohol and <strong>to</strong> never have <strong>to</strong> face <strong>the</strong><br />
consequences of keeping it in my life. I wanted <strong>the</strong> impossible. This is <strong>the</strong> place of pinch and<br />
bargaining that greets you as you approach <strong>the</strong> end. You can’t live with booze, and you can’t live<br />
without it.<br />
ONE MORE LAST great idea: I should move <strong>to</strong> Manhattan. Brooklyn was for kids, but <strong>the</strong> city was for<br />
adults. I moved in <strong>the</strong> middle of an ice s<strong>to</strong>rm, on December 31, 2009, just in time for a fresh start.<br />
My studio was 250 square feet. I misjudged its size, having first seen <strong>the</strong> place without furniture.<br />
Living in a space that small was like stacking my belongings on <strong>the</strong> middle seat of an airplane. There<br />
was nowhere <strong>to</strong> sit but my bed, so I stayed under <strong>the</strong> covers and drank with <strong>the</strong> lights out and <strong>the</strong> door<br />
chained, like a blackout curtain drawn over my entire life. I stayed home most nights, because it kept<br />
me out of trouble. Sometimes I watched soft-core porn for no o<strong>the</strong>r reason than I was given free<br />
Showtime. I was down <strong>to</strong> mostly beer now. Beer was good <strong>to</strong> me. I have always relied on <strong>the</strong><br />
kindness of Stella Ar<strong>to</strong>is.<br />
Anna came <strong>to</strong> New York <strong>to</strong> visit me. She slept beside me on <strong>the</strong> bed in that teensy studio and<br />
never complained. She was five months’ pregnant, with no luggage o<strong>the</strong>r than a small backpack, and<br />
she glowed. I felt like a bloated wreck next <strong>to</strong> her. She had great ideas, <strong>to</strong>o: Maybe I could eat<br />
healthier. Maybe more activity outdoors. She found a yoga studio in my neighborhood and brought<br />
back a schedule. I promised I’d try. But I was <strong>to</strong>o far gone. There is a certain brokenness that cannot<br />
be fixed by all <strong>the</strong> downward dogs and raw juice in <strong>the</strong> world.<br />
My <strong>the</strong>rapist said <strong>to</strong> me, “I’m not sure it makes sense <strong>to</strong> keep doing <strong>the</strong>se sessions if you’re not<br />
going <strong>to</strong> s<strong>to</strong>p drinking.” I must have looked stricken, because she refined it. “I’m worried <strong>the</strong> work of<br />
<strong>the</strong>rapy isn’t going <strong>to</strong> help if you don’t quit. Do you understand why I’m saying that?”<br />
Yes, I unders<strong>to</strong>od: Fuck off. Go away. Done with you.<br />
I did not want <strong>to</strong> give up <strong>the</strong>rapy, any more than I wanted <strong>to</strong> give up my friends or <strong>the</strong> memories of<br />
my evenings, but <strong>the</strong> need <strong>to</strong> hold on <strong>to</strong> booze was primal. Drinking had saved me. When I was a<br />
child trapped in loneliness, it gave me escape. When I was a teenager crippled by self-consciousness,<br />
it gave me power. When I was a young woman unsure of her worth, it gave me courage. When I was<br />
lost, it gave me <strong>the</strong> path: that way, <strong>to</strong>ward <strong>the</strong> next drink and everywhere it leads you. When I<br />
triumphed, it celebrated with me. When I cried, it comforted me. And even in <strong>the</strong> end, when I was<br />
<strong>to</strong>rtured by all that it had done <strong>to</strong> me, it gave me oblivion.<br />
Quitting is often an accumulation. Not caused by a single act but a thousand. Drops fill <strong>the</strong> bucket,<br />
until one day <strong>the</strong> bucket tips.<br />
On <strong>the</strong> evening of June 12, 2010, I went <strong>to</strong> a friend’s wedding reception in a Tribeca loft. It was<br />
lovely. I had red wine, and <strong>the</strong>n I switched <strong>to</strong> white. I was sitting at a big round table near <strong>the</strong>