Drunk Mom

by Jowita Bydlowska

  In my sobriety, I’ve made new friends. Those friends, they never knew of the old me snorting mysterious white powder I found on the bathroom floor in a fetish club. Or about burning a hole in an already-infected burned hole in my leg with a cigarette. Or about coming to, naked, with someone’s hand around my neck. I didn’t share those stories. So my relapse is a big secret, something that I haven’t disclosed to any of my new friends because of my shame that it happened.

  I wonder if my doctor ever did anything like that—like drinking. Has she ever worried about any weird behaviour she engaged in? Did she perhaps go through a tranquillizer stage back in medical school? Morphine? Amphetamines? In medical school, was there an anesthesiologist friend who would organize clinical-death sessions so that people could experience the afterlife, and was she a member of that club?

  But there is no way to tell if my doctor has a dark story. She’s so organized. She has not misplaced my files, ever. Her pretty blouses and pretty hair are always neatly ironed or draped perfectly over her slim body; she smiles a lot. I’ve never seen her in green scrubs.

  She asks me how often.

  How often do I drink?

  Yes. Every day? A couple times a week?

  What is a reasonable amount? I don’t say this out loud. I don’t drink every day. Every other day. Well, no more than six days a week.

  I lie: Maybe once a week.

  How many drinks?

  Maybe two.

  Two?

  Two or three.

  So two or three?

  Sometimes three. But usually two. Two glasses of wine. Sometimes two beers.

  She writes it all down. Looks up. Three?

  Three at the most.

  How are you doing? How are things with your boyfriend?

  Okay lately, I say, and consider now my almost sober week when the boyfriend was away. Okay.

  And before that? How are things with you in general?

  In general, I am exhausted. Running on a few hours of sleep, I spend my days always trying to stay out of the house, walking endlessly or, alternatively, hogging coffee-shop spaces with my stroller caravan for hours.

  I spend money, too, eating ridiculously expensive lunches in restaurants with a metal-and-glass aesthetic, or shopping. I buy lots of stupid shit I don’t need. Like fake eyelashes or decorative masks. Wigs and authentic pointe shoes.

  I carry the stroller into subway stations, push it through walking crowds.

  I change the baby’s diapers on dozens of bathroom floors, breastfeed on top of recycled cardboard.

  I stay out because I can’t stay in one place. Because I’m running away and because I’m chasing something too.

  At the end of every day, I walk into liquor stores and pick something up for later on, after the baby is asleep, and after the formula is prepared for his nightly feeding.

  I feel safer at night. Even though at night is when I drink. At night, I am home.

  Most nights I stay up watching TV. Most nights I drink while watching TV. Some nights it just seems as if I am not there at all. I am somewhere on the bottom of a lake and my boyfriend’s face is barely visible above the surface, maybe calling my name, maybe telling me that he hates me.

  Not so good, I tell the doctor. But we’re managing.

  Does he know you drink?

  He does. He was the one who told me to tell you.

  Is there alcohol in the house?

  There is.

  You have to get rid of it. Alcoholism is a family disease, she recites.

  It is?

  Of course.

  I promise my doctor that I will tell the boyfriend to get rid of it. I also promise that I will see Bobby, the social worker at the clinic, to talk to him about my struggles.

  A realization comes over me: My problem is barely my problem now—there are more and more people getting involved and we’re all going to make me stop drinking.

  I stand up. It is time to go.

  In my head, a map of the nearest intersection pops right up. I quickly zoom out and move above the clinic. If right now I am at point A on the map, the clinic, there are two destination points, B and C, nearby. The one closer to me is about five hundred metres away from where I am standing. B for the beer store.

  It is the one farther west, C, the liquor store, that interests me. A good twenty-minute walk, but it is on the way home.

  Immediately, D and E also light up on my imaginary map: two other liquor stores I could pass walking the same route. There is a whole alphabet in my head, ready to be activated at all times.

  Are you okay?

  Sorry? Yes, yes. Well, I will be.

  I know you will, she says. She gives me a gentle smile. Don’t beat yourself up about any of it, okay? You should hear from Bobby this week. He’s a really great guy, you’ll love him. Please give Frankie a big hug from me.

  She is the one who delivered my son. A photograph of him sleeping is taped to a corkboard behind her, and beside it she pinned a thank-you card I gave her. The card reads “You’re a lifesaver” and it has a picture of a half-drowned pink-eyed mouse inside a life belt.

  I wish her a good weekend and leave.

  I walk home. I stop at point C and get something for later on.

  BETTER NOW

  A popular adage going around the rooms of Alcoholic Anonymous was Albert Einstein’s “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

  An alcoholic who is in the throes of addiction believes that the next time she drinks she will be able to drink just enough and no more to find that perfect balance of being buzzed but not falling on her face. And in order to find that ultimate happy spot, an addict will drink just enough—just one more—to perfect that balance. She is almost there, in fact. Perhaps one more drink will add a nice polish to it all, make it just so. At the same time, it’s probably a good idea to have one extra drink to ensure this buzz lasts longer. Just in case.

  And the morning after is exactly the same as the morning after the last time: full of anxiety, fear, shame, confusion. And the morning promises to self are exactly the same as the last time: I will never do this again.

  And in the afternoon, the insanity quietly suggests: Perhaps tonight it will be different? Perhaps tonight you can just have a couple of casual drinks, just get a nice buzz on, don’t need to get so drunk.

  What a great idea. Let me try that.

  Motherhood is a type of insanity, my friend Mary said once. It is not insanity as defined by Einstein because doing the same thing over and over yields different results eventually. In fact, motherhood is based on doing the same thing over and over and getting different results.

  Say “Mama.”

  Nothing.

  Say “Mama.”

  Nothing.

  Say “Mama.”

  Nothing.

  Say “Mama.”

  Nothing.

  Say “Mama.”

  “Mama.”

  The insanity of motherhood lies in perseveration. You can be all like: “I’m going to count to three!” … but there’s always three and three-quarters.

  You will read the same five storybooks tomorrow before bed.

  There’s never a last time you’ll forgive your child for biting you. You need to make the dinner tomorrow again.

  Just when you want to abandon doing the same thing over and over again, you need to do it one more time. Motherhood is an infinity of second chances. It is insanity by repetition.

  It gets cooler outside and I’m still restless.

  Staying in is out of the question, as the boyfriend works from home.

  In the beginning, we both tried to pretend that he’s not here—after all, I am the one getting paid for being on mat leave—but we failed. I felt overwhelmed, asking him to help me with the baby, him saying he’s not home—saying to consider him not-home—and we’d end up getting ridiculous with each other, threw tantrums like children: He’d pack his laptop bag with fury, say he’s going to
leave, I’d say not to bother, I’m leaving, it’s fine. I’d drop everything on the ground as I’d try to get ready with shaky, angry hands before flying out the door. I’d slam the door.

  This happened a few times too many, so to avoid further conflicts, I end up on long outings with the stroller every day. It’s getting cold, but I bundle up, pack a big bag of diapers, and I’m off. I bring my laptop with me and write stories in coffee shops all over the city as the baby naps.

  I also try to get back into one of my old hobbies, photography. In the beginning, I take many pictures of myself, but I quickly run out of patience for myself. I have nothing to say with these self-portraits.

  Which is why I contact some friends who like to model; post a couple of casting calls online, on the amateur-model site. There are always some musicians or some actors who need pictures and who are willing to model for free in exchange for the photos. It’s the perfect deal.

  I start daydreaming about doing this for a living. Perhaps I won’t go back to my job but work as a freelance photographer instead? How cool would that be?

  One of the first models I photograph is Chris. She’s a talented musician I know from before, when I used to be sober and she used to be drunk. She’s putting out an album and needs some artwork done for it.

  When I meet her I can’t tell if she’s drinking or not, but her thinness impresses and worries me. Her legs are like sticks in boots. She shakes and twitches in the cold. She composes herself and stays still or jumps in perfect half arches when I snap pictures. She goes back to shaking and twitching in between.

  She looks fantastic in almost every frame. Her eyes are green and sick-looking, too big. She wears a scarf that is twenty metres long, or it seems that way; it is a very long scarf.

  The baby is asleep in the stroller, tucked inside his warm onesie under layers of blankets. This is the time of long baby sleeps. He’s growing rapidly, his body full of rolls and dips and cheeks. Dimpled bum and double chins.

  When we’re done taking pictures, I tell Chris I will walk her to her bus stop.

  I should probably just go home. It’s close to five; I could go home. I have a whole camera card full of photographs I can work on. I love working on photographs.

  But I don’t go home to do what I love.

  I want to walk Chris to her bus stop at the bottom of the hill.

  We walk and talk about the place where we met five years ago, in “the rooms.” Neither of us has gone back; we both say we don’t need to. Her sister is worried about her, Chris says, but there is nothing to be worried about.

  My sister is worried about me, I say, and we laugh.

  My mother is on my case too, Chris says.

  I think to myself how embarrassing it is that I didn’t know she had a sister and a mother. Suddenly, there are people I have to add to my knowledge of Chris—a sister, a mother—who worry about her, tell her to get her act together. There are normal, regular-people parts in Chris’s life. She isn’t just an orphaned rock star who smokes too much rock when she goes on a bender.

  She says her sister is kind of square.

  Compared to Chris a lot of people are kind of square so I don’t really get any idea what her sister is like thanks to this description.

  My sister is square too, I say, and Chris nods.

  But what’s with all this sister and mother fussing-about? How is Chris doing now anyway, really?

  Really? She’s doing fine and, honestly? It’s just a question of self-discipline. Just a way of thinking and being responsible for yourself.

  I say I know what she’s talking about. I, too, am self-disciplined enough to manage on my own.

  I wonder if Chris is lying to me.

  More importantly: Did she notice that we just walked by a sign pointing to a liquor store?

  Will she go back to the liquor store once I leave her at the bus stop?

  It’s a small sign. You wouldn’t notice it unless you looked for it, or unless your brain is trained to spot signs like that. And there is no way of knowing that there is a liquor store in the building to our right, unless, of course, you know that there is a liquor store there. It is a new liquor store, but if you don’t live around here how would you know?

  Chris doesn’t live around here. She lives in Kensington Market. There is one liquor store near the market. I don’t live there but I know about it, the one with the big handicapped elevator. At the bus stop, we hug. Promise to keep in touch.

  I push the stroller back up the hill, the building with the liquor store now to my left. I walk slowly. The baby is sleeping. The camera is bouncing against my hip so I bend down to shove it in the basket underneath the stroller.

  I walk to the top of the hill. I turn left.

  In front of the liquor store I think about Chris. What if she was honest? If someone like Chris is staying sober and managing, Chris, a rock-star crackhead who I heard used to be homeless, why can’t I? How bad am I that I can’t do what Chris is doing to stay sober?

  Or is Chris waiting for me to go away, at the bottom of the hill, letting the bus drive off? Waiting so that she can go to the liquor store herself?

  I stand in front of the store for some time.

  I never stand in front of the store, I just go in—as if diving off a board.

  But this time I stand in front of the store and I wait. First, I wait for Chris to show up. Then I wait not to go in.

  I get tired standing in front of the store, so I sit on a concrete tree planter. People go in and out of the store.

  I let my mind go while I sit there and wait for nothing. My mind flies all over the place, but mostly it swirls around the box or the bottle.

  I’ve already decided to go in.

  No, the decision was made for me; it was always there in the back of my mind. I was lying to myself about waiting for the decision to go away or change its course.

  There is a sudden acceptance: I am going to go in anyway, always, because I have no choice. There are no decisions; the action will be prompted by an involuntary muscle, a breath going in and out; it is a natural process for me.

  I get up and go in.

  The relief once I leave the store, my fix on the bottom of the stroller hidden in the camera bag? Unreal. This is true happiness.

  It is as if someone suddenly adjusted focus on the world around me, added an extra bounce to my walk, sang a sexy song to my hips, made me giddy with anticipation.

  Should I get another one?

  Chris’s not showing up at the liquor store, and probably just taking the bus and going home, is the one thought that bothers me that evening while I am still able to talk back to my thoughts.

  ON THE GO

  My drink choices, they change, but vodka remains a staple. I believe it to have the least amount of odour. It looks clear, it smells pretty straightforward—it can’t possibly be that difficult to mask, can it? I do sometimes smell it coming from my pores, though. Unlike Scotch or beer, vodka seems too clean to leave a stink on the body. It often does, though, and then I have to invent stories about spoiled perfume and smoke like crazy all the time to stink up the stink.

  My ritual is to buy my alcohol near the end of my daily walk with my son. It’s getting colder and colder outside, the winter is almost here now. This new degree of cold is wet, penetrating. I look inside the stroller. The baby’s blue hat inside the hoodie of his snowsuit barely fits him at all now, and the pompom is missing. His cheeks are bright red, scary red. I have to go somewhere inside to wait it out, this cold. It’s dinnertime, we should be eating dinner. Normal people eat dinner now. But I’m not normal, nothing is normal. I have an urge.

  I get dizzy as soon as I think about it. And I think about it all the time. I have an urge. No, not an urge, it’s not an urge. It’s a calling. An order from the sky or from the ground below me, or from the air around me, who knows.

  It propels me and then everything feels like free fall. It can be stopped only one way.

  I’m pushing the strolle
r but I want to abandon the stupid thing and start running.

  I’m chasing the feeling of wanting to get high and I’m running away from it.

  The urge has been planted even earlier. The urge is a plant and the seed has landed earlier in the day, or earlier in the month or in the year, or in my genetic makeup. It has forced itself into the deepest consciousness. It was the fastest-growing plant on my planet and now it’s a baobab, indestructible, strong and veiny with my own blood powering its roots. I’m overpowered by this plant—it crushes my insides with its insistent branches. Eventually, there’s no room for my insides, for my lungs. Which is why I breathe faster—I hear it, too, it’s louder, my breath—to make the breath last longer. I feel my body sweat. The good thing is that now I’m warmer. I’m no longer freezing, just wet and hot and crazy. I speed up. A map in my head indicates that there’s one close by.

  Finally, I see what I’ve been looking for. I slow down. The world seems to slow down too. It’s as if we are in a film, getting to the climax, the part where the heroine arrives at the fountain of youth or whatever she’s after.

  Yes. I’m here. I’ve arrived.

  It will be nice and yellow and light inside. It will be warm. There will be rows and rows of colours. Beautiful ambers and crystal whites and tropical blues and deep, blood-pulsing reds. There will be golden plaques with impressive numbers stamped on them, and new-born flirty labels on wines, with names like Ladies Night Out that appeal to women, and Fat Bastard for men. There will be so much glass, a symphony of glass. I can’t wait to hear it.

  The door opens soundlessly and we’re inside this wonderland. Frankie is awake and he scans the rows of colours and crystal with his big eyes. I’m sure it’s interesting, all the colours. His mouth is open as he looks and looks. He babbles quietly, under his breath. His head is turning left and right.

  I don’t go to this particular liquor store often so I let myself relax and peruse the shelves a little bit. In my usual liquor stores I make this a quick in-and-out because of the guilt. I’m just being paranoid but I think that people remember me. I think that people tend to remember the that-doesn’t-belong-here thing: the stroller.