Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget
“I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I was just reminded of something very painful.” And I guess that wasn’t a lie. IN AUGUST, ALMOST 60 days after I stopped drinking, Anna went into labor back in Texas. This was the best news in ages. I kept my phone with me at all times, even taking it to the bathroom. In our early 20s, Anna and I had a pact. If one of us got pregnant (and there were a few scares), we’d move in together and raise the kid. We’d both become mothers at once. I understood Anna had a different partner now, and I would not be required to throw my fate in with hers. But I still wanted to be available, because I had been unavailable for so long, dominating our phone conversations with my own self-pity. I heard the double beep in the early afternoon, and the news popped up on my screen. Alice. Seven pounds. Healthy. And I typed back on my phone, “See? I knew it was a boy!” During her pregnancy, Anna and I had a playful banter about the gender of her child, which she refused to find out beforehand, and I wanted to make her laugh. I’ve never been satisfied with being like other people, throwing yet another “congratulations!” on the pile. But she didn’t respond. I kept checking the phone, waiting for the news of her laughter. After a few hours of not hearing back, though, I began to question my strategy. Maybe that joke wasn’t so funny. Maybe jokes were better suited for less momentous occasions, ones that didn’t involve IV drips and hospital beds and squalling newborns covered in goo. That evening, my phone did not beep. It did not beep many, many times. The next day at work, I became so consumed by remorse I couldn’t concentrate. I dragged Thomas to lunch, and I explained the whole saga. “She’s probably very busy with the baby,” he said. Thomas was not quite indulging in this crisis as much as I’d hoped. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he said, although he winced slightly when he said it, which meant the joke might have been more wrongheaded than I’d feared. I tried out the story on three more people. They all told me it was no big deal, and I was pretty sure they were all lying. I grew panicky. Was it possible to crater 15 years of friendship with one poorly timed text? I suspected I was overreacting, even as I spun out, but I had spent so many years apologizing for things I did not remember that I had lost faith in my own goodness. Every pocket of silence felt like fingers pointed at me. Certain newly sober people will swallow the world’s blame. Everything ever done must be their fault. Just add it to their bill. I sent Anna an overnight care package, a collection of pop-up books for Alice. The Hungry Caterpillar. The Little Prince. The House on Pooh Corner. A few days later, though, I decided this was not enough. I compiled another box of gifts, kitschier this time. Apparently I wanted to be the first person in history to win back my best friend with a CD containing lullaby versions of Bon Jovi hits. I was obsessed with my tiny failure. Why hadn’t I just said: I’m happy for you. I’m here for you. Congratulations. Would that be so hard? What was wrong with me? For years, I’d hated myself for drinking, but I didn’t expect to hate myself this much after I quit. My self-loathing was like a bone I couldn’t stop gnawing. Pretty soon, it morphed into anger at Anna. Didn’t she understand what I was going through? How could she cut me out like this? Such an opera of despair. No wonder I drank, I thought. It made my own self-created drama disappear. About a week after the delivery, Anna finally called. I was reading in bed one lazy Saturday with
Bubba curled up alongside me when I saw her name on the phone. My breath hitched as if the call were from a long-lost boyfriend. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you before now,” she said. Her voice was soft. She sounded exhausted and maybe a bit scared. But I heard a tenderness, too, and it assured me the long, cracked desert I’d just crawled across was a punishment that existed entirely in my mind. “Do you have a minute?” “Yeah,” I said, sitting up. “I have about a thousand.” It was one of those fragile moments when I didn’t want to move, for fear any sudden commotion might cause one of us to flutter away. But I also had a desire to escape the pain cave of my apartment and walk in the open air. As we spoke, I tippy-toed down the creaky stairs and made my way along the quietest of the tree-lined avenues to the benches along the Hudson, where I could sit and stare at New Jersey and feel the sun on my shoulders before it slipped behind the horizon once more. We talked for a long time. She told me how painful and frightening that delivery was. How glorious and uncertain the first days of motherhood were. So much she didn’t know. She watched people she barely knew cradle a child she had created but had not yet learned to hold. I didn’t tell her about the explosion of anguish set off by my dumb text message. I didn’t mention the text message at all. I tried to be a good friend, and just listen. But I worried that I was waking up to my own life just in time to watch people slip away. The word “recovery” suggests you are getting something back. How come the only thing I felt was loss? I wanted to apologize to Anna. Dealing with myself honestly for the first time was starting to make me realize what she’d been shouldering all these years. The hours absorbing my catalog of misery, gluing me together only to watch me bust apart. But how many times can you apologize to one person? I was also reluctant to make this another conversation about me. She was moving into a new phase of life—marked by worry, fear, fatigue—and I stood there, mute and blinking, stranded in the mistakes of my own past. I wanted the gift of forgetting. Boozy love songs and brokenhearted ballads know the torture of remembering. If drinking don’t kill me, her memory will, George Jones sang, and I got it. The blackouts were horrible. It was hideous to let those nights slide into a crack in the ground. But even scarier was to take responsibility for the mess I’d made. Even scarier was to remember your own life. DRINKERS AND FORMER drinkers have this in common: They seek each other out in the night. In the loneliest hours, I often reached out to writers I knew had quit. Emails intended to look casual, like I wasn’t asking for help, but what I really wanted to know was: How did you do it? How can I do what you did? Strange currents lead us to each other. Back when I was in my late 20s, a guy typed into the search bar “I fucking drink too much,” and it brought him to a post where I’d written those exact words, and I was so proud. Through the magic of the Internet, and Google search function, and my WordPress blog —his little message in a bottle found my shore. Whenever I wrote my own random emails to other people, I was often awed by the attentiveness of their responses. These people barely knew me. We live in an age when most of us can’t be bothered to capitalize emails or spell out the words “are” and “you,” and yet, these letters were often expansive, full of honesty and care. Maybe it’s easier to be our best selves with strangers. People
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“I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I was just reminded of something very painful.” And I guess that<br />
wasn’t a lie.<br />
IN AUGUST, ALMOST 60 days after I s<strong>to</strong>pped drinking, Anna went in<strong>to</strong> labor back in Texas. This was<br />
<strong>the</strong> best news in ages. I kept my phone with me at all times, even taking it <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> bathroom.<br />
In our early 20s, Anna and I had a pact. If one of us got pregnant (and <strong>the</strong>re were a few scares),<br />
we’d move in <strong>to</strong>ge<strong>the</strong>r and raise <strong>the</strong> kid. We’d both become mo<strong>the</strong>rs at once. I unders<strong>to</strong>od Anna had a<br />
different partner now, and I would not be required <strong>to</strong> throw my fate in with hers. But I still wanted <strong>to</strong><br />
be available, because I had been unavailable for so long, dominating our phone conversations with<br />
my own self-pity.<br />
I heard <strong>the</strong> double beep in <strong>the</strong> early afternoon, and <strong>the</strong> news popped up on my screen. Alice. Seven<br />
pounds. Healthy. And I typed back on my phone, “See? I knew it was a boy!”<br />
During her pregnancy, Anna and I had a playful banter about <strong>the</strong> gender of her child, which she<br />
refused <strong>to</strong> find out beforehand, and I wanted <strong>to</strong> make her laugh. I’ve never been satisfied with being<br />
like o<strong>the</strong>r people, throwing yet ano<strong>the</strong>r “congratulations!” on <strong>the</strong> pile.<br />
But she didn’t respond. I kept checking <strong>the</strong> phone, waiting for <strong>the</strong> news of her laughter. After a few<br />
hours of not hearing back, though, I began <strong>to</strong> question my strategy. Maybe that joke wasn’t so funny.<br />
Maybe jokes were better suited for less momen<strong>to</strong>us occasions, ones that didn’t involve IV drips and<br />
hospital beds and squalling newborns covered in goo. That evening, my phone did not beep. It did not<br />
beep many, many times.<br />
The next day at work, I became so consumed by remorse I couldn’t concentrate. I dragged Thomas<br />
<strong>to</strong> lunch, and I explained <strong>the</strong> whole saga.<br />
“She’s probably very busy with <strong>the</strong> baby,” he said. Thomas was not quite indulging in this crisis<br />
as much as I’d hoped. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he said, although he winced slightly when he said it, which<br />
meant <strong>the</strong> joke might have been more wrongheaded than I’d feared. I tried out <strong>the</strong> s<strong>to</strong>ry on three more<br />
people. They all <strong>to</strong>ld me it was no big deal, and I was pretty sure <strong>the</strong>y were all lying.<br />
I grew panicky. Was it possible <strong>to</strong> crater 15 years of friendship with one poorly timed text? I<br />
suspected I was overreacting, even as I spun out, but I had spent so many years apologizing for things<br />
I did not remember that I had lost faith in my own goodness. Every pocket of silence felt like fingers<br />
pointed at me. Certain newly sober people will swallow <strong>the</strong> world’s blame. Everything ever done<br />
must be <strong>the</strong>ir fault. Just add it <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong>ir bill.<br />
I sent Anna an overnight care package, a collection of pop-up books for Alice. The Hungry<br />
Caterpillar. The Little Prince. The House on Pooh Corner. A few days later, though, I decided this<br />
was not enough. I compiled ano<strong>the</strong>r box of gifts, kitschier this time. Apparently I wanted <strong>to</strong> be <strong>the</strong> first<br />
person in his<strong>to</strong>ry <strong>to</strong> win back my best friend with a CD containing lullaby versions of Bon Jovi hits.<br />
I was obsessed with my tiny failure. Why hadn’t I just said: I’m happy for you. I’m here for you.<br />
Congratulations. Would that be so hard? What was wrong with me?<br />
For years, I’d hated myself for drinking, but I didn’t expect <strong>to</strong> hate myself this much after I quit.<br />
My self-loathing was like a bone I couldn’t s<strong>to</strong>p gnawing. Pretty soon, it morphed in<strong>to</strong> anger at Anna.<br />
Didn’t she understand what I was going through? How could she cut me out like this? Such an opera<br />
of despair. No wonder I drank, I thought. It made my own self-created drama disappear.<br />
About a week after <strong>the</strong> delivery, Anna finally called. I was reading in bed one lazy Saturday with