Girl Walks Out of a Bar

by Lisa F. Smith

  As they left, I started crying harder, heavy with guilt as I pictured them driving back to New Jersey. Then I was asleep again before the tears could dry on the pillow.

  I woke up on Wednesday to Jane and her blood pressure contraption. “Do you feel better yet, Lisa? You have a busy day today. The doctor will check you after breakfast. Then you’ll go to the meeting on the third floor,” she said.

  “Meeting? What are you talking about?” I was trying to sit up straight in the bed without a headboard.

  “Twelllve Stepsss!” she sang. “You’re still a detox patient. You cried your way up to this floor, but you’re still a detox patient. Meeting at ten thirty on the third floor.”

  “No, no,” I shook my head and laughed. “I didn’t sign up for any 12-step program. I’m just doing the detox to get clean. I can explain it to the doctor.”

  Jane tipped her head back and let out a full, heavy laugh. “Ha! That’s not how it works. If you come here for detox, you go to meetings on the third floor every day. I don’t think you’ll get out of that one with the doctor.”

  After breakfast, the doctor on duty confirmed my fear. “Every patient being treated for substance abuse is required to go to 12-step meetings.” He spoke respectfully, but I couldn’t help but feel he wanted to end his statement with, “Duh!” He added, “This is not negotiable.”

  “I don’t like those programs,” I protested. “They seem, I don’t know… creepy, like some religious thing … or you know—culty.” Thanks to the Librium, I no longer sounded like a lawyer. I sounded more like a gauzy-headed girl on her third day at Woodstock.

  “Come on, Lisa,” he said. “Where else are you going today? Take a shower. You’ll feel better. Then just go sit there. You don’t have to say anything. Just sit and listen. Who knows? You might hear something interesting.”

  That was tough to argue with. I rolled my eyes. “OK, OK.” Jane winked at me and smiled as she led me back to my room. The Librium had made me feel dramatically better than the day before, but I still wished that I’d find a pint of vodka between the mattress and the bedspring, left behind by the last patient in my room. I wanted a drink very badly. How was I supposed to go to a 12-step meeting without drinking?

  The doctor had been right about the shower part. I smelled like a high school football player after a summer practice—if he’d then rolled in a dumpster shared by a cheese shop and a chemical plant. I figured it was mass amounts of toxins finally seeping from my long-suffering body. The lack of light in the bathroom was a blessing because I was sure that dark and furry things were growing on the walls. Unfortunately, neither Devon, the most hygienic person I knew, nor I had thought of flip-flops for the shower when packing. We thought we were packing for a spa rehab where Robert Downey Jr. would give me a sponge bath and then Ben Affleck would wrap me in a warm towel.

  To make the shower bearable, I pretended I had just seen a janitor scrub the floor, then I took the fastest shower of my life and dried off with a stained and dingy sandpaper towel.

  Ashley took me to the meeting in the day room on the detox floor. The Librium had knocked me back to a slow shuffle, so we were a little late. About thirty pink plastic chairs formed a circle and almost every one had a patient already planted in it. I settled into one of the few empty chairs and was grateful not to see the guy who had threatened to fuck me up.

  A short Latino man with thick, black hair and a thick, black mustache lectured sternly at the front of the room. Wearing a tan, button-down shirt tucked into jeans, he paced back and forth and waved his arms as he spoke. “Man, you keep this shit up, you ain’t gonna be so lucky next time to end up in here. You’re gonna end up with your ass in jail or lying dead in the street. That’s what’s gonna happen to you, man. This shit ain’t funny. If you ain’t lost ’em already, you’re gonna lose your job, your house, your car, your family, and your whole life. This shit ain’t funny. Do not laugh. I am serious.”

  As his words banged around in my head I became scared and mesmerized at the same time. He was passionate, he was firm, and he was right. Holy shit, he was right. If I got lucky enough next time and didn’t kill myself or land in jail, I would be right back in rehab. I couldn’t stop drinking without help and if I didn’t stop drinking, I’d lose my job and alienate everyone I loved. I rocked my head back and rubbed my face with my hands. Dr. Landry was right. This guy was right. If I didn’t clean myself up I was fucked.

  I surveyed the detox crowd. There were more tattoos than teeth in the room, but almost every one of the guys wore expensive running shoes. The group included people of all ages, sizes, and colors—about twice as many men as women. Some of the people might have been in their teens while others clearly qualified for social security. Stripped down to sweatpants and hospital robes and slouched in their chairs, they looked like a bunch of pissed off delinquents sentenced to detention.

  It was obvious that most of these people were not here by choice. I doubted that any of them had awakened one morning in a beautiful apartment and realized that they simply couldn’t go to their six-figure jobs that day. The vast majority of them had probably been arrested and thrown in here or dragged in under protest by weary loved ones who prayed that this time it would stick. Maybe some of them had been signed in under threat of being fired.

  On the wall directly across from me was the detox unit’s equivalent to the white schedule board. Across the top of it, in big, green Magic Marker capital letters, it read: “GET UP. GET DRESSED. GET WITH THE PROGRAM.” It looked like the only thing on the board that wasn’t erased or updated each day. This was a permanent command.

  The Latino lecturer went on, getting louder. “You do not pick up, no matter what. That’s it. I am serious. It is the one rule. If you pick up, you will lose everything. I was in your chair. I don’t ever want to ever sit in it again. That’s why I do not pick up no matter what. My life today is real good. When I was using, I had nothing, inside or out. If I pick up, I go right back to what I had before and worse. Believe it. YOU DO NOT PICK UP NO MATTER WHAT.”

  OK, geez, I thought. I get the idea: “pick up” means to start using again, and you don’t do it “no matter what!”

  What if I gave all this 12-step thinking a shot? This guy was saying—proclaiming, actually—that his life sober was better than ever, not worse. Could that be true? He certainly seemed genuine. And what would be the reason to try to sell us bullshit? Maybe I should view “Get up, get dressed, and get with the program,” as a challenge, I thought. I’m nothing if not competitive. I was already pretty good at the first two out of three.

  At the end of the meeting, I started toward the door when everyone began to join hands around the circle. Did I have to join hands? Was the soap in my bathroom antibacterial? The man to my left looked to be about three hundred pounds and wore a pastel, floral housedress. I was too busy staring at him with a slack Librium jaw to notice whoever was on my right. Oh well, what the fuck. We all joined hands and bowed our heads and they chanted some kind of prayer.

  Dr. Landry came by shortly after lunch. I was curled up in bed, half-asleep. He stood in the doorway, folder in hand. He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and then adjusted his glasses,

  “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 d
ay. 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 nondrinking 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 the
y 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.