Girl Walks Out of a Bar

Advance Praise for
Girl Walks out of a Bar

“Lisa Smith gives us a darkly comic, honest, and completely relatable inside look at high-functioning addiction in the world of corporate law—a sort of ‘Sex and the Psych Ward.' It's inspiring, informative, and impossible to put down.”

—Jennifer Belle,
best-selling author of
High Maintenance
and
The Seven Year Bitch

“Whether she's telling the town car driver to turn around so she can ditch showing up for her niece's birth and meet her coke dealer, or staging her own semi-intervention, Smith takes us into the mind of someone who's completely in control while being radically out of control. This girl may have walked out of a bar, but she's walked into one of the best addiction memoirs I've ever read.”

—Anna David,
New York Times
best-selling author of
Party Girl, Bought
, and editor of
True Tales of Lust and Love

“Raw, naked and unflinching,
Girl Walks out of a Bar
catapults the reader into the sordid, desperate reality of high-functioning addiction: the booze, the coke, the lies; the denial, the depression, the blackouts. All are on full display as New York lawyer Lisa Smith loses herself in a deep and all-too-human descent into perpetual numbing. A chilling, cautionary tale.”

—Ann Dowsett Johnston,
Author of
Drink: The Intimate Relationship Between Women and Alcohol

“Smith openly shares the lies, secrecy, depression, and isolation that define a life only made ‘livable' by alcohol. Her raw depiction unveils the pressures of her job (20 percent of lawyers have substance abuse problems, she reports) as well as the personal costs of addiction, including divorce, ill health, and self-loathing. Readers will root for this extraordinary woman as she travels the path to recovery, healing, and triumph over addiction; her riveting story will inspire both those who have been there and those who have not.”

—Publishers Weekly
April 4, 2016

Copyright © 2016 by Lisa F. Smith

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

This edition published by SelectBooks, Inc.

For information address SelectBooks, Inc., New York, New York.

First Edition

ISBN 978-1-59079-312-1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Smith, Lisa F. (Lawyer), author.

Title: Girl walks out of a bar: a memoir / by Lisa Smith.

Description: First edition. | New York: SelectBooks, Inc., [2016] | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015032852

Subjects: LCSH: Smith, Lisa F. (Lawyer)--Health. | Substance abuse--Patients--United States--Biography. | Recovering addicts--United States--Biography. | Recovering alcoholics--United States--Biography.

Classification: LCC RC564 .S5665 2016 | DDC 362.29092--dc23 LC record available at
http://lccn.loc.gov/2015032852

Book design by Janice Benight

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For CDF, HS, and RLP

Contents

Aknowledgments

Part 1.

Not your typical Monday morning.

Part 2.

How did a nice girl like you become an addict like that?

Part 3.

Your bottom is where you stop digging.

Epilogue

About the Author

T
his book is the true story of events to the best of my recollection. Memory isn't perfect, of course, and memory under the influence is worse. I have recreated conversations as accurately as I recall them, and many of the key people included in the story have reviewed the manuscript for accuracy. To protect individuals' privacy, some names, places, and identifying characteristics have been changed.

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to so many people for making this book possible. First, thank you to Jennifer Belle, the leader of the writers workshop that has been the highlight of my week for years, for all of your wisdom, encouragement, and editing. Donna Brodie, Rob Wolf, Nicola Harrison, Barbara Miller, Mike Pyrich, Mario Gabriele, and Aaron Zimmerman, thank you for the insightful feedback, advice, ridiculous laughter, and friendship.

Thanks to my agent and friend, Katharine Sands, for her invaluable guidance. Thank you to my publisher, SelectBooks, especially Kenzi Sugihara, Nancy Sugihara, and Kenichi Sugihara. Thanks also to Jodi Fodor, who has special magic with words and everything else. Sarah Saffian, thank you for your editing and inspiration. Thank you also to Steve Eisner and everyone at When Words Count Retreat.

It's true when I say that I wouldn't be here without my incredible family and friends. Mom, Lou, Andrea, Caroline, and Ben, thank you for all of the love and cheerleading. Dad would have loved this. Thank you to my special cousin-readers, Gail Kaplan, Robert Nussbaum, and the Roethel girls. Gwen Erkonen, thank you for deciding we should try the weekend workshop in Iowa. Kellie Butler, thanks for listening to us ramble about writing.

To my friends who appear in the book and those who don't, I am so grateful to call you my people and love you with all my heart. In the interest of preserving anonymity I won't name names.

And to my husband Craig, thank you for telling me early on that I'd be a cheap date, and then supporting my efforts to write down the reasons why. I wake up every morning wondering how I got so lucky.

part one.

Not your typical Monday morning.

1

Shit. It was 7:00 Monday morning and
I needed wine. In two hours I'd have to be at work, which meant that I was going to have to steady my shaking hands. I inched out of bed and walked naked toward the kitchen. After just a few steps, my stomach lurched with the undeniable rumble of rising vomit, and I dashed to the bathroom with my hand pressed against my mouth. I vomited violently and then sprawled out across the cold tile floor and lay there like a deer that had just been hit by a car. After a few minutes I began to lift my head upright, slowly, gradually, as if sneaking up on something. When I had finally reached eye level with the toilet, I saw blood in the bowl.

Finally steady enough, I went to the kitchen and filled a dirty glass with wine from an open bottle. Looking down the long counter at the spoon rest I'd bought in Italy, my fancy tea kettle, and the slotted spoons in a ceramic pitcher, I could almost convince myself that a normal person lived here, maybe even the successful, thirty-eight-year-old lawyer people saw when they looked at me. But for that perspective I'd have to hold my hands up like
a photographer framing a shot so I could crop out all the empty wine bottles, the dirty glasses, and the overflowing ashtrays.

My immaculate coffeemaker looked at me in judgment. This would be just another day that I ignored it in favor of the wine bottle. It was a good time for a cigarette.

Still naked, I shuffled to the living room and on hands and knees slapped around under the couch looking for my lighter. All I came up with was a handful of dust and seventeen cents. But there were always matches to be found somewhere in my dark den. I reached into a hand-painted box that sat on my end table and found a plain, white matchbook amid the rolling papers, razor blades, and rolled up dollar bills. I flopped down on the couch and lit a Marlboro Light.

With the cigarette clamped between two fingers, I rested my elbow on my knee and dropped my head. My hair hung over my face like dirty curtains, but the sunlight streaming into the room still stung my eyes. I got up and opened the window to let in the fresh air of early spring. It was in April 2004 and the sounds of rumbling trucks and honking horns on East 20th Street flooded my apartment. Everybody shut up, I thought.

I took a few more slugs of wine and went back into the bedroom where I examined the small baggie of cocaine in my nightstand drawer. Thank God there was still some left. Dumping the remains on the top of my antique dresser, I crushed it into a fine powder with the back of a spoon. Careful not to lose any as I moved my hand across the white streaks in the marble top, I cut a few thick lines with a razor blade. There wasn't nearly enough to get me through the workday. Fuck.

Save it for later, I thought. You're definitely going to need it. But in four quick snorts through a rolled up dollar bill, the coke disappeared, leaving only a burning in my nose and a chemical-tasting drip down the back of my throat that managed
to be both disgusting and delicious. My relief was countered by familiar feelings of dread about not having more—the untenable reality of an addict.

Just go—move, move, I thought. I lumbered toward the shower. Catching a glimpse of my bloated face in the bathroom mirror, I let the bath towel drop and rested both of my hands on the bathroom sink. It was hard to hold my head up. I looked like a haggard witch at least twice my age. What had I done to myself? And fuck, how was I going to get through today?

I gulped another big glass of wine as I dug through my closet for a suit. My work wardrobe was ratty. All of my suits, like most of my clothes, were black because black hid the wine stains and cigarette ash. Black also matched my general outlook and helped me disappear in a crowd.

After my obsessive ritual of brushing my teeth and gargling with Listerine at least three times before chomping Orbit gum, I began to feel more like my version of normal—steady enough to get through my workday without people seeing me violently shake or stumble and just barely confident that no one near me would smell the wine that pulsed through my veins.

I slid my laptop into its case. I had spent most of the weekend working on a business proposal that my law firm was submitting to a major power company. The prospective client represented millions of dollars in new business. Nonstop drinking and dozens of lines of coke had fueled my efforts from Friday evening through 3:00 Monday morning. No question that my work was better when I was high than when I was hungover. After drinking I was a three-toed sloth; on cocaine I was a stallion.

With my bag, phone, laptop, and keys together, I looked in the mirror, checking my nose for blood and stray coke and my teeth for smeared lipstick. Then I stepped out into the hallway and locked the door behind me.

But something felt wrong, unusually wrong. Anxiety seized me. I felt sicker than usual. My head was heavier and murkier. The shakes were deeper. I could feel them in my guts and in my bones. I even seemed to hate myself more than usual.

Was this it? Was this the end? Was it possible that my body could take no more and I might just drop dead right there? One of the senior citizens on my floor heading to the diner for breakfast would find me in the hall, dead on my back, my eyes and mouth gaping, one hand gripping my laptop and the other holding the
New York Times
. When the police insisted it was an overdose, the horrified old lady would whisper to my parents, “But she seemed like such a nice girl.” The thought made me sicker. I'm going to die, I thought. I've killed myself.

Standing in front of the elevator, I stared at the “down” button. My heart was thumping like an angry bass drum, and my neck, back, and chest were seeping a strange, cold sweat. A voice in my brain screamed, “GET HELP!”

Get help? Help for what, I thought. For this anxiety attack (or is it a heart attack)? For the addiction that I'd known about but had dismissed for the past ten years? I wasn't clear about what I needed, but somehow I knew that “it” was over, that something had to change. Without knowing what to do next, I turned away from the elevator.

Back in my apartment, I poured another glass of cabernet.

I called Mark, my ex-boyfriend. Two weeks earlier, he had chosen to go back to being just my “downstairs neighbor.” When he had insisted that I get treatment for my alcohol and cocaine addiction I told him to get the fuck out of my apartment.

Before he could say “hello,” I choked out the words, “I need help.”

Mark was the only person who had any idea that I drank in the mornings and used coke regularly. For years, I had managed
to hide it from my family and friends by lying my ass off, being extremely attentive to details, and staying away from the people who mattered most. Mark's finding out was a testament to my spiraling sloppiness.

“I'll be right there,” he said and hung up. Two minutes later he was at my door, and when I told him, “I think I need help with addiction,” his brown eyes gaped.

“You really mean it? You're finally going to do something?” He looked like a bobblehead, bouncing up and down in his blue Puma sneakers, his shoulder-length curls of brown hair flopping back and forth.

“I have to. As in,
today
or I won't do it.” He smiled. I looked at him with the focus of a military sniper. “Do not say ‘I told you so,' or I'll throw you out of this apartment. I mean it.” He bounced over to the couch and sat obediently.

A strange sense of relief began to warm me. Maybe I was actually going to do something about the horror my life had become. Did I really want to stop drinking? Stop using drugs? It was unimaginable—seeming simultaneously too good to be true and my worst nightmare. Even if I wanted to quit, I seriously doubted I could go five hours without booze or coke. I had resigned myself to being an alcoholic and cocaine addict who would eventually drown in a puddle of vomit. Or maybe on a foggy night I'd stumble into the path of a speeding cab. In any case, it was clear that mine wasn't going to be a graceful death. But on that morning, for the first time ever, I wanted to do something to save my life.

“I'm going to call my doctor,” I told Mark. I wiped the smeared mascara from under my eyes with the back of my hand. Strange, I didn't remember crying.

“Hi, Dr. Merkin,” I said when my internist picked up on the first ring. “It's Lisa Smith. How are you?” I heard my voice crack.

“I'm fine, Lisa. How can I help you?”
Cut the small talk
.

I blurted it out. “I need to go to detox or rehab for alcohol or something, but I don't know what to do or where to go.”

“I doubt you need that. We took your blood just a couple months ago. You're fine.”

“Um, no. I'm not fine. I'm drinking all the time. I have to drink to get out of bed in the morning. I'm puking blood and I also see it—uh—when—you know . . . when I go to the bathroom.” I must have sounded like a child.

“Oh.” He sounded confused and paused before saying, “Yes, yes. Then you're right. If that's true, you need to get help, right away. Inpatient help. Do you want to go away somewhere in particular?”

“I can't go away to some big, long rehab place. I can't tell my office. I just need to go somewhere to sort of detox me, or whatever they do, for a few days, just so I'm not so sick all the time. I just feel really, really sick.”

“OK. Is your insurance still Oxford?” he asked. I could hear papers shuffling on his end of the phone.

“Yes. I lit a cigarette, but pulled the phone away when I exhaled.

“There are two hospitals that will take your insurance for detoxification treatment in Manhattan. St. Luke's in Hell's Kitchen?” he asked.

“No way,” I said. “I'm not going to a hospital in Hell's Kitchen.”

“Okay. There's Gracie Square Hospital on the Upper East Side, on 76th Street,” he said.

“That one,” I said. “I'll go to Gracie Square.” It had to be good, I thought. Gracie Mansion was where the mayor lived. Also, it was only a few blocks from Lenox Hill Hospital where Dr. Merkin saw patients, in an expensive Manhattan neighborhood.
Maybe it would have a better class of addict. “Who do I call?”

“Just call the main number, and tell them what's happening to you. If you need a referral, tell them to call me.”

“Thank you, Dr. Merkin. I'll call right now,” I said.

“Let me know what happens. Good luck, Lisa.”

Gracie Square made reserving a bed less complicated than booking a hotel room. They took my insurance and said I could arrive any time until eleven that evening. I felt a pang of excitement at the thought of doing something that might relieve my addiction, and also a pang of dread of putting down the bottle. It reminded me of what people said about the most difficult partners at law firms: “He may be an asshole, but he's our asshole.” Addiction was my asshole and the devil I knew. After ten years of drinking like a full-blown drunk, I couldn't imagine life without it.

“What'd they say?” Mark asked. I saw that he had poured himself a glass of wine. I always felt better when I wasn't the only one drinking, particularly before 9:00 a.m.

“They'll have a bed for me. They'll give me medicine, something called Librium, for withdrawal.” Then I waved him away. “Let me deal with my office now, before anyone gets there.”

Mark sat in my overstuffed club chair staring at me as I pulled my laptop out of its case. His knees were bouncing up and down which made me anxious, so I gave him an errand. “Hey, they said ‘no cell phones' at this place. But there's a pay phone. Can you go get me a phone card? I think they have them at the bodega on the corner of 18th.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Mark said. “I'll pick up an egg sandwich while I'm out. Do you want one?”

“No, I definitely do not want an egg sandwich.” I said.

I lit another cigarette, logged onto my computer, and sent an email to my boss and several partners. I claimed I had come down with a “stomach-related illness,” that required “a procedure” in the hospital. Not to worry, I'd be back “in fine shape” next week, but this week I'd be “out of touch.” As I passed off my immediate projects for coworkers to handle, I thanked God for the privacy laws that prevented the firm from questioning me about my health.

I could never let them know what was happening. It wasn't just because I was ashamed, which I was, it was also because of the stigma attached to substance abuse by lawyers. If they found out, overnight I'd go from being viewed as hardworking and smart to weak, defective, and untrustworthy. This was the attitude of the entire industry.

But my parents needed to know. They lived in New Jersey and we had always had a close relationship. Still, as far as they knew, I was doing great. I had told them countless happy lies and called only when sober enough to have a normal conversation. But the bubble of deceit now had one breath too many blown into it, and this phone call would draw a clear line dividing line between “before Mom and Dad knew that I had lied to them for years” and “after Mom and Dad knew that I had lied to them for years.” The fact that I was an alcoholic would be less upsetting than the fact that I had been a fraud in our relationship. They believed they knew me well. They didn't. The phone felt like a fifty-pound weight.