Girl Walks Out of a Bar (22 page)

“Lisa. How are you feeling today?” His voice jarred the quiet of my room as he sat on the chair at the foot of my bed. Trying to push myself up into a sitting position, I ended up in a slouch with my back against the wall. My hair hung over the side of my face so I felt half hidden from him.

“Better, thanks,” I said. “I'm really tired though. The Librium.”

“That's OK, that's normal. Do you still feel shaky?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything else?”

“Nauseated. And I have a headache. But it's not like yesterday morning.” I felt coherent, almost clear headed but for the Librium. That was strange.

“OK, that's good. I want to ask you a question. What brought you here? You told me yesterday that you drink, all day, every day. That you can't stop. What happened to make you come here?”

My face became hot and my eyes filled up. “I don't really know. I just, I got this feeling Monday morning that I couldn't do it anymore.”

“Do what?”

“You know, function. Get out of bed. Go to work. Do what I'm supposed to do.”

“You mean physically? You physically couldn't do it? Or you mentally couldn't do it?”

I had to think about that. “I don't know. Both. I mean, I was dressed and heading to work, but my body—I felt like I had to
do something or I would die soon. I can't get up without drinking. I shake and feel sick all day and I . . .” This was my doctor, no reason to hold back now. “I throw up every day and I shit blood.” Dr. Landry didn't react. He just nodded, so I continued. “But I guess in my head, you know . . . I was . . . I
am
, I'm just so tired. I just hate who I am now. I do terrible things.” I was grateful that he didn't ask me to describe the terrible things. That must be procedure—don't freak the patient out too soon.

“Can you give me an idea of how much you drink each day?”

“It depends.” I knew the answer and it didn't really “depend.” I'd run the routine through my mind a hundred times trying to justify it and to count the calories.

“Average, take a guess,” he said.

“Two bottles of wine, maybe a little more, or about a liter of vodka. I don't like to finish the whole thing, but sometimes I do. Sometimes it's a mix of wine and vodka. Or whatever else is around. Sometimes I drink less. Sometimes more.”

“And how long has that been going on?”

“That much every day? About a year,” I said. Wow. I heard myself.

“Have you tried to cut back?”

“Of course!”

“But you haven't been able to,” he said.

“No.”

“And you use cocaine?”

“Yeah, but not that much,” I lied.

“Do you think you could stop that?”

“Yeah, probably.” Another lie.

“You're a lawyer, right?” My heart thumped a giant boom.

“Yes.” I looked down to the dingy sheets. He didn't need to tell me that cocaine is a controlled substance and that possession could be a felony.

“Have you thought about suicide?” he asked.

I waited a beat, pretending I wasn't sure of my answer, and I tried to sit up a little straighter. I didn't want to end up in a padded cell. But how much worse could that be? I was so tired of lying. “Sure,” I admitted. “Who hasn't thought about suicide at some point? Sometimes I'd just rather not be here.”

“Have you ever gone further than that? Maybe fantasized about how or when you'd do it? Or gotten something that could help you do it?”

“No. No, I never got that far,” I said, which was also true. “I couldn't do that to my mother.”

“But you're unhappy with how your life is now, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you say you're depressed?”

“I don't know. I don't know what that means. I don't always feel totally black.”

“Are you ever happy?”

What a question. I had to think about it. How do you know what “happy” means if you've never been happy? “Happy” like people in an engagement ring commercial? “Happy” like the prom queen when they rest the crown upon her perfect blonde hair? Or happy like the strange phenomenon I'd heard of, when there's nothing particularly special going on, but life feels wonderful anyway? “Sometimes, I guess, for a while,” I said. “But I don't think I could say I'm a happy
person
. I don't wake up happy. I never have.”

“Are you ever happy when you're not drinking or taking drugs?”

“No. If I'm not drinking, I'm hungover and trying to figure out when I can drink to feel better. If I'm not drinking, I'm
sick and miserable.” Dr. Landry waited in case I had more to say. But I just scrunched the sheet between my hands.

“Is that why you drink the way you do? To stem the unhappiness?” He waited for my answer as I scrunched sheets, scrunched my forehead, scrunched my eyebrows . . .

“I don't know. I guess. I think that's why I used to drink—to make myself more comfortable, to relax, to get rid of the anxiety. Now I don't have a choice. I just have to drink.”

“Do you know much about the disease of alcoholism and addiction?” he asked.

Oh, God. Here we go
. “I've heard people say it's a disease, like a brain thing,” I said.

“Yes, it's a disease.”

“How can it be a disease if drinking is something you choose?”

He looked up from his clipboard and adjusted his glasses again. “That's a good question, Lisa. Alcoholism is a disease that involves brain chemistry, often tied to an underlying mental disorder, like depression. The drinker
does
choose to drink, but once a line is crossed and the drinker with a genetic predisposition begins to drink alcoholically, it's very difficult to reverse. Eventually, as you've experienced, the alcoholic drinker can no longer just stop after one or two as people who aren't afflicted with the disease can.”

“Are you saying that I can never drink like a normal person because I'm an alcoholic? Wait, are you saying that I'm not supposed to
ever
drink again?” Something kicked in my stomach.

“The only effective treatment we've seen is medication to address the brain chemistry issue combined with abstinence from substances supported by a 12-step program. Based on
my preliminary evaluation, that is what I would suggest for you.”

His finality seemed preposterous. Why couldn't I get better and then work hard at drinking socially, stopping after one or two. Oh, who was I trying to kid? Stopping after two?
That
sounded preposterous. “But you're saying,
never
drink again?”

“That's for you to decide for yourself, but from what I've seen you're a smart woman with a very serious problem. If you don't address it and you keep going, you'll find yourself back here, if you're lucky. People who can drink socially don't generally come in here requiring a medicated detox.”

Tears began rolling down my face. I had pulled my knees to my chest and was rocking back and forth. Dr. Landry continued.

“My guess is that all along you've been drinking not to be social but to self-medicate your depression and anxiety. And now it's gone beyond your control. I think you need to embark on a long-term program of recovery.”

I knew it. I knew this was what they were going to say. Of course, I knew. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK
. Even though I had to acknowledge that they were probably right, it enraged me that these know-it-alls wanted to try to take booze away from me. But why was I so upset at the idea of stopping the very thing that had made my life unbearable? I knew the answer. Because I had no idea what the other side looked like. If life was miserable even when I was numbed out, what would it be like without the numbing?

Then I thought about my friends. FUCK. FUCK! FUCCCKKK! The happy hours, the parties, the brunches, the toasts, the weekends at the beach. Now I'd be the broken one, the one who needed to be treated differently. Would they feel
uncomfortable drinking in front of me? What would that feel like for me? And Jesus, what do non-drinking people do all night? Anyway, my angst wasn't just about the idea of saying goodbye to the social drinking. What about dealing with Monday morning stress? What about getting ready for a blind date? What about getting buzzed
just because it fucking felt good
?

I nodded silently at Dr. Landry. But I wondered if it showed on my face that inside I was screaming, “Bring me a tall, cold vodka
right now
or I'm going rip this room apart!!!”

18

Later on Wednesday, Jerry and Devon
visited. We sat on the hard plastic chairs of the detox day room. Patients and visitors sat together as hospital staff hovered nearby, looking out for potential exchange of illicit substances or dangerous objects. It made me sad that only a few of the patients from the morning meeting had visitors. Had they so badly fucked up their personal lives that nobody could be bothered to support them anymore? Had they had any loved ones to alienate in the first place? God, I was lucky to have my family and friends. And I had been such a shithead to them for years—all the lies, all the neglect, always letting the booze come first. I shivered at the thought of being truly alone in this place.

Signs hung all over the walls with slogans like “Keep it Simple,” “Let Go and Let God,” and “One Day at a Time.” Utterly banal sayings that made me even warier of joining one of these 12-step cults or “groups,” as they called them. The morning speaker had been very compelling, so I was on the fence. And no one had said anything about God outside of the prayer at the end, so they didn't seem religious. Just another part of this whole enterprise that I didn't understand. Devon's Gucci loafers
stood out in stark contrast to all the hospital slippers and running shoes. Both she and Jerry were in suits, which reminded me that I was spending a workday in a mental hospital. Devon clutched her handbag in her lap. “What's all that crap?” she asked, pointing at the wall. “All those signs?”

“Aren't they fabulous? They're 12-step slogans. They're supposed to help you get sober. No one has talked to me about them yet,” I said.

“What do you mean ‘yet'? You're just here to dry out. You're not going to stop drinking for good, are you?” she asked.

“I don't know what I'm doing,” I said. “Right now I'm just trying to get through this.”

“I told you I didn't like this place. They're going to try to brainwash you,” she said.

Jerry jumped in. “Are you kidding, Devon? This place is priceless!” He sat back in his chair and checked everyone out. “You think they have an outpatient program? You know, show up in the morning, a little counseling, some group therapy? Maybe a vegan lunch, seaweed wrap, and then out in time for happy hour?”

I was too medicated to laugh out loud. All I could do was close my eyes and bob my shoulders up and down. I remembered that I once almost bought Jerry a “Betty Ford Center” t-shirt, thinking it was hilarious.

“Do you ever stop?” Devon asked, heaving a sigh.

I wanted to tell my friends true stories for a change. “So when I got to this floor my first night, it was really bad. Like there were women fighting and some guy threatened to fuck me up.” I rested my forearms on my thighs because it was hard to sit up straight.

Devon's eyes bugged. “Are you kidding me? Why didn't you call me? What the fuck? Why are you still here?” She let go
of her purse to flail her arms. “I knew this place was a mistake! I should have called Smithers.”

“No, no,” I said. “I couldn't leave. I signed that 72-hour psych hold thing. They take it seriously. They wouldn't let me leave even though I wanted to call the police.”

“Yo, call the police from in here? No way,” Jerry said. He let out a laughing snort, running his hand through his gelled hair and rocking back in his plastic chair. On the other side of the experience, Devon seemed to be fighting back tears.

“Yeah, but they kind of made me a deal,” I said. “They let me off the detox unit and put me up on the Asian floor, just for sleeping and meals. It's quieter up there. They're still crazy, but it feels safer.”

“Asian floor?” Jerry sat up straight. He dated Asian women almost exclusively.

“What are you talking about? You're not in detox?” Devon said.

“No, I
am
in detox. But I'm not staying on the detox floor. This place has an Asian floor. All Asian patients, doctors, and nurses. They're not addicts up there, just regular crazy, all kinds.”

Jerry squealed, “Dude! No way! Can you get me in on that, maybe some numbers?” Devon and I rolled our eyes at each other.

“Are you eating?” Devon asked me, ignoring Jerry.

“Lou brought me pretzels and bottled water,” I said. “The only other water here is out of the tap. Sometimes I . . . that water . . . it's gross. I think . . . I think I can lose some weight this week.” I was dizzy and I could hear myself rambling.

“You're loopy enough on that medicine,” she said. “You don't need low blood sugar, too. Can I bring you a burger or something? Would they let me? What about magazines?”

I shook my head. We were all quiet.

“Seriously,” she said, “Are we being bad friends leaving you here? I feel like a good friend would get you out.”

“No, I'm OK.”

I didn't know what else to say to them and it scared me. I felt disconnected from my best friends, even more so than when I was lying to them night and day. Two days earlier, they hadn't known that anything was wrong with me. Now, they were visiting me in a detox tank, a place where every staff member had been charged with turning me into a different person.

“Do the Asian nurses give you sponge baths?” Jerry asked, jolting me back into the moment.

“OK, that's it,” Devon said standing up. “Li, we'll let you get back to bed. Call me if I can do anything. And check in with me before Shirl and Harv get you on Friday.”

“Yo, I'm going upstairs,” Jerry said, giving me a hug. I could smell the smoke on him and suddenly felt desperate for a cigarette. Then I realized that it was the first time since taking Librium that I'd even thought about cigarettes.

“Yeah, good idea. You belong in a gown,” Devon said. She hugged me hard and then the two of them were on their way.

Were they going to get drinks and talk about me now? They would probably head to Coconut Grill, just a couple of blocks away and order vodka sodas. I knew they were scared for me, and I ached to go with them where I could drink and smoke—show them that I was still here. But at that moment, dizzy, hungry, and still exhausted, I just needed to lie down.

Time passed quickly over those few days, mostly because I spent the vast majority of it sleeping. My body had been worn out, abused, and now wiped out with Librium. Unless I was
forced to go to a meeting or a meal, for those few days I was a detoxing slug, finally able to just lie down and rest like one of those raindrops on the window of the Russian's car.

My intention hadn't been to be antisocial, but in fact I was. A later review of my records from Gracie Square turned up notes from nurses stating, “She remained depressed and irritable. Stayed in her room most of the time.” When a nurse came by “for 1:1 interaction” she received “superficial smiling.” I was “encouraged to interact with others in the dayroom,” but refused to do so. Apparently, there was bingo.

On Thursday morning, I had my first visit from Annie, a social worker.
Great
, I thought.
Just how many attendants do I appear to need?
I smiled and motioned for Annie to take a seat on the wooden chair at the foot of my bed, as if we were in my office high above Times Square.

Annie was young, maybe in her midtwenties, with rich olive skin and long black hair that she kept pulled back in a low, professional ponytail. Empathy emanated from her warm brown eyes as she smiled with her lips closed and slowly sat down. She carried a clipboard and wore an identification lanyard around her neck. Underneath the clipboard was a folder that appeared to be full of pamphlets.

Right away I envied her. She'd chosen a career in the helping arts. I wondered if doing meaningful work could keep a person safe from the horrors of addiction. If I'd chosen a different career—one that fulfilled me, gave back to the world, brought people happiness—would I have ended up here? Back when I made my career decisions, what fulfilled me was having a nice apartment in the city and a shitload of money to party with.

“So, Lisa,” Annie began, “I'm here to talk with you about what happens after you leave tomorrow. First, though, how are you feeling? Do you feel ready to leave?”

I had developed two positions in my hospital bed: lying on my side in a fetal curve when I was alone, and sitting up hugging my knees when I had to speak to people. What did this body language say about my readiness to leave? I sat up and hugged my knees.

“Yes, I'm ready.”

At that moment, I realized that this was my third consecutive day without a drink. Such a stretch hadn't happened since college when I was trying to lose weight. I didn't know if it was the Librium, but I felt like a different human being, physically. It was as if my insides had been removed, run through a car wash, and then dropped back into my body. I was still shaky but less so. I also noticed that the shooting pains and constant aches were gone, and what I found fascinating was that I couldn't recall when the pains had gone away. But just now in this moment, I realized that I was pain free. For the first time in years, my body felt good. It reminded me of how I felt right after my breast reduction, finally free of the two giant burdens I'd been lugging around. Alcohol had been a similar burden.

“I see that you live in the city,” Annie said, flipping through my file. “Do you live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have family or friends nearby in case you need anything or have any problems when you first get home? A lot of people struggle at the beginning. It's normal.” I wanted to be Annie. She seemed so
good
. Her parents must be proud. Then I thought about my parents at home worrying about me.

“Yes, plenty. And a good friend lives in my building,” I said.

“OK. Good. Dr. Landry recommends that you continue treatment after you leave here. I brought information on several
places you might think about. You'd have to check with your insurance, but it's likely you'd be covered for a full twenty-eight day stay at most of them.”

“Wait, what? What are you talking about? No one said anything about a twenty-eight day anything. I'm not doing that. I have to go back to work on Monday.” I felt a heat rush through my body all the way up into my cheeks and I sat up straight. Could they
make
me go somewhere for twenty-eight days?

Annie looked disappointed but not entirely discouraged. “Well, if you can't go away, there are excellent intensive outpatient programs right here in the city. Most meet five days a week for different amounts of time. I can give you that information, too.” Aha, I wasn't obligated to do anything when I left. I felt back in control, so I became bitchy.

“No, Annie. Did you hear what I said? I have to go back to work
on Monday
. I told them I'd be out for a week having a procedure. I can't all of a sudden say I'm gone for a month or be in and out all the time. I can't tell them what really happened.” I felt the tears welling up in my eyes.

“OK. I understand,” Annie said. “I'll talk to Dr. Landry.”

Immediately I felt bad for being nasty. “Thank you. Just please make sure he understands that I have to go back to work on Monday.”

“I will. I'm going to leave these brochures with you,” she said, handing me a small pile of pastel colored papers that had been folded twice to form rectangular pamphlets. “Just general information on 12-step programs. Help in figuring out what might be right for you and your family.”

I decided to keep my next tirade to myself.
My family? I'm not dragging them any deeper into this! Why can't you people do your jobs in the time we agreed to? What is this, some bullshit system with a hundred “steps” where you all make money
from the same person?
“OK, thanks,” I said. We shook hands and she left.

I stuffed the pamphlets into my bag and climbed under the scratchy sheet to try to nap, but my racing thoughts wouldn't let me sleep. Pamphlets, meetings, twelve steps, happy hours, prescription drugs, tattooed addicts, nosy colleagues, retirement parties, holidays, people watching me for slipups . . . I thrashed around in the bed, my mind swirling. I'd checked into this place on a desperate impulse, and soon I'd have to leave the building and head out into the consequences.