[Tuesday, December 23]
Charlie and Max got home from the Hanukkah party around eleven last night. There was a plate loaded with Hanukkah dinner that Liv had made up for me in the refrigerator and a plate of Hanukkah cookies on the kitchen counter.
“We had a great time,” Charlie said.
“Good,” I said.
“The kids played dreidel, we read the Hanukkah story, lit candles, opened presents,” Charlie rattled off. “The kids played like crazy and the adults ate and drank like crazy.”
“Liv tap danced,” Max said. “She put on her tap shoes and went to town. Seth was embarrassed.”
“What about Reed?” I asked.
“He was going like this,” Max said. Max rolled his eyes and looked away.
“Yeah, I can picture it,” I said. “But Liv’s a pretty good tap dancer.”
“Did you ever tap dance?” Max asked. “Oh, wait, Nana didn’t let you dance.”
“Nope, couldn’t dance,” I said. “Adventists don’t dance. It’s one of their rules. I wanted to take ballet, and I’d put classical music on and dance around the house once in a while, but that was it.”
Max frowned. “That Nana.”
“It was a great party,” Charlie said again. “A lot of fun, great food. There’s a plate for you.”
“I saw it,” I said irritably. I was thinking, I’m so glad you had a great time with the friends I made, the chopped liver and gefilte fish I ran to Skokie to purchase, and the presents I shopped for and wrapped.
I went to a meeting later, and during my drive back home, decided to celebrate my upcoming fortieth birthday with a yoga party for my girlfriends. Surprisingly, I’ve been feeling happy about turning forty. I look young, I’m in good shape, and I’m grateful to have lived this long. Life is good. However, I’m not sure I should mingle my sober friends with my nonsober friends. On one hand, I think it would be interesting, but on the other hand, the “How-do-you-know-Brenda?” question is sure to come up.
I began making scalloped potatoes and pumpkin crème brulee for Christmas Eve dinner. I scalded the milk and cream, placed ramekins of liquid crème brulee into a roasting pan half full of water, and slid it into the oven. I started thinking about what Renee had said at the meeting earlier.
“I don’t know when it happened, but I don’t feel weird anymore,” Renee said. “I don’t feel like a freak lurking on the fringe of things. I can participate in everything and have a good time.”
That’s how I feel. Renee and I got sober about the same time. Maybe it takes a year for life to feel normal again.
Tracy had said, “I have to babysit my personality. I spend a lot of time every day trying to have the right thoughts and the right responses. About the only time I’m not working on it is when I’m grocery shopping—and God help me if someone bumps my cart.”
I thought about the time a guy cut me off while I was driving and I yelled, “Douche bag!” with Van in the back seat of my car. A couple of minutes later, Van sweetly repeated, “Douche … bag?”
Charlie walked into the kitchen. “I’m going to bed,” he said.
“I’ve been home with sick kids for weeks and working my tail off to get ready for Christmas,” I complained.
“I was going to take Max to open soccer tomorrow,” Charlie said. “Why don’t you take him instead, get out of the house?”
“Are you insane?” I shouted. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. People are coming over at three. I’ll be busting my ass. Like hell. You’re taking Max to soccer.”
I was proud of myself for not calling Charlie a douche bag.
[Wednesday, December 24]
My plan was to have dinner cooked by three, leave the food warming in the oven, take everyone to church for the four o’clock Christmas Eve service, come home, eat, open presents, and have dessert. Thank God Van has been feeling good and fever free for twenty-four hours. Paula and her family and my parents arrived, and everyone but my father was dressed for church. My dad was wearing corduroy pants, a flannel shirt, and moccasins.
“I’m not going to church,” he snickered and poured himself a stiff Maker’s Mark. “I’m gonna stay here and take a nap.”
I looked at him and shrugged.
“I’ve been hunting since five this morning,” he added.
I put my mother’s food in the oven to warm and set my sister’s appetizers aside. As we were getting ready to leave for church, I saw my father eyeing Charlie and Max in their suits and ties.
“Looks like Brenda’s got her men in line,” he sneered.
“Yep,” Charlie said cheerfully.
“If I’d known everyone was going to be wearing a tie, I would have worn one, too,” my dad said, looking guilty and left out. He walked into the TV room and lay down on the couch. “Why don’t you leave Van here with me?”
“Van wants to go to church,” I said. “They have a fun kids’ room at church and he’s looking forward to bringing Riley there.”
“You want to stay home with Papa?” my dad asked Van.
“No, I’m going with Riley,” Van said.
My father shrugged and took a belt of his drink.
After the service, my sister began serving appetizers. I took the food out of the oven and began grilling the fish. My father started teasing Riley. He took away the blanket that Riley drags around like Linus.
“Give that back!” Van yelled, sticking up for his cousin.
“I’ll give it back if you come over here and give me hugs,” my father told Van and Riley. Van and Riley wouldn’t hug him and my dad stomped out of the TV room and poured himself another stiff drink in the kitchen.
“I don’t even know why I’m here,” my dad shouted. “The kids don’t want anything to do with me. The only one who’s my buddy is Max. He’s the only one who’s going to keep getting the tree houses and motor scooters!”
My sister and I made Van and Riley hug their jackass of a grandfather and things calmed down. The rest of Christmas Eve was fine.
After my family left and the kids went to bed, I wrapped my last few presents and stuck them under the tree. I wasn’t drunk and tired. I wasn’t going to lie down on the couch, pass out, and wake up at two in the morning with White Christmas blaring from the TV. It felt good.
[Thursday, December 25]
I woke up Christmas morning without a hangover. Charlie got me the watch I wanted, in blue. It’s beautiful. I’m glad it wasn’t the pink one. He also got me a laptop computer and a wireless keyboard and mouse. He really outdid himself. It’s the first time Charlie got me big presents for Christmas. We never buy each other big-ticket items. I felt guilty for under gifting. I gave Charlie a pair of Nikes, an Under Armor gym bag, a package of sexy underwear, and two travel coffee mugs.
After breakfast, I checked email. My editor at the Chicago Reader loves my Healing Rooms story. Cool. We went to Charlie’s brother’s house in the afternoon and spent the holiday with Charlie’s family. Not once did I want a drink. It was a great day.
[Friday, December 26]
“When you tell people you’re an alcoholic, it’s the type of thing people don’t forget,” Brent said at the meeting. “It’s like saying, ‘I murdered someone.’”
“No,” Jane disagreed. “People forget all the time. People I’ve told still offer me drinks. It’s really not that big of a deal. It’s more in your mind than anyone else’s.”
“It’s all about you, Brent!” Gwen shouted. “It’s all about you!”
“Shut up, Gwen, and do us all a favor,” Brent retorted.
Gwen, not the least bit rattled, began her comments: “When I got sober, I announced it to the world. The first words out of my mouth when I met someone were, ‘Hi, I’m Gwen, and I’m an alcoholic in recovery.’ Eventually, a friend pulled me aside at a party and told me to stop it, it was embarrassing. But it was such a release.”
Brent looked at me and rolled his eyes.
A middle-aged guy said, “My boss was on the cover of Par
ade magazine as the subject of a story on depression. Now everyone knows she battles with depression and takes medication for it, but she’s hugely respected. On the other hand, that story opened the door for another woman I work with to start telling people about her depression, and oh my God, the stuff she tells you. When I see her coming I run the other way.”
After the meeting, I told Brent about the yoga party I’m going to throw for my birthday and asked him what he thought about mixing sober and nonsober friends.
“If you get a bunch of recovering alcoholics together, they’re going to talk about recovery,” Brent said. “They can’t help it. The cat will be out of the bag.”
“Maybe I’ll just invite my normal friends, if you can call anyone normal,” I sighed.
[Saturday, December 27]
Today, I haven’t had a drink in one year. That blows me away. I didn’t want to quit forever. In the back of my mind, I planned on taking a nice long break, maybe a year, but I didn’t think I’d last this long. I looked at sobering up as an adventure, something new and different to do, a journey into self-awareness, and it’s been that and a lot more. I’m happier, more useful. I feel better physically, mentally, and spiritually. I don’t want my drinking life back. I hope I can stay sober.
[Wednesday, December 31]
I took Max to a soccer tournament and ran into Kelly at the complex.
“Hey Bren, what are you doing here?” she asked.
“What do you think?” I answered, sounding more snotty than I wanted to. It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’ve had a bug up my butt because Kelly didn’t invite me to her annual New Year’s Eve party.
“What are you doing for New Year’s?” Kelly asked.
“Nothing,” I said, sounding defiant.
“Isn’t it great?” Kelly said. “I’m looking forward to doing nothing. I had that Christmas party and decided that was it.”
“I kinda figured,” I lied.
“I’ve gotten calls from people wondering if I’m having a party,” Kelly said. “I wonder if people are mad at me thinking I’m blowing them off?”
“Maybe,” I said, suddenly feeling bad.
Kelly left, and I felt petty and small. Damn it. I’m no better than she is when it comes to juvenile jealousy.
Charlie and I took the kids out for a New Year’s Eve dinner. Later, we watched the New Year’s countdown on TV. I felt lame and unpopular. As I watched the sweaty, pie-eyed people shouting “Woo, woo,” from downtown bars, I started feeling superior. I’m glad I’m not one of those people.
[Thursday, January 1]
I woke up without a hangover.
[Saturday, January 3]
Max and I worked in a soup kitchen in the basement of a church. Max handed out cafeteria trays and I dished out salad. Most of the clients were homeless men, and I was amazed at how few of them wanted vegetables.
“How about some salad?” I’d ask. “It’s good for you.”
The men would shake their heads, raise a hand over their plates, and grab lunch meat and cheap white bread. A few women filtered in and, toward the end, a family of five came in for dinner. Max handed the family trays. One of the boys was about Max’s age, and Max watched him closely. On our way out, as Max and I walked to our car, Max looked troubled.
“How do people become homeless?” he asked.
“Lots of ways,” I said. “Some people are mentally ill and can’t support themselves. Some are alcoholics and drug addicts. Sometimes families get in trouble when the dad or mom gets sick and can’t work. They run out of money. The family you saw tonight is having tough times.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Max said.
I hugged Max and kissed the top of his head.
[Sunday, January 4]
I compiled the notes I’d written during previous attempts to do my Fourth Step: “Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” Then I did my Fourth Step. I listed everyone I resent, my bad behavior toward them, and categorized my fears under those resentments. Every resentment, supposedly, is based in fear. I used to think that was a crock of shit until someone explained that fear falls into two categories: fear of something I have being taken away, or fear of not getting what I want. The people I resent are my mother, my sister, and Charlie. And now that I’ve looked at my bad behavior toward them and the fear behind my behavior, I’m going to have to make amends to them. Not looking forward to that.
[Saturday, January 10]
I feel like an enormous baby. I did my Fifth Step with Sara, “Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs,” and blubbered most of the way through it.
“You have a lot of work to do where your mother is concerned,” Sara told me. “You can start by praying for her health, happiness, and prosperity every day.” She gave me the same advice for my sister.
“I think it’s strange that your father isn’t on your resentment list,” Sara added.
“My father and I scream at each other, make up, and move on,” I said. “We say what we want to say to each other and apologize when necessary. I don’t have resentment with him. With my mother, sister, and Charlie, I don’t have full-out honesty. I’ve held a lot in.”
“You’re ready to do your Sixth and Seventh Steps,” Sara said.
In bed, I read the Sixth and Seventh Steps. Step Six: “Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.” Well, I’m not entirely ready. Some of my defects, such as stretching the truth here and there, have served me well. It scares me, the thought of turning my defects over to God. Manipulating situations has felt necessary. I don’t know if I’ll ever be entirely ready to do this. Just the other day, I stole a bisque-colored handle off a toilet at the hardware store because the handle on the toilet they sold me a couple of years ago broke. I felt guilty about it, but damn it, they’d sold me a faulty product and I’d have to jump through hoops to get the right handle the right way.
Step Seven: “Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.” An old man once told me, “If you’re not willing to have God remove your defects of character, be willing to be willing. That’s the place to start. Being willing to be willing will get you far.” I closed my eyes and prayed, “God, I’m willing to be willing. And please take things slow with me. I don’t think I can handle a drastic change. But I’m willing to be willing. Amen.” I opened my eyes and felt relief, peace, and happiness.
I read Step Eight: “Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.” I’d listed the people I’d harmed during my Fourth Step, and I’m willing to make amends to them. I read Step Nine: “Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.” I’ll have to discuss this with Sara.
[Sunday, January 11]
I went to a yoga/meditation class this morning and saw Vivian there. She and I went out for coffee afterward.
“Nancy disappeared for seven days right before Christmas,” she told me.
Nancy, Vivian’s seventeen-year-old daughter, has been in recovery for almost two years.
“No,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach.
“Yeah,” Vivian said. “She went on a coke binge with a girlfriend and two guys. Right before Christmas, Nancy saw her stepbrother, my husband’s oldest son. He sexually abused Nancy when she was younger and seeing him again whacked her out. I’m going crazy. My ex-husband, Nancy’s dad, called and told me, ‘Nancy wants me to meet her and bring seven hundred dollars to a pancake house because she owes some really bad people money.’”
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“She just wanted the money for drugs,” Vivian said. “I told him not to bring the money, that I’d meet him at the pancake house. I pulled into a parking space way in the back of the parking lot and waited. I watched Nancy park and walk into the restaurant where my ex was waiting. As soon as Nancy was inside, a girl and two guys got out of her car and started cleaning i
t out, throwing stuff in the garbage Dumpster. I called the police. As soon as the police showed up, I got out of my car and started confronting Nancy’s friends. ‘What are you throwing out, drugs? Officers, you have my permission to search this car. It’s my car. I know this girl, but I don’t know these two guys. I bet they’re over eighteen and have been aiding and abetting a seventeen-year-old minor I reported missing a week ago.’ While the cops were dealing with those three, I walked into the restaurant. Nancy’s face fell when she saw me. I told her, ‘You’re getting in my car, going to the hospital, getting drug tested, and going into treatment.’ That’s where she is now, in treatment.”
“Oh Vivian, I’m so sorry,” I said.
“I’m thinking we should take a meeting to her,” Vivian said. “Will you go with me?”
“Yeah.”
[Tuesday, January 13]
The phone rang. It was Vivian.
“Hey, you want to take a meeting to Nancy tonight?” she asked. “I already asked Darcy and she said yes.”
“Count me in,” I said.
Vivian picked me up after dinner. Darcy was already in the car. We drove to the treatment facility and Vivian parked and turned around in her seat. “Nancy got into trouble,” she said. “She lost all of her privileges.”
“What happened?” Darcy asked.
“She got some stupid tattoo, her boyfriend’s name on her right shoulder blade,” Vivian said. “Getting tattooed in here is against the rules. She got in trouble for that, then narced on the girl who gave her the tattoo, then got into a fight with her.”
Vivian got out of the car. Darcy and I stared at each other, then followed Vivian into the facility. Nancy was sitting in the waiting area. An obese white girl with skinny blond braids all over her huge, round head stomped over. She was wearing athletic pants with one pant leg pushed up over her thick, dimpled knee. A gang thing.
Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife Page 31