Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget
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ISN’T THERE ANOTHER WAY?<br />
I’ve never liked <strong>the</strong> part of <strong>the</strong> book where <strong>the</strong> main character gets sober. No more cheap sex with<br />
strangers, no more clattering around bent alleyways with a cigarette scattering ashes in<strong>to</strong> her<br />
cleavage. A sober life. Even <strong>the</strong> words sound deflated. Like all <strong>the</strong> helium leaked out of your pretty<br />
red balloon.<br />
In <strong>the</strong> first few weeks, though, I didn’t actually know I had gotten sober. Have you ever broken up<br />
with a guy, like, 15 times? And each time you slam <strong>the</strong> door and throw his shit on <strong>the</strong> lawn and tell<br />
yourself, with <strong>the</strong> low voice of <strong>the</strong> newly converted: No more. But a few days pass, and you<br />
remember how his fingertips traced <strong>the</strong> skin on your neck and how your legs twined around him. And<br />
“forever” is a long time, isn’t it? So you hope he never calls, but you also wait for him <strong>to</strong> darken your<br />
doorway at an hour when you can’t refuse him, and it’s hard <strong>to</strong> know which you would prefer. Maybe<br />
you need <strong>to</strong> break up 16 times. Or maybe—just maybe—this is <strong>the</strong> end.<br />
That was my mind-set at 14 days. I kept a mental list of <strong>the</strong> order my friends would forgive me if I<br />
started drinking again. I called my mo<strong>the</strong>r when I got home from work every night. A way <strong>to</strong> tie<br />
myself <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> mast from six <strong>to</strong> midnight.<br />
“How are you doing?” she asked in a voice I deemed <strong>to</strong>o chipper.<br />
“Fine,” I <strong>to</strong>ld her in a voice suggesting I was not. Our conversations were not awesome. I could<br />
feel her sweeping floodlights over <strong>the</strong> ground, searching for <strong>the</strong> right thing <strong>to</strong> say.<br />
“Are you writing?” she asked.<br />
“No,” I said.<br />
“Have you thought any more about going back <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> meetings?” she asked.<br />
“No,” I said. See, Mom didn’t get it. This moment didn’t get a silver lining.<br />
I was sick of stupid AA meetings. For <strong>the</strong> past two years, I had been in and out of <strong>the</strong> rooms,<br />
crashing one for a few months, <strong>the</strong>n disappearing <strong>to</strong> drink for a while, <strong>the</strong>n finding ano<strong>the</strong>r place<br />
where I could be a newcomer again. (Getting sober might be hell, but it did give me <strong>the</strong> world’s best<br />
underground <strong>to</strong>ur of New York churches.)<br />
I would arrive five minutes late and leave five minutes early, so I could avoid <strong>the</strong> part where<br />
everyone held hands. I thought death lasers were going <strong>to</strong> shoot out of my fingers if I heard one more<br />
person tell me how great sobriety was. Sobriety sucked <strong>the</strong> biggest donkey dong in <strong>the</strong> world. One<br />
day, a guy just lost it during his share: I hate this group, and I hate this trap you’ve put me in, and<br />
you’re all in a cult, and I hate every minute I spend in here.<br />
I liked that guy’s style.<br />
WHAT WAS ODD about my aversion <strong>to</strong> AA was that it had worked for me once before. When I was 25,<br />
I ran in<strong>to</strong> a drinking buddy who had gotten sober. I couldn’t believe he’d quit. He and I used <strong>to</strong> shut<br />
down <strong>the</strong> bars. “One more,” we used <strong>to</strong> say at <strong>the</strong> end of each pitcher, and we’d “one more”<br />
ourselves straight <strong>to</strong> last call.