Here is how it starts
Here is how it starts:
I’m maybe 14. I’m swimming in the pool at night. There is no deep end because this is an above-ground pool, but not that kind. It’s big and oblong and it’s got a deck built around it to hide the truth. It’s not one of those round, deckless, trashy pools that look like they were accidentally dropped in the middle of a field. This is a *classy* above-ground pool and at the classy above-ground pool, we do classy things like secretly drink stolen Busch Light from the beer fridge alone. I put the can at the far end, in the dark. I push off and glide through the water. Every time I reach the can I take a sip. I hate this beer. It’s warm and tinny and getting warmer. I love this feeling. It’s warm and fuzzy and getting fuzzier. I keep swimming. I want another one.
Here is how it starts:
My dad is belligerent. I know because he’s over annunciating everything to prove that he is not belligerent. I keep coming out of my room to fight with him. He doesn’t like it when I challenge his authority. I live to challenge authority. Especially when authority is drunk and being an asshole. He keeps saying fucking, making sure it ends in a full ing. “it’s none of your fucking business,” he says. I will never be like him.
Here is how it starts:
I’m going to a concert tonight. My face is red from the hot shower. I like it scaldingly, impossibly hot. So hot I get goosebumps on my legs and I have to shave them twice. I’m in my robe, hair in a towel. I take a tiny juice glass from the cupboard and stick it under the spout of the box of Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge. I lift up the box to gauge how much is left. Good. Still heavy. I take a sip. I put the the glass back under the box and top it off. I do this two more times. I go dry my hair.
Here is how it starts:
I make an appointment with a new therapist. I wanted to be fresh for this but I’m not. I do my best to mask my hangover, which I do almost every morning. I’m a pro. I get up earlier than I think possible. I iron my shirt. I put on plenty of eyeliner. I curl my hair. I am presentable. I am definitely more put together than someone who needs help. But I’m in that raw, irrationally emotional place anyway. My eyes are full of tears, no matter what I do. Anything might cause them to spill. I listen to a Beyoncé song on the bus and a sob catches in my throat. I go through the standard intake. I casually mention that I might want to cut back on drinking. I downplay it immediately. I go back every Friday at 9am and lie to her, just like I lie to everyone. I think it’s easier to lie to her because her last name is Trump.
Here is how it starts:
I am googling “how to quit drinking” for the millionth time. I’m looking up support groups I’ll never go to and taking quizzes that either tell me I need treatment immediately or that my drinking is normal. I’m in the panic again, the groundhog day of one too many, the deja vu of vague shame and guilt and anxiety. I find a website that resonates. There’s a free webinar. Today. I walk the dog. I watch the webinar. I put $647 on my credit card and start the program.
I quit drinking 17 days later.
