Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife (38 page)

[Friday, December 26]

“When you tell people you’re an alcoholic, it’s the type of thing people don’t forget,” Brent said at the meeting. “It’s like saying, ‘I murdered someone.’”

“No,” Jane disagreed. “People forget all the time. People I’ve told still offer me drinks. It’s really not that big of a deal. It’s more in your mind than anyone else’s.”

“It’s all about you, Brent!” Gwen shouted. “It’s all about you!”

“Shut up, Gwen, and do us all a favor,” Brent retorted.

Gwen, not the least bit rattled, began her comments: “When I got sober, I announced it to the world. The first words out of my mouth when I met someone were, ‘Hi, I’m Gwen, and I’m an alcoholic in recovery.’ Eventually, a friend pulled me aside at a party and told me to stop it, it was embarrassing. But it was such a release.”

Brent looked at me and rolled his eyes.

A middle-aged guy said, “My boss was on the cover of
Parade
magazine as the subject of a story on depression. Now everyone knows she battles with depression and takes medication for it, but she’s hugely respected. On the other hand, that story opened the door for another woman I work with to start telling people about her depression, and oh my God, the stuff she tells you. When I see her coming I run the other way.”

After the meeting, I told Brent about the yoga party I’m going to throw for my birthday and asked him what he thought about mixing sober and nonsober friends.

“If you get a bunch of recovering alcoholics together, they’re going to talk about recovery,” Brent said. “They can’t help it. The cat will be out of the bag.”

“Maybe I’ll just invite my normal friends, if you can call anyone normal,” I sighed.

[Saturday, December 27]

Today, I haven’t had a drink in one year. That blows me away. I didn’t want to quit forever. In the back of my mind, I planned on taking a nice long break, maybe a year, but I didn’t think I’d last this long. I looked at sobering up as an adventure, something new and different to do, a journey into self-awareness, and it’s been that and a lot more. I’m happier, more useful. I feel better physically, mentally, and spiritually. I don’t want my drinking life back. I hope I can stay sober.

[Wednesday, December 31]

I took Max to a soccer tournament and ran into Kelly at the complex.

“Hey Bren, what are you doing here?” she asked.

“What do you think?” I answered, sounding more snotty than I wanted to. It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’ve had a bug up my butt because Kelly didn’t invite me to her annual New Year’s Eve party.

“What are you doing for New Year’s?” Kelly asked.

“Nothing,” I said, sounding defiant.

“Isn’t it great?” Kelly said. “I’m looking forward to doing nothing. I had that Christmas party and decided that was it.”

“I kinda figured,” I lied.

“I’ve gotten calls from people wondering if I’m having a party,” Kelly said. “I wonder if people are mad at me thinking I’m blowing them off?”

“Maybe,” I said, suddenly feeling bad.

Kelly left, and I felt petty and small. Damn it. I’m no better than she is when it comes to juvenile jealousy.

Charlie and I took the kids out for a New Year’s Eve dinner. Later, we watched the New Year’s countdown on TV. I felt lame and unpopular. As I watched the sweaty, pie-eyed people shouting “Woo, woo,” from downtown bars, I started feeling superior. I’m glad I’m not one of those people.

[Thursday, January 1]

I woke up without a hangover.

[Saturday, January 3]

Max and I worked in a soup kitchen in the basement of a church. Max handed out cafeteria trays and I dished out salad. Most of the clients were homeless men, and I was amazed at how few of them wanted vegetables.

“How about some salad?” I’d ask. “It’s good for you.”

The men would shake their heads, raise a hand over their plates, and grab lunch meat and cheap white bread. A few women filtered in and, toward the end, a family of five came in for dinner. Max handed the family trays. One of the boys was about Max’s age, and Max watched him closely. On our way out, as Max and I walked to our car, Max looked troubled.

“How do people become homeless?” he asked.

“Lots of ways,” I said. “Some people are mentally ill and can’t support themselves. Some are alcoholics and drug addicts. Sometimes families get in trouble when the dad or mom gets sick and can’t work. They run out of money. The family you saw tonight is having tough times.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Max said.

I hugged Max and kissed the top of his head.

[Sunday, January 4]

I compiled the notes I’d written during previous attempts to do my Fourth Step: “Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” Then I did my Fourth Step. I listed everyone I resent, my bad behavior toward them, and categorized my fears under those resentments. Every resentment, supposedly, is based in fear. I used to think that was a crock of shit until someone explained that fear falls into two categories: fear of something I have being taken away, or fear of not getting what I want. The people I resent are my mother, my sister, and Charlie. And now that I’ve looked at my bad behavior toward them and the fear behind my behavior, I’m going to have to make amends to them. Not looking forward to that.

[Saturday, January 10]

I feel like an enormous baby. I did my Fifth Step with Sara, “Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs,” and blubbered most of the way through it.

“You have a lot of work to do where your mother is concerned,” Sara told me. “You can start by praying for her health, happiness, and prosperity every day.” She gave me the same advice for my sister.

“I think it’s strange that your father isn’t on your resentment list,” Sara added.

“My father and I scream at each other, make up, and move on,” I said. “We say what we want to say to each other and apologize when necessary. I don’t have resentment with him. With my mother, sister, and Charlie, I don’t have full-out honesty. I’ve held a lot in.”

“You’re ready to do your Sixth and Seventh Steps,” Sara said.

In bed, I read the Sixth and Seventh Steps. Step Six: “Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.” Well, I’m not entirely ready. Some of my defects, such as stretching the truth here and there, have served me well. It scares me, the thought of turning my defects over to God. Manipulating situations has felt necessary. I don’t know if I’ll ever be entirely ready to do this. Just the other day, I stole a bisque-colored handle off a toilet at the hardware store because the handle on the toilet they sold me a couple of years ago broke. I felt guilty about it, but damn it, they’d sold me a faulty product and I’d have to jump through hoops to get the right handle the right way.

Step Seven: “Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.” An old man once told me, “If you’re not willing to have God remove your defects of character, be willing to be willing. That’s the place to start. Being willing to be willing will get you far.” I closed my eyes and prayed, “God, I’m willing to be willing. And please take things slow with me. I don’t think I can handle a drastic change. But I’m willing to be willing. Amen.” I opened my eyes and felt relief, peace, and happiness.

I read Step Eight: “Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.” I’d listed the people I’d harmed during my Fourth Step, and I’m willing to make amends to them. I read Step Nine: “Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.” I’ll have to discuss this with Sara.

[Sunday, January 11]

I went to a yoga/meditation class this morning and saw Vivian there. She and I went out for coffee afterward.

“Nancy disappeared for seven days right before Christmas,” she told me.

Nancy, Vivian’s seventeen-year-old daughter, has been in recovery for almost two years.

“No,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach.

“Yeah,” Vivian said. “She went on a coke binge with a girlfriend and two guys. Right before Christmas, Nancy saw her stepbrother, my husband’s oldest son. He sexually abused Nancy when she was younger and seeing him again whacked her out. I’m going crazy. My ex-husband, Nancy’s dad, called and told me, ‘Nancy wants me to meet her and bring seven hundred dollars to a pancake house because she owes some really bad people money.’”

“Fuck,” I whispered.

“She just wanted the money for drugs,” Vivian said. “I told him not to bring the money, that I’d meet him at the pancake house. I pulled into a parking space way in the back of the parking lot and waited. I watched Nancy park and walk into the restaurant where my ex was waiting. As soon as Nancy was inside, a girl and two guys got out of her car and started cleaning it out, throwing stuff in the garbage Dumpster. I called the police. As soon as the police showed up, I got out of my car and started confronting Nancy’s friends. ‘What are you throwing out, drugs? Officers, you have my permission to search this car. It’s my car. I know this girl, but I don’t know these two guys. I bet they’re over eighteen and have been aiding and abetting a seventeen-year-old minor I reported missing a week ago.’ While the cops were dealing with those three, I walked into the restaurant. Nancy’s face fell when she saw me. I told her, ‘You’re getting in my car, going to the hospital, getting drug tested, and going into treatment.’ That’s where she is now, in treatment.”

“Oh Vivian, I’m so sorry,” I said.

“I’m thinking we should take a meeting to her,” Vivian said. “Will you go with me?”

“Yeah.”

[Tuesday, January 13]

The phone rang. It was Vivian.

“Hey, you want to take a meeting to Nancy tonight?” she asked. “I already asked Darcy and she said yes.”

“Count me in,” I said.

Vivian picked me up after dinner. Darcy was already in the car. We drove to the treatment facility and Vivian parked and turned around in her seat. “Nancy got into trouble,” she said. “She lost all of her privileges.”

“What happened?” Darcy asked.

“She got some stupid tattoo, her boyfriend’s name on her right shoulder blade,” Vivian said. “Getting tattooed in here is against the rules. She got in trouble for that, then narced on the girl who gave her the tattoo, then got into a fight with her.”

Vivian got out of the car. Darcy and I stared at each other, then followed Vivian into the facility. Nancy was sitting in the waiting area. An obese white girl with skinny blond braids all over her huge, round head stomped over. She was wearing athletic pants with one pant leg pushed up over her thick, dimpled knee. A gang thing.

“I tole you I ain’t gone let you run,” the fat girl screamed at Nancy. “I tole you. I know watch yo plans be and I ain’t gonna let you. No. You ain’t runnin’.”

Nancy stood up. The fat girl got in Nancy’s face. She continued to scream at Nancy and backed Nancy down the hall away from Vivian. Vivian trailed after them. Darcy and I looked at each other.

“What the fuck?” I silently mouthed.

“Get the hell out of here!” Vivian screamed at the fat girl. “Get the fuck out of my way, now!”

The fat girl disappeared, and Vivian and Nancy stood in the hallway whispering heatedly to each other. The fat girl reappeared and began harassing them again. Vivian pulled Nancy into a small room off the hallway and told the fat girl, “Get the fuck away from us!” The fat girl kept spewing the same gibberish, but finally lumbered away.

A mousy young social worker who appeared to be about thirty walked into the waiting room. She’d been lurking in her office off the waiting room until things cooled down before making an appearance.

“Thanks for bringing a meeting to us,” she told Darcy and me. “I just have to warn you, a lot of the girls might ask you to be their sponsor.”

The fat girl reappeared and began screaming at Nancy from the doorway to the conference room. A twitchy skinny girl walked into the waiting room and began spookily pacing. The mousy social worker pretended not to notice anything that was going on. Vivian and Nancy pushed past the fat girl and walked into the waiting room.

“Okay, let’s do the meeting,” Vivian said wearily and directed Darcy and me into a lounge area. Several minutes later, ten girls filtered in and sat down. All of them were wearing sweat suits with one leg pushed up over the knee. The first few girls to talk said they just smoked pot once in a while and drank a little.

“I don’t know why my mother sent me here,” one of them said. I looked at the homemade gang tattoo on her calf and thought,
No good reason, I’m sure.

Nancy sat across the room from me. The upper half of the wall behind me was an expansive window that looked out onto the hallway. Nancy kept shifting her gaze between the floor and the window behind me. About halfway through the meeting, she looked up, began shifting nervously in her chair, and walked out of the room. I looked behind me and saw the fat girl who’d been screaming at Nancy. I looked at Vivian. She continued listening to the girl who was speaking and tried to look unruffled.

The girl who was speaking was the girl who’d gotten in trouble for tattooing Nancy. “Yeah, I know it was some of me, I shouldn’t have done it,” she said referring to the tattoo. “But I’m always careful about the needle. No one shared. I don’t do that. I know better. My mom, she did heroin. She was sick. I don’t want to get into all that. My little brother was born sick. When my mom died, my older brothers blamed me. My mom was in a hospital bed at home very weak, very sick, couldn’t feed herself. I gave her a drink of water and she choked on it and died.

“I’ve tried to kill myself,” she continued. “If anything happens to my little brother, though … I raised him. If anything happened to him, I don’t know …”

I looked around the room at the tough girls pretending to be fearless. I felt like crying. When the meeting ended, a slightly chubby Latina gangbanger named Martina asked me to be her sponsor.

“I’m here mainly for running away and sleeping around and gangbanging,” she told me. “I used to be skinny, but my mom put me on Depo-Provera for birth control and I gained a lot of weight when I went off it. I don’t have a drug problem. I drink and do drugs once in a while, and yeah, when I do them I do them to excess, but that’s normal. I just need a sponsor to get to the next level.”