How to Be Perfect Like Me

by Dana Bowman

  Recovery is hard. Recovery, part two, is harder. It felt all repetitious and tedious and fraught with gloomy “What in the world was I thinking?” kinds of feelings. It felt second best. It felt just like Grease 2, in fact, only without the singing and dancing. Sometimes you should just stick with the original.

  I shoved the chips in my pockets and clinked my way into a meeting. As I walked down the long hallway to room 202, the chips seemed to weigh an impossible amount. My sadness and I would have made a really unfortunate entrance if my sagging shorts had dropped down to my ankles as the door swung open. “Hi,” I would sigh. “I relapsed. And now, I can’t wear pants. I’m a mess.”

  My pants stayed on, and I made it in the door. I was greeted with the usual chorus of “Dana! Good to see you!” and waited for the inevitable questions: “Where have you been?” or “You look awful. Do you feel awful? DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING HORRIBLE TO TELL US?”

  No one said anything like that. There were smiles and hugs, and the whole time I had a weird grin plastered on my face and felt like I was Milli Vanilli, preparing for my press conference. I felt like a big, fat fraud.

  The first meeting I attended when I initially got sober terrified me. I sat in a badly decorated room with those weird slogans on the walls, staring at my shoes. I was so uncomfortable and afraid.

  The first guy to speak at that meeting had a spider web tattoo on his skull. Just looking at it made me want to find him a hat. But as he started talking in his soft drawl, I was a goner. This man was me. I could be the girl with the spider tattoo. And it all made sense; I was home. And we all lived happily ever after. Or so I wished.

  Now, I was back at home, feeling like I had robbed the place.

  As my friends spoke and worked their way around the circle, all I could focus on was how many people were left before it was my turn to speak. I had turned into that kid who hates reading aloud in class and can only concentrate on when he’s next. I had tunnel vision and barely listened to the stories. I certainly didn’t have anything to share about that night’s topic. I was mired in me.

  Four speakers away, I contemplated having a sneezing attack and leaving for a tissue.

  Three away, I figured a bathroom break would work. I was feeling pretty queasy.

  Two away, the lady’s story was so completely nutball tragic that I got sidetracked and did find myself listening. It involved something that sounded like it was straight out of the movie Roadhouse, which, if you don’t know, involves Patrick Swayze and a mullet. That kind of stuff just can’t be ignored.

  One down. Totally time to just make a break for it and run.

  And then, it was my turn.

  “Hi, I’m Dana. And I am, most definitely, an alcoholic.”

  When one of my boys tells on the other, his sense of detail is always elaborate if not accurate. There is a lot of gesturing, adverbs, and long, windy sentences that would make Tolstoy proud.

  “And then,” Henry would begin, flinging his arms out toward me like Frankenstein’s monster, “THEN, Charlie TOOK THE TRUCK AWAY.” Next, his hands would wave up and down as he continued, “And, I said, very NICELY, ‘Don’t do that, Charlie. I would prefer that you not do that right now.’ VERY NICELY I SAID THIS TO HIM.” This is paired with some vehement head nodding and waggling of eyebrows like a mini Groucho Marx who had turned informant. “And Charlie? He just WALKED AWAY AND LEFTED ME ALL ALONE.” His right hand would point off to the horizon, and he would place his left hand on his forehead. And all during Henry’s explanation, I would wonder where I could start auditioning him; he could make us some money.

  However, when we tell on ourselves, the drama factor is vastly reduced.

  “I messed up,” I confessed as I stared at my hands. “And I really didn’t want to come here tonight.” I took a breath and forced myself to look around the room at their faces. “This is harder than . . . well, this is the hardest. This is just the hardest. Telling you.”

  Telling my husband had been easy compared to this. I love my husband. But he is a normie, and his ideas about alcoholism and recovery are still at the Little Golden Book level. He just doesn’t get it.

  When I first got sober I used to really hate his lack of understanding, thinking that marriage meant he had to be with me in the trenches, gutting it out with me every step of the sober way. But as time passed and I attended more meetings, I started to realize that asking a nonaddict person to feel all my feelings would be about as possible as socking him in the stomach to help him understand labor pains, which sounds kind of fun but ultimately is not a good plan for building empathy.

  Besides, if anyone ever tells you that marriage means sharing everything because you two are so connected, that’s just bullshit.

  My friends at the meeting sat for a moment, holding their Styrofoam cups and making a lot of healthy eye contact. That’s their thing. And these are my people. These were the beloved weirdos who had sat with me for years in countless meetings, drinking the same horrifying coffee and sharing my life when they told their stories. They had walked me through it from the beginning, offering constant encouragement and listening, and I had totally let them down.

  To my right, Gerry spoke. “First of all, you have not let any of us down.”

  I had somehow made it through my story without ugly sobbing or a bathroom break. In meetings, cross talk, or directly addressing someone else’s story, is often discouraged. It’s not group therapy in the sense that advice is batted around like a Wiffle ball, aiming at specific incidents or tragedies to heal. Cross talk is something newcomers all think will occur because I believe that’s the only way we can wrap our minds around what a twelve-step meeting is. We talk, and then they talk about what we just said, and it’s all about us. However, the truth of a meeting is spoken one person at a time, with only his or her message. Healing happens as we hear ourselves in those stories. And here’s the coolest part: I always hear myself in the voices of the others sitting around that table. Always. And every time, my heart unlocks a little more. What is more powerful than realizing that the guy with the spider web tattoo and a few less teeth than you is your twin? It works.

  So, I was surprised when the meeting goers, one after the other, talked right to me.

  “You didn’t let us down.”

  “You are so brave for speaking up.”

  “You came back. Good for you for coming back. Not all do.”

  “Just keep going forward.”

  “We are so proud of you.”

  I nodded and smiled with tears in my eyes and my love for this group rising in my chest like a great big bubble of gooey feelings. This. Exactly this. This was what I needed to hear.

  And then, Jim spoke.

  “Well. I, for one, don’t really know what in the hell you were thinking. You need to pull your head out of your ass.”

  Well.

  Jim had been attending meetings since the 1800s. He was what I like to think of as “crusty.” Not in the literal sense, because that would be kind of gross and a possible medical issue. Up until now, Jim had been a beloved fixture in our group, telling his stories and often detailing his gruff gratitude for the steps and his sobriety. He was a grumpy old codger, yes, but harmless. I like to think of him as Grumpy Lite, like the beer, but nonalcoholic.

  Until this meeting.

  In this meeting, Jim took me down like napalm.

  Jim proceeded to talk for about five minutes about my failure to take the message seriously and my lack of gratitude. Five minutes is a really long time when you are being scolded up, down, and sideways. I kept thinking Jim might be finished when I heard a long, rather raspy pause, but it seemed he was only taking a breath, gathering more oxygen into his codgery lungs for the next onslaught.

  I believe a proper term for all of this is “dressing down.” It made sense because by the time Jim was done with me, you could hear the last indelicate “pfffffffffft” from my sober balloon, and I was a sad little pile of wet rubber, lying on the floor.


  It was awkward.

  I had not considered this detail in my taking-a-break-from-sobriety plan.

  Sometimes, we go crazy. Britney Spears shaved her head. Sinéad O’Connor ripped that picture of the pope. Mel Gibson behaved horribly on the phone, and Entertainment Tonight was more than willing to broadcast it for all to listen in. In my small corner of the world, I had come back from crazy, and crazy does not sit quietly. In other words, if a crazy tree falls in the forest, you better believe people are going to hear about it.

  It’s what you do after the crazy that matters. Not so many people hear about that. It’s not as loud or interesting or photo-worthy after all.

  When I came back from my relapse, I felt like I had just walked out of a darkened movie theater, blinking at the light after a weeklong horror show. However, as much as the world seemed garish and bright, I’d take it—no need to start liking scary movies now. But still, at times it was a crap sandwich. And Jim was part of that.

  It’s official. I was no longer Super Sobriety Girl.

  Thinking back to New Year’s Day, my family had plans to go to a pancake feed at our church, and as much as I disliked the idea of going, with a pounding head and so much despair, I forced myself to go. Brian was barely speaking to me. My children were pretty oblivious. I was a horror show. But as I sat and managed my way around some carbs and syrup, I looked around. Our church was a group of people whom I loved. And I knew they loved me. If I had decided at that moment to get up on a chair and announce to the whole group, “Hello, my name is Dana, and guess what? I AM A WALKING CRAP SANDWICH,” they would have surrounded me with prayers and hugs.

  That was one message I received after this whole mess. You matter. You are loved. No matter what. All is grace.

  Jim’s message differed: You matter. Listen harder. You are loved. No matter what. And the truth really hurts sometimes.

  And I needed to hear them both.

  It hurt to relinquish my super sobriety cape. I hung it up, right next to the space monkey pajamas, and sat with that hurt for a while. I had forgotten the whole sitting-still part of recovery. “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas” had been on endless repeat in the background of my life for so long, and that’s so not a sitting-still song. But, thankfully, Christmas was done, and New Year’s was over, and Valentine’s season didn’t have quite the social press, so I sat.

  If I were the type to write a holiday letter, that year’s would have been a doozy.

  Hi, folks! Wishing you well from our sweet little town. Brian is doing great, I think. Maybe. Not really sure, actually, because I just assume he’s doing great, and we haven’t had a real conversation since October.

  The boys are also doing great. They seem clueless about a lot of things, and that is so a plus right now. I am all about clueless children at this point. But in general, I’m sure they’re all super smart and super gifted and all, I guess. But really, this letter is all about me, so let’s move on.

  So, lately? I kind of lost my mind and then found it, and here I am. Some would say I’m a shell of a woman, but I don’t think so. In fact, I think the nugget of the real Dana is finally here, unshelled and a little loco, waiting to get her skin back on and live.

  That sounds all sort of creepy and like that no-skin lady from Hellraiser, and nobody wants that in a Christmas letter, so God bless and Merry Christmas. I’ll hopefully be able to have a real conversation with a number of you in the near future. For real. Like, I mean, if you actually tried to talk to me right now, I might sort of stare at you or break into tears. So don’t call me for a while; I’m on sabbatical.

  So, in sum, we’re doing all right. We’re actually doing fine. Finally. And how are you?

  And it is a Happy New Year, considering.

  Sincerely,

  Dana

  I could blame the baby Jesus and his really packed social calendar for my relapse. I could blame the glossy holiday Better House than Yours magazine covers and too much to do while surrounded by sticky little kids. I could go back and blame the genes thing, but I covered that in my first book. I could blame my husband, but he gets so much crap from me anyhow.

  After all is said and done, I can tell you a list of reasons why I relapsed. But, really, I am not exactly sure. All I know is that something clicked or a knob got turned to a different setting, and then there I was, hiding vodka in the stupid closet again.

  I relapsed because I’m an alcoholic. That’s all.

  Not all of us do, but if you’re lucky enough to come back from one, you better make it count. Or there might not be any more whack-job Christmas letters to mail out in the future.

  New Year’s Resolutions from Here On

  1.Be kind to yourself.

  2.Be kind to others.

  3.This includes pets, husbands, and people who drive slowly in the left lane.

  4.The end.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HOW TO

  live a rich

  AND

  fulfilling life

  Long ago, in my early thirties, I decided to stop waiting for a husband to show up who would travel with me on vacations. This was a slot in my life that had not yet been filled because for some reason I had decided that traveling to a fun place solely for fun reasons entailed a male escort. That didn’t sound quite right, but you know what I mean.

  Anyway, I got tired of waiting for my world to open up through the bliss that is marriage, and I booked my own darn vacation. This was the real deal. Choosing my adventure involved hours of internet research, and this was before TripAdvisor existed. The destination I chose also meant a pretty solid price tag, but I saw City Slickers in my twenties, so I was all in.

  I booked a week at a dude ranch. It had been nearly twenty years since I had been on a horse, but it seemed so romantic. The big mountains. The big horses. The big blue skies. All the big things.

  When one books a trip to a dude ranch in Wyoming, amongst horses, mountains, and real, actual dudes, it is extremely important to have the right cowboy hat. So, of course, I ordered mine online from Urban Outfitters.

  The hat came in the mail about a week before my trip, and I placed it carefully on my head and analyzed my level of “dude” in the mirror. It was a slouchy-brimmed monstrosity that would have looked perfect on Dwight Yoakam, or perhaps one of those Coyote Ugly girls. It was huge and slipped down over my ears. I seemed to have ordered the “extra-large hat oozing coolness.”

  No matter how the hat fit, it was an essential part of my trip. I shoved it in my suitcase and hoped it wouldn’t end up flattened because that would mean the coolness had sprung a leak. I thought of it as a lid that kept the contents inside and thus proved that those contents fit in the world around it.

  So, I zipped up my suitcase and left on a plane to Wyoming. As I flew over the mountains as wide and high as God’s footprints, I hugged my arms tight to my chest. Dude ranches were for families. They were for romantic getaways. They were, maybe, for groups of men who wanted to fly-fish and do other rugged things. When I felt the plane dip under the clouds and start its descent, I started to wonder whether maybe, just maybe, dude ranches were not for a single woman in her mid-thirties. I started to wonder if perhaps I might look a little bit silly.

  The first morning there, I pulled on jeans, cowboy boots, and a flannel shirt. I looked in the mirror and took a deep breath and pulled the hat down over my ears. I felt ridiculous. And then, as I walked down to the stables to meet up with the other guests, a wiry fellow fell in step beside me. He was about my height, and the best word I can use to describe him is dusty. He too had a hat and boots and looked like he had been born that way, boots on and all, unfortunately for his mama. I smiled at him nervously, trying to look like my whole outfit was not brand-new. I wanted so badly to give the impression that I simply sauntered through things in my life. In fact, I didn’t want to just saunter; I wanted to walk like this cowboy at my side.

  I wanted to amble.

  I wanted to wear a cowboy hat and not loo
k like I was posing for a tintype photo at a souvenir shop in Branson. This was the story of my extreme, painful, and totally out-of-proportion self-aware story: I was SO self-aware that it seemed like my environment was constantly pinging up against me like judgmental sonar. I was a self-aware submarine of neuroses, and putting on a cowboy hat only accessorized them.

  The cowboy at my side made twangy small talk. He asked me where I was from and whom I was with, and I told him I was from the Midwest and single. He broke stride for a moment, glanced at me, and asked, “You’re here by yourself?” This would be the first of the twenty or more times this question would be lobbed at me during the trip, to which I would always reply with the fascinating answer of “Yes.”

  As we all met down by the corral, I managed to hoist myself up onto the fencing without hurting anything. I perched there—all calm and cool—like sitting on fence posts was totally what I did all the time back home. Then, the dusty cowboy looked up at me and said, “That’s quite a hat you have there. You gotta extra-large head?”

  Up until then, I had actually liked Mr. Hat Expert Cowboy Dude. No longer. He was dead to me.

  The dude ranch experience ended up being an exhilarating trip. All week I rode a Paint Horse with the stunningly accurate name of Bucky. Bucky had a rather delicate disposition, it seemed, which manifested in a strong distaste for getting his hooves wet; therefore, he would gather himself and spring over each creek crossing—something Mr. Hat Expert Cowboy Dude failed to warn me about on our first ride. The thing with Wyoming is that a large number of its creeks are really creeky, and the landscape consists of craggy rocks and cliffs, so pretty much any time that I got onto Bucky I was praying for dear life.

  As the week progressed, I learned to love Bucky and all his springing about. I loved Wyoming with its big skies (Montana stole the tagline) and rocky mountains high (popularized by John Denver) and really tall cowboys (minus my short antifriend cowboy). I ate great meals and made some good friends that I swore I would keep in touch with forever and then never saw or talked to again. It was awesome.