Wisconsin Whitley and I looked at each other and cringed.
“Yeah,” she said. “It was bad. The police took my husband to jail and drove me home. My son and his friends were there when they dropped me off. I was mortified. Then my husband had to go to drunk driving school. He started learning about alcoholism and realized how bad I was. He made me get into treatment.”
I think I found a normal recovering friend. Yea.
[Saturday, May 31]
I went to a meeting this morning, and a guy named Dave said he’d finished college and gone out with some of his classmates last night to celebrate.
“I was the only one not drinking,” he said. “I was fine with it but it felt a little weird. I’ve been sober eight years and it wasn’t like I wanted to drink, but it tweaked my brain in a small way.”
That’s it. It tweaks your brain, apparently even after eight years.
I called Sara and told her about my Memorial Day barbecue at Fiona’s and how I thought about having a glass of wine but thought it through to the hangover and didn’t drink. I told her the party tweaked my brain a little but it was refreshing to hang out with light normal drinkers.
“If you keep putting yourself in situations like that, you’re going to drink,” Sara said. “Most newcomers avoid drinking situations like the plague. Maybe they go to a family wedding or a mandatory work party, but they hightail it out of there early. Most old-timers do the same. You question your motives before you attend a drinking event. If you have a good reason for going, go. If you don’t, stay home.”
Wisconsin Whitley told me, “I can’t bear to go into a nice restaurant with my husband because not drinking would really get to me.”
I am sick of being in situations where my brain is constantly tweaked, but I don’t want to give up my friends or normal socializing. I don’t want to pack my nights with meetings and sober whackos like a lot of people in recovery do.
[Sunday, June 1]
Reed and Liv had us over for a cookout. Before we left, I told Charlie he was damned lucky I was socializing with our drinking friends.
“Don’t accept invitations on my account,” Charlie said, looking sheepish.
“Well, it doesn’t seem fair to screw up your social life,” I snapped. “People wouldn’t snort lines of coke in front of a cokehead who was trying to straighten out, but people guzzle booze in front of me constantly.”
I went into the bathroom and cried. I fixed myself up and Charlie and I went to Reed and Liv’s.
Sometimes I think it’d be easier if I were a drug addict. Neighbors don’t throw backyard heroin parties. No one offers you crack at baby showers. Magazines aren’t full of slick ads for crystal meth. I’m grateful I’m not wasting more precious time being drunk, but sometimes having a drink seems like a really good idea.
[Monday, June 2]
Eve called and left a message this afternoon. She was slurring so badly I listened to the message twice before I realized it was her. I didn’t call Eve back.
Later, when I was at a meeting, a beaten-down guy said, “I had a relapse. As a result, I got a DUI, went to jail, and lost my job. I’m thirty-nine and living with my father again. I’m riding my father’s bicycle to get around or my dad has to drive me. Shit. I’m thirty-nine. I’d been sober two years then one day, out of nowhere, I decided I could have a beer. I controlled my drinking for a while, but a year and a half later, this is where I am.”
“It’s weird,” I said, when it was my turn to speak, “I can appreciate sobriety so much, love that I’m living a more vivid, rich life, then bam, I feel like having a drink. I constantly have to convince myself that I’m an alcoholic. I’m sick of it. I start thinking, I wasn’t that bad. Everyone in the program is way worse than me. Then I remind myself I wanted to have a baby so I would quit drinking.”
Wisconsin Whitley was sitting across the table from me and looked shocked. When we had coffee at Starbucks, I had gone on and on about how wonderful my life was now that I’m sober.
An old hippie dude spoke. “If you don’t think you’re an alcoholic, why don’t you try some controlled drinking?” he asked condescendingly.
Stupid bastard. Didn’t he listen? I called Sara on my way home and bitched to her about the hippie prick. She started laughing.
“You’ll run into guys like that,” she said. “Those drinking thoughts are totally normal. You’re a normal alcoholic. The important thing to remember is what happens after the first drink and where it takes you.”
I told Sara about Eve, how I’d gone to her townhouse to help her when she was plastered.
“Don’t go over to a drunk’s house when they’ve been drinking,” she said. “You don’t know what they’ll do. Wait until they’ve sobered up and take someone with you. It’s pointless to try to reason with someone when they’re drunk. Nothing you say is going to matter. Besides, why’s a woman who’s been in the program for ten years calling someone like you? Think about that.”
[Tuesday, June 3]
I went to my favorite women’s meeting tonight and when Tracy, who chairs it, asked, “Is there anything affecting anyone’s sobriety that they wish to discuss?” a woman raised her hand and said, “Sue, alcoholic,” then began sobbing. She looked familiar. It dawned on me that she was the one who pulled me aside at one of my first meetings and told me her husband was addicted to computer porn.
“My husband went to Indiana on one of those men’s spiritual retreats,” she said. “He left a week ago. He hasn’t called, and I don’t know who he’s with or where he is or if he’s using or if he’s dead.” She blew her nose and wiped at the tears streaming down her face.
“He’s my third husband,” Sue continued. “I married my first two husbands when I was young. I was sober thirteen years before I married this one. I met him in recovery. I thought I’d picked a winner.”
A recovering winner? Thank God I’m not single. I have not come across one man I find desirable at meetings. Poor Sue. My heart hurts for her.
[Wednesday, June 4]
Darcy and I went out to dinner and talked about Eve.
“My sponsor doesn’t think it’s a good idea for me to be friends with Eve,” I told Darcy. “But if I write her off, what does that say about me? She needs help. I’d be a bad friend.”
“So this is about you?” Darcy asked. “The best thing you can do for Eve is leave her alone when she’s drinking. I told her I’d be there for her when she wasn’t drinking and I hoped she didn’t kill herself in the process. Besides, I’ve got issues with her drinking. I broke up with my boyfriend five months ago, lost my job, and I didn’t drink. It pisses me off that Eve gets to drink.”
[Thursday, June 5]
Here I go with more Kelly crap. My book club buddies and I went to Margaret’s to discuss The Samurai’s Garden. Fiona, Tina, Nosey Rosy, and Kelly were already there eating appetizers in the kitchen when I arrived. Fiona was telling Tina, “Your fortieth birthday party was a blast.”
“Yeah,” Tina grinned. “It was fun.”
“I loved the CD of disco tunes you burned for party favors,” Fiona added.
“Yeah,” I said, grabbing a nacho. “The cover of you in a bikini looking like a ’70s Barbie doll is hot.”
“What CD?” Kelly asked irritably. Kelly hadn’t gone to Tina’s party. She’d invited Reed and Liv to her Indiana beach house that weekend. “I’d like to see that CD.”
“I’ve got one in my car,” Tina said, bouncing out of the house to get it.
“I wonder if she’s got extras?” I said. “I didn’t get one. Fiona showed me hers on our way to a meditation workshop we went to the next morning.”
Kelly turned toward Fiona. “You went to a meditation workshop? I’d like to do that. Where was it?”
“Brenda told Fay and me about it,” Fiona said. “It was at the yoga studio she goes to. It was great.”
“Let me know if you do that again,” Kelly said, shooting me a saccharine smile.
Tin
a walked in with her CD. Kelly began smirking. Tina handed it to Kelly, and Kelly’s smirk faded as soon as she saw how great Tina looked. Kelly tossed the CD on the counter and shoved a nacho into her mouth.
We moved the food into the living room and sat down to discuss the book. I sat on one end of Margaret’s couch, Kelly sat next to me, and Nosey Rosy sat on the other end. “Okay, here goes,” Margaret said, and began reading discussion questions.
Kelly began whispering something to Rosy, and the two began giggling.
“How do you think the flowers got into Sachi’s rock garden?” Margaret asked.
“I think Matsu planted them there as a surprise,” Kelly said.
“I don’t think so,” I disagreed. “Sachi didn’t want flowers and I don’t think Matsu would have dishonored her. I think wildflowers took root and were a metaphor for beauty appearing in unlikely and inhospitable places.”
Kelly snorted and whispered to Rosy.
Margaret read a question that used the word juxtaposition. “I’m not sure what that means,” she said.
“Me either,” Karen said.
“It’s when things are put together that don’t seem to fit,” I said.
“Thank goodness we have a little dictionary,” Kelly sniped.
I wanted to shove Kelly off the couch.
“Who’s having book club next?” Margaret asked.
“Me,” Kelly said.
“What are we reading?” Margaret asked.
“The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks,” Kelly said. “It’s such a sweet book. So well written.”
I snorted and went to the bathroom.
[Friday, June 6]
Kelly has always had a cruel streak. I just never noticed it until I got sober. Shitty things she’s done keep popping into my head like her “involuntary hand jerk” that caused her to throw a glass of wine down the front of my dress.
Kelly had thrown a party for Rita, one of our playgroup pals who’d moved away but was back in town visiting. It was a hot summer night and I was wearing a long, clingy, lavender sundress. Kelly eyeballed me good when I walked in. After we’d eaten, most of the women clustered in the kitchen and all of a sudden Kelly, who was standing opposite me, jerked her wineglass in my direction, dousing me with chardonnay. Everyone stood there for a long silent moment. Then Kelly put her hand to her mouth and started giggling.
“I, I just don’t even know what happened,” she said. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know …” She looked at her glass like it was possessed and laughed harder. I started laughing because I was wasted.
“You’re lucky it’s not red wine,” I said, reaching for club soda to rub into my dress. Everyone else started laughing, too.
Then there was the time the boys and I were at Kelly and Joel’s Indiana beach house for the weekend. Kelly and I had done some heavy drinking, and the next day I was nursing a wicked hangover while trying to read a book on her back deck. Joel was chain-sawing tree after tree on a bluff behind their house. He and Kelly wanted it denuded of pesky trees that obscured their view of the water. Their neighbors, aghast, watched and shook their heads. When Joel finished whacking trees, I noticed Max and Ryan playing cops and robbers. They disappeared behind one side of the house, then Max came running around the other side going way too fast and as the bluff dropped off, he tumbled and cartwheeled—thump, crash, thud—down the steep incline like a rag doll. I threw down my book and sprinted toward Max, tripping and stumbling over recently felled trees and stumps. Max hit a fresh stump midway down the hill, flew up into the air one last time, and landed facedown with a sickening thud.
I knelt next to Max, who wasn’t moving. I put a hand on his back and gently stroked it. “Max, are you okay Sweetie?” I asked, trying not to sound panicked. “Can you move, Buddy? Does anything feel really bad?”
Max slowly pushed himself up onto all fours and started to cry. I pulled him onto my lap and rocked him.
“Is Max okay?” Kelly called out from an upper deck. She started laughing.
I couldn’t believe it. Kelly was laughing. I didn’t answer her. I continued to hold Max while he cried and then helped him hobble back to the deck where Kelly was standing.
“You okay, Max?” she chuckled. “You looked so funny coming down the hill. You okay, big guy?”
Max and I ignored her and limped into the house. Kelly followed. I took Max into the bathroom and cleaned him up. I’d planned to drive home with Van that afternoon and leave Max to spend an extra night with Ryan, but there was no way in hell I was leaving him now. “You’re coming home with me, Peanut,” I told him. “After we get you fixed up, we’re leaving.”
“Good,” he said.
I packed up, thanked Kelly for having us, and told her Max was going home.
“Why?” she asked, putting on her sad puppy face. “Ryan will be so disappointed. Why don’t you stay, Max?”
Max just stared at her.
“He fell down a bluff full of jagged stumps, Kelly. He’s lucky he didn’t break or puncture anything. We’re going home.”
The day we arrived, Kelly had taken us out on her speedboat.
It was Max’s first time tubing, and the donut-shaped tube we were dragging was large enough for the boys to ride at the same time. Ryan immediately claimed a spot on one end saying, “This is the side I always take,” and Max hunkered down on the other side. Max, not a daredevil, was a little nervous. I gave him the thumbs up sign and held onto Van as Kelly took off. She soon got her boat up to breakneck speed and began slaloming. I could see Max gritting his teeth and hanging on for dear life. I flashed him the thumbs-up sign. Kelly whipped the boat into a tight circle and yanked the tube into a donut spin. Ryan, having experienced the centrifugal force, had claimed the best spot on the tube and was solidly in place. Max had a death grip on the tube while the bottom half of his body flopped on the water. Kelly slowed the boat down, created slack in the towrope, and gunned the engine. The towrope snapped tight and the tube whiplashed forward, sending Max flying. Kelly circled around. Max was bobbing in the water hugging his life vest. He grabbed the tube as it came around and shouted, “I’m done,” and gave the throat slashing signal.
I hate Kelly.
[Saturday, June 7]
I called Eve to see how she was doing. She sounded sober, but not good.
“My sisters should be here any minute,” she said. “They’re worried about me.”
“Want to go to a meeting later?” I asked.
“I’m in no shape to go to a meeting. I’m shaking like a leaf. You could come over after my sisters leave. They probably won’t stay long.”
“I’m home with Van,” I said. “Charlie and Max are Roller-blading and swimming. They’re coming home so I can hit the four o’clock. I could swing by after the meeting. Do you want me to bring you dinner?”
“I can’t keep anything down. I keep throwing up. You remember how that was?”
“Yeah,” I said, wondering if she felt like I did in Sarasota, Florida.
When Max was two, Martha took Max and me to Sarasota to escape a cold, damp Chicago spring. We flew, but Charlie said he and his siblings always made that trip by car to visit family. He said that Martha would dope him and his sibs up on Dramamine, wave good-bye to their father, who was staying behind to work, and hit the road.
Charlie was nervous about Max and me going. Every evening he would call at six sharp and ask, “How’s it going? Where’s Max? Is he on the balcony?” Charlie was familiar with the high-rise condo we were staying at. His uncle had built it, and Charlie was envisioning Max toddling around on the balcony and falling over the railing while Martha and I sucked down martinis.
Martha and I were getting lit, but to a respectable degree, I thought, and I always had my eye on Max. However, one night toward the end of the week, Martha and I (emphasis on “I”) polished off half a fifth of vodka before dinner and drank a bottle of wine with dinner, and as we began clearing the dishes and loading the dishwasher, I poured mys
elf another glass of vodka.
“There’s no detergent for the dishwasher,” Martha mumbled and pulled her head out of the cabinet below the kitchen sink.
“That’s okay,” I said, grabbing a bottle of Joy off the counter. “I’ll use this.”
“You think it’s okay?” she asked.
“Why not?” I said, squeezing Joy into the dishwasher and turning it on. “I’m taking Max to bed now.” I helped Max into his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and read him bedtime stories, even though the words were moving together and doubling up on the page. As I tucked Max into his crib, Martha started shouting, “The dishwasher! The dishwasher!” I turned off the bedroom light and jogged into the kitchen where I found Martha standing in front of the dishwasher ankle-deep in soapsuds. More suds were rapidly oozing from the sides of the dishwasher. Martha threw me a roll of paper towels and I waded in.
“Guess I shouldn’t have used the Joy,” I said. I put the paper towels on the counter and began scooping suds from the floor onto my arms and scraping the suds off my arms into the sink.
“Yeah,” Martha said. She was on all fours trying to push suds into a collapsed plastic garbage bag. I started laughing hysterically then Martha started laughing. We were Lucy and Ethel. That’s the last thing I remember that night.
The next morning, I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow. Eventually, I rolled out of bed, crawled to the bathroom, vomited, and crawled back into bed—a sequence I repeated off and on for the rest of the day. Martha, miraculously, seemed fine, which I was grateful for because I was physically unable to care for Max. I remember thinking, Martha can really handle her liquor. What an alcoholic.
Late that afternoon, I gingerly shuffled into the kitchen to look for crackers. There was a tiny sip of vodka left in the bottle from the night before and I wondered, “How much did Martha drink?”
Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife Page 12
