I wasn’t sure I wanted to be part of their odd little tribe (after all, they wanted me as a member), but knowing it was there brought me comfort. In time, I became a regular.
With eight days sober, I returned to work against everyone’s advice. “You work in a bar,” Nadia reminded me. “Maybe wait a few months, or a year…or forever.”
I was so physically fragile that one last binge could conceivably kill me. But while I hadn’t the luxury of slipping up, neither would I have food and shelter without income. I was locked into the Vegas strip club scene, basically sitting on a gold mine. With eight years’ experience under my belt, there was no learning curve for me. I had skills and I had hustle. I was frail, but perky and slender. I had youth, wit, brains, sex appeal, and a full-length locker at one of the top clubs in the country. True to their word, the Horse rehired me—my own Hell Freezes Over Tour. Like the Eagles had been for Joe, stripping was my salvation in practical terms. I’d be a fool not to ride that magnificent beast in the direction it was going. Besides, it was the only area of my life in which I had any competence.
I’d hit my proverbial “bottom” and it was a low one. Any lower would be six feet under. Four days from my last drink, I found the strength to walk a grocery store aisle (at which point Chuck had to carry me back down it, to the car). Four days after that, I entered the club with a singular goal: finish the shift without drinking or dying of exhaustion. I vowed to stay eight hours if that meant alone in a corner for seven and a half. Either I’d function in that environment or the temptation would be too great, in which case I’d respect my limitations (for a change) and quit stripping that very day.
I didn’t have to quit. Though I tired easily and was shy at times, it was nothing I couldn’t overcome. More importantly, temptation to drink never overtook me, as if blocked by a shroud of protection. My desire to drink never rose above that—it was a simple, manageable desire, not a craving.
Driving home was a different story. For the next few months, every hour outside the club took more effort than eight hours in. Vegas was riddled with pubs, one on every other block. I sped past them, using mental blinders and a made-up mantra: One day at a time, one street at a time, one step at a time…I’ll make it home safe, I’ll make it home sober.
•••
Every week it got easier. Every day I felt more alive. Claustrophobia and vertigo loosened their grip; morning terrors ceased entirely. I quit vomiting and bleeding out. All my bruises disappeared (twenty-six from my legs alone—I’d counted the day before getting sober). Yellow skin turned healthy pink, the whites of my eyes white again. Puffiness in my face lingered; then one day, cheekbones emerged. I saw myself in the mirror—or someone who resembled her. To others, I was an entirely new woman.
My apartment manager barely knew what to say when I paid my rent on time. “Kristi?” He double-checked the signature on my money order, then caught up to me at the door. “Wow, what happened to you?” I had no idea what he meant. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look incredible.”
“Oh,” I laughed, feeling myself blush. “That. I quit drinking.”
“Well, it shows, honey,” he said, beaming. It was the first time he’d ever smiled at me.
I got that a lot over the first few weeks. Most came as a surprise, but one I reached out for personally. I’d placed the call twenty-four hours after my last drink. Still in Chuck’s bed and unable to sit up, I’d had him dial and hold the receiver. I reported my status to my mother—alive with one day sober. She replied with something cautiously supportive. I’d called the next day, and then regularly, eager to share with her, above all, one thing I’d done right in so long. I didn’t weigh the risk. There are times in life a girl needs her mom. And she was there for me—whatever mistakes and traumas littered our history, she was exactly the mother I needed in early sobriety.
Dad’s reaction was just as stunning. He dropped everything to fly to Vegas (literally, I think he sprouted wings, he was that excited). He came to my AA meetings and took me shopping for kitchen and bath items—a scaled-down housewares spree that lasted an hour. It could not have been more fun—not with fine china and a million dollars.
For the most part, learning to function again was beyond nerve-racking. Once in a while I got stupidly giddy—totally next level. At two or three weeks sober, I had a pair of old shoes resoled, then called my dad to boast.
“Uh…good for you, honey,” he said, a bit nonplussed.
“You don’t understand, Dad. I dropped them off, then days later returned to pick them up!” I sounded bonkers, to be that darn proud of myself. Dad was just happy I was excited and not suicidal. I was just excited to have a dad who took my calls.
I’d once been incapable of collecting the mail. Now I did it every day (after spending weeks convincing the post office I was not, in fact, deceased as their records indicated). When the first bundle arrived, I called my credit card companies, explaining that I’d been ill for months but was back to work full-time and would catch up immediately. They were very nice about it. They sounded tickled I’d called at all. The hospital gave me a deal for paying in one lump sum. My love of detail and organization kicked in. Paying down debt gave me a buzz.
One day, at 7-Eleven to buy money orders, I heard gasps from the two young clerks. “Whoa,” said one. “You’re alive.”
I gave her a strange look. “Have you been talking to my mailman?”
“What? No…it’s just, we used to see you here all the time, and then you disappeared.”
Her coworker explained. “You’d looked so bad, we figured you must’ve died.”
It hit me for the first time how close I’d come.
•••
Without medication, the odds of surviving a detox like mine were about two to one. Odds of relapse were the same or worse, but I was tenacious about sobriety. Reluctant, yet resolute, I’d made a decision and committed to it, exercising the free will I’d claimed to cherish yet seldom used.
With six weeks under my belt, I called Joe to share the news. I kept the conversation light. We both did, our voices high-pitched with positivity and laced with tenderness for all that went unsaid.
“I’m happy for you, Kristi. I knew you could do it, just didn’t know if you would.”
“I wish I’d done it sooner—”
“Don’t think like that. It takes what it takes…that’s all that matters.”
“Mm-hmm, I guess.” It was time to hang up. I heard subtle cues in his inflection shifts. I knew him so well, I could read his thoughts on the current of his breath. It hit me that this might be the last time we talked, and I fought the urge to cry. “Joe, before you go, I need to tell you something.” I paused. “I just…”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
Apparently, I was an open book, too, but I persisted, knowing it might be my only chance. I’d barely started my twelve-step work and didn’t know the amends process yet. I only knew I owed him one. One too big to articulate.
“I’m sorry,” I said, just as he had to me, a fibrous pit of regret dropped at his feet. “For all of it, I’m so sorry.”
“I know you are. We’re good. That’s all you have to say.”
It seemed a perfect segue from that chapter of my life, to hang up, walk away, and love him from a distance, however long it took for that love to fade. But damn if he didn’t have a gig in Vegas scheduled (solo, sans the Eagles). Instead of bothering Joe, I called Smokey, who agreed to arrange tickets and a quick visit backstage.
Chuck and I stood near the stage, four or five fans deep. Though I never caught Joe’s eye, I noticed a pretty woman off to the side, the same spot I’d occupied, and Lisa before me. It was Denise, of course, and I looked away, feeling as if I’d been caught snooping.
I wanted to be happy for Joe’s happiness. I also wanted him to see me sober, to leave him with a better
image than the blubbering alcoholic I’d been at our breakup two years earlier. Instead, I ended up in tears again, informed by a security guard that the band had driven off as soon as the show ended. No one stayed to say goodbye. No one wanted to see me. I went home and cried and was depressed for days but didn’t drink, get high, or contemplate suicide. I accepted that I couldn’t change him or the situation—only myself and my reaction to it.
•••
My problems were bigger than substances. My addictions were symptoms of a deeper illness that took root long before my first tequila shot. I lacked self-esteem, coping skills, and guiding principles to help me create a life of purpose. When Nadia taught me the program—twelve steps, nothing more, nothing less—she gave me tools with which to manage my life and, to whatever degree I could, direct it.
By the time I found recovery, I had no problem admitting I was powerless over alcohol. What could be more obvious? It was a relief to turn it over to a higher power. What shape that power took, I would figure out later. The real work began with an honest look at my fear, resentment, and misbehavior. Decoding that jumbled mess opened the door for forgiveness and compassion, for myself as well as others.
My twelve steps took one year to complete. Some were harder than others, and some of the simplest proved to be the most challenging. For example, around the time I finally got real clarity on my character flaws, I became unwilling to let them go. I called Nadia in tears. She was sympathetic, up to a point. “These two steps may be the easiest thing you’ll do in recovery, a few minutes of reading and reflection, basically. You might be making this harder than it has to be…I’m just saying.”
I went off on her. “You can’t expect me to give up greed and self-seeking! How do you think I’ve gotten by for thirty years?” But for the most part, I surrendered to the process, exchanging old ways of denial and manipulation—also sloth, envy, and the other seven deadlies, except lust (sorry, Nadia, but to thine own self be true, right?)—for courage, honesty, discipline, accountability, and service to others. Proud of myself, I thought it was a good time to take a breather. Nadia didn’t.
“Christmas at your folks’ is the perfect time to make amends to your family.”
“Really? Because it sounds like the perfect way to ruin the holiday for everybody.”
I did it anyway, and, to a man, they were gracious and understanding. In the process, I learned the difference between humiliation and humility. Cleaning my side of the street became as addictive as cocaine. I started meditating and working out. I did estimable things and tried to make something of myself. Having a purpose in life—for me, that was key. I also thought it wouldn’t hurt to find a tribe. None of it happened overnight.
In the beginning, I obsessed on the tiniest things. I made to-do lists every night, down to the minute:
7:00 a.m.: wake-up/get out of bed
7:15 a.m.: make hot tea
7:30 a.m.: shower, brush teeth
God forbid I break a nail or have an AA friend request a ride. If I got to the bank at 9:45 a.m. instead of the 9:35 a.m. written in my memo pad, I just might have had an anxiety attack. I hoarded money and clipped coupons obsessively, while earning a better living than I’d ever dreamed. I developed an eating disorder in all its cunning complexity. Depression came roaring back with debilitating insomnia and extreme fatigue—each taking years to loosen their grip on me. A thorough checkup showed no less than five organs under-functioning. My endocrine system was on its last legs. My digestion shut down almost entirely (complications from which resulted in two surgeries, years later). My lumbar spine was severely degenerated and my libido DOA (though thankfully, one of them came roaring back eventually). Living with a perforated septum required minor daily considerations, and when it unexpectedly contributed to the slow collapse of my nose years later, it took two complicated surgeries (and $50,000) to fix. Healing the physical stuff—what I could of it—took time, money, and patience. The mental and emotional damage was a longer road to trudge.
Had I known that day, as I lay in Chuck’s bed, debating life or death, how long life would take to feel more like a gift than a sentence, how long before I would greet each day with more eagerness than trepidation, I’m not sure I would’ve made the choice I did. I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not psychic. But, like Joe said, it takes what it takes. And with so many tethers snapped…well, some of it took decades. Thankfully, some of it didn’t.
•••
I had six months sober on my thirtieth birthday. I spent it with Christine, at the beach in LA, and at the Sportsmen’s Lodge. Being so close to Blairwood, I couldn’t resist calling Joe. I convinced him to meet me at the Bistro Garden, where we’d celebrated our engagement. I was excited to hang out like normal people, friends who hadn’t left their “brains behind” in a limo or a sex dungeon; for him to see me at my best. I also wanted him to take one look and fall in love again—of course I did. But I knew which outcome I’d get.
I wore a dark green velvet A-line dress with three-quarter sleeves and subtle ruching across the chest. It was flattering and elegant—Grace Kelly with a kick. My jewelry, too, was new and sparkling—a tennis bracelet and choker, birthday gifts from a roguish Vegas doctor. We had met at the club, at his friend’s bachelor party, and discovered shared interests in art, music, outdoor sports, and Eastern spiritual traditions. He liked betting big at Caesars’s crap tables, and I liked dressing up and cheering him on. I wasn’t the doctor’s girlfriend and we diverged on social issues and politics, but I could be myself in his company and he treated me with respect. It was a fascinating concept: to have connection and autonomy simultaneously. It all felt very new to me.
Dinner with Joe flew by. He skipped appetizers and dessert. I was bubbly and engaging. He acted distracted and tired. I had no idea what was going on in his life. A new kid and a busy career, though he didn’t disclose much. I carried the conversation, talking about my AA group, my job, and my favorite new books. Joe feigned interest, but I knew him too well. I maintained a cheery demeanor and kept my hurt feelings to myself.
I cared about my life—I didn’t need Joe to anymore. It was small and contained but it was mine and I liked it. Meetings inspired me and I excelled at work. My social circle was tiny—AA friends and Chuck—but I went hiking and swimming, and a trainer at the gym had asked me to be his partner in a fitness competition. I looked that healthy and fit. I went to Lake Mead more times that summer than I’d gone to the beach over five years in LA. I got a new apartment and decorated it myself—the whole thing, not just a hallway. I spent Wednesday nights in a dive bar, drinking cranberry juice and dancing to a blues band. I read two or three books a week and was amassing quite a CD collection. I hadn’t thrown myself into writing, but I jotted down story ideas. I may have traded it all to spoon naked with Joe for an hour, but to his credit, he didn’t offer.
The joyous dinner I’d hoped for was awkward and rushed. Outside, Joe hugged me, then looked me in the eyes and smiled—really looked and really smiled. He didn’t hold my gaze long, but long enough. And I didn’t look away, for once. It was the Joe I knew and would always love, even if I never saw him again. He drove off and I was fine. Later, at the hotel, I curled up and cried. The next morning, I packed my things and flew home to my life.
Epilogue Walk Away
I did see Joe again, a few years after our Bistro Garden dinner. It was in Austin, where I’d returned to live, and he had a gig. We met backstage before the show for the length of a long hug and short chat—a closure thing, at my request. It was easy and sweet and just what I needed. Afterward, he hit the stage and I grabbed a spot on the outdoor venue’s grass. During one of the first songs, Joe caught my eye. He held my gaze, singing a line from the chorus that told me what I should do next. I agreed, and I did just that.
I got up, turned my pretty head, and walked away.
I didn’t expect to hear from him again, but the next two
visits were at his request, short weekends together in cities near Austin where he’d stopped on tour. We met as friends to reconnect and reminisce, our easy laughter like a salve smoothing over the few remaining raw bits. Lingering wounds aside, our connection was strong, soulful, and tender.
The last time I saw him we were both doing well, more settled and content than ever. He was getting a divorce (though no one knew about it yet). I’d had a few small pieces published (and was telling everyone I met). We compared daily routines, vitamin supplements, and workout regimens. He talked about Buddhism and meditation. I showed him my blog and taught him how MySpace worked. That night, after dinner, we went to my room to watch TV. He lay on the covers, and I slid beside him without a thought. My heart pressed to his ribs, my head nestled in the soft space between his shoulder and chest. His arm wrapped around my back, holding me to him.
Before we parted company, Joe suggested we try dating again, gradually, like regular folks, with toe-in-the-water dinner dates…maybe a weekend in Hawaii. It never happened and perhaps that’s for the best (in this lifetime, though there’s always the next). But at that moment, for that one night, I was happy in his arms. For a brief, contented moment, we had an authentic intimate connection, independent of expectation, judgment, and disappointment…of everything that came before or after it.
The End
Acknowledgments
Rock Monster Page 30
