Girl Walks Out of a Bar

by Lisa F. Smith

  “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.

  My Librium dosage was tapered in preparation for my release the next day. I would get my final dose on Friday morning, meet with Dr. Landry, and then be handed over to my family for reintroduction to the outside world. I agreed to continue taking the Lexapro indefinitely. I liked Dr. Landry’s explanation: I had a chemical imbalance in my brain that drove my depression and anxiety. For decades I’d been self-medicating—numbing it with alcohol and cocaine—but that had made my condition much worse. That was the story, and now I was supposed to start treating my mental imbalance with the right medication. It sounded simple enough.

  When Friday morning arrived, I went through my final appointed rounds of breakfast, physical exam, and meds line. At about ten o’clock Dr. Landry appeared in my doorway. “Did you know your parents and brother have been waiting in the lobby for about a half hour?” he asked.

  “No, but that sounds right,” I said, smiling.

  “They’ve been very supportive. That’s good. Let them help you.”

  “I will,” I said. My mother’s idea of help would be snatching a drink out of my hand as if I were a four-year-old trying to lick rat poison. My father and brother would be more subtle. They’d talk about work—my successes, my goals—and then they’d offer to bring me hot tea and fruit smoothies.

  I saw my discharge papers on Dr. Landry’s clipboard. Sitting across desks from partners in a law firm for years had taught me to read upside down. I saw the diagnosis of “Major Depressive Disorder” and a prescription for Lexapro.

  “So, how are you feeling? Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

  “Yes. Ready to leave,” I said. I patted the packed and zipped duffle bag at my feet to confirm it.

  “Annie tells me that you’re refusing to go to a twenty-eight-day program from here. Or even a daily intensive outpatient program. I had hoped that after our talk you would understand the critical importance of immediate, focused aftercare.”

  “I do understand,” I said. “I didn’t say that I wasn’t willing to do anything. I just have to go back to work on Monday. They don’t know where I am and I can’t let them know.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “You told me that you spend a significant amount of your time at work. Don’t you think it will be better if the people you’re with every day know that you’re in the earliest stages of recovery? There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a disease, not a personal failing.”

  “Yeah, I get that, but no. It’s not OK in a big law firm. We talk about alcoholics behind their backs.” His expression didn’t change, but I still felt like a jerk. “I know that sounds bad, but … well, nobody cares if it’s a disease. It’s considered a weakness, and they always find a way to cut the weak from the herd. I’ll come clean anywhere but at work.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but Lisa, that’s just wrong,” he said. “The only way you’re going to get healthy and stay sober is if you start to live your life honestly. Lying to the people you spend the most time with is not the way to do it.” I was pretty sure that my expression didn’t change. “Do you want to stay sober, Lisa?”

  “Yes. I think I do. I feel a lot better, and I’d like to not drink for a while at least. And see what happens.” Did he have any idea what “staying sober” was going to do to my life? I couldn’t promise him forever, but I could promise him for now.

  “Well then, you really need to attend an outpatient program that meets two or three times a week in the evenings. Is that something you’d consider?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m happy to do that,” I said.

  “I must tell you, Lisa, if you want to stay sober out there, you’re going to have to work really hard. It will be the most difficult thing you’ve ever done. Right now, your sobriety couldn’t be more fragile. And you haven’t even been away for the recommended twenty-eight days. You should do more than the outpatient program a couple of nights a week. You really should go to 12-step meetings every day.”

  Meetings. Every day. You’re killin’ me, Doc. “OK,” I lied. “I’ll do that.”

  It was my fourth day without an unprescribed substance in my body. My hair hadn’t been washed in over a week and my face was covered in an oil film, but I felt ten years younger. Still, daily 12-step meetings? This had been a huge week, and I needed a break from all this crap. I just wanted my life back.

  “Good. I’m glad you’ll attend meetings. What you’re doing isn’t the best next step or what I would recommend, but if you commit to sobriety and take the suggestions you’re given, you’ll be able to do it, one day at a time,” he said. “Just remember there’s always support out there. I’ll set you up for a Monday morning appointment at HopeCare, the outpatient rehab facility. You can go back to work Tuesday.”

  He handed me the forms I needed to sign for official release. I decided not to fight him on going to HopeCare on Monday. I had one foot out the door and didn’t want to blow it.

  Ashley showed up as I was signing the last documents. Then Dr. Landry shook my hand. “Good luck, Lisa. We’re here if you need us.” Please God no, I thought.

  “Thank you for everything. I really appreciate it,” I said, trying to look like a mature, sober person.

  Ashley gave me copies of the forms and all of the contraband that Vivian had confiscated when I arrived. The sight of the gold and white Marlboro Lights pack sent an adrenaline surge through my body. No one had said I couldn’t smoke when I got out of here. But wait, what did that mean the sight of a bottle of Yellow Tail was going to do to me?

  “OK! Let’s go downstairs and see your family,” Ashley said.

  Before I followed her, I took a hard look at my room, the nurses’ station, and everything else I could see on the floor. Maybe if I seared the memory of it into my brain, I could bring the worst images to mind every time I thought about having a drink or a line of coke. Take a deep breath, I thought. What have you learned here?

  I thought that I could control my drinking by myself. I was wrong.

  I believed that the alcoholic way I was living was just “who I was.” I was wrong.

  I believed that I would never consider quitting drinking entirely. I was wrong.

  The week gave me hope, but walking past those hospital doors and back into the wild city was going to make me feel like a lamb on the Serengeti. I no longer felt like the ass-kicking corporate lawyer who looked a CEO in the eyes while firmly shaking hands or the independent New York broad who would wal
k twenty blocks alone at 3:00 a.m. I felt frail, like someone who’s just survived a vicious round of stomach flu, and nothing sounded more comforting than sliding back onto my barstool at Kenny’s and dialing Henry.

  19

  As soon as Ashley and I made it down to the lobby, my mother rushed me with a bear hug. The intensity of it reminded me of when she would nearly tackle me at the Newark Airport when I came home during college breaks.

  For several seconds, she held me with both hands at a “let me look at you” length, and then she hugged me again. Without a bloodstream full of booze, I found the scent of her cologne comforting. A week earlier it would have been nauseating.

  As was his custom, my dad gave me a peck of a kiss and rubbed my head. I thought I could see relief behind his eyeglasses, as if all was better now that I was in their custody. After Lou hugged me and kissed my cheek, he nodded at my dad, as if to say, “We’re OK.” I sprouted more tears, this time at the memory of how I turned a car around for coke on the day my brother’s baby was born.

  This was awkward. I was a successful, independent thirty-eight-year-old woman, and my parents were retrieving me from a locked down psychiatric ward. Was there etiquette to govern such an occasion? Should I apologize? Make a joke? Should I tell them about the merits of the Asian floor relative to the detox floor? I didn’t know so I stayed quiet.

  “You look good, kid,” my dad said, nodding.

  “Good one, Dad,” I said. “But thanks. I actually feel pretty good.”

  The four of us walked out the front door of Gracie Square into the sunny April morning. I was wearing the same grubby jeans and sweater as when I walked in Monday night. Having not seen the sun, the moon, or anything else outdoors since Monday, I turned my face toward the light. The day was cool, but the sun shot a bolt of warmth through my body.

  As we walked up the block toward the car, my mother linked her arm through mine. “So, your father got the tuna fish from Ronnie’s and a fresh pumpernickel rye bagel for you. Does that sound good? You’ll stay until Sunday?”