Drunk Mom

by Jowita Bydlowska

  I have Frankie with me. He’s stirring in the stroller. Bobby mentions a grown daughter. He asks me the standard questions.

  I give him the standard lie: divide amounts and days by two, then divide it by two again.

  Bobby’s voice is so soft it almost lulls me to sleep. It at least puts me into some kind of a semi-coma because later I can’t remember anything that we talked about, only those damned socks and how close his office is to point C on my mental map.

  In our second session, a week or so later, Bobby suggests that I may be depressed or suffering from anxiety and maybe this is why I drink and why I suffered from an eating disorder in my twenties: an old demon I had mentioned to my doctor a long time ago that is documented in my chart.

  I dislike the words suffering, suffered. As if I had done something heroic like my grandma, getting captured by the Nazis and sent to a work camp and surviving. I never heard her use those words. But okay, suffered. Suffering.

  I nod.

  Bobby waits with a tranquil smile.

  Well, I am very, very anxious, I say. All the time. I used to take Ativan. It really works for me. Can you talk to my doctor about it? My hands tingle and freeze and half of my face spasms from anxiety. Feels like I’m always sitting on the edge of my seat, figuratively and literally, you see, because anxious people like me, they can never sit still so they sit on edges. I’m definitely. Suffering from anxiety.

  Bobby nods a lot at this and stops to write things down.

  Today his socks are pink, purple, orange.

  There’s a drawing of a sailing ship on the wall. Light pastel colours; even the blue looks more like yellow, that’s how mellow it is. Bobby’s socks are the brightest objects in the room.

  I would love to know what he’s writing down. Grocery list like all shrinks, probably.

  I wait for him to finish.

  Frankie makes a noise in his sleep. He’s with me again.

  Bobby blinks friendlily, Do you always take care of the baby?

  I’m the baby manager, I say.

  A “baby manager”—that’s funny, Bobby says softly in his singsong voice and scribbles again.

  (Tomatoes. 2 lb brown sugar. Bok choy. Rapini?)

  He says, So. Not enough time for Jowita. What does Jowita like to do?’

  This throws me off. Jowita. Who the hell knows what she likes to do. I don’t know. I like to write and watch TV. And take photographs. And, before, I liked sex. I liked dressing up for parties. And flirting. I guess. Ask me what I love, that’s easier. I’m certain about what I love. I love, love, love drinking. Being drunk.

  To Bobby I only say the part about photography, and this seems to satisfy him because he writes things down again. He must have at least a month of grocery shopping planned by now.

  I say, So. What should I do? Since photography doesn’t seem to be working.

  We exchange a couple of polite blinks. As we do, I hope and pray and beg every god that I can think of that he will say he’s going to talk to my doctor about prescribing me something, some Ativan, some other miracle magical medicine like that. Instead Bobby says, There are special programs for artists to deal with issues like anxiety. We have a great program here at Western, it’s through our artist clinic. Let me look it up quickly.

  He half turns to his computer to look it up quickly.

  I took a program like that some years ago. It was called Mindful Meditation and it was full of misfits like me: a woman who was socially anxious; somebody who stopped talking after a serious car accident, out of fear of losing her voice; a bunch of chronic dieters; a shitload of actors and actresses. We sat in the circle and discussed feeling feelings. One time we spent most of the session learning to meditate while eating, and we chewed on a piece of raisin for minutes, talking about it and feeling feelings afterwards. Near the end of each session we lay on mats and meditated. I always fell asleep, which was an okay thing to do. Eventually, I chose to stay at home and sleep there instead.

  I wonder what Bobby looks like naked. I don’t want to see him naked but I wonder what he looks like naked. Or what he looks like when he’s having sex.

  He probably leaves his socks on.

  Frankie opens his eyes. His mouth turns downward, but before he has a chance to wail, I pull him out of the stroller. On my lap he’s already making a sucking sound, eyes closing in bliss the way they do when he’s feeding. Bobby swivels in his chair.

  I reach inside my shirt, say, Do you mind?

  Of course not.

  With Frankie at my breast I feel like a double human. Superhuman. Superior to this twit with his twitty socks and his language of suffering and his feeling feelings programs.

  Frankie starts sucking.

  I can’t do that program, I say. It doesn’t work for me.

  Okay.

  Okay.

  What about going to an inpatient treatment?

  What about it? Like rehab?

  Yes. Have you thought about going away to a treatment centre? Bobby turns around, toward his computer again. He says, I’m printing a couple of pages anyway for you to take when you leave. There’s a lot of useful information about some in-treatments.

  The printer in the corner of the office starts choking and then spits up pages.

  Sure, I say.

  Frankie’s head jerks back at the exact same moment Bobby turns to face me with the printed pages in his hand. My nipple, erect, pink and shiny with milk, pokes proudly out of my shirt. I try to move Frankie’s head back onto it immediately, but he jerks back even more violently and starts wailing. I don’t look at Bobby.

  I’m so sorry, I say.

  Oh, it’s okay.

  I stuff my breast into my shirt, push down on it to hide it further—I’m suddenly annoyed with myself and not superhuman at all—and Frankie, seeing this new development, turns up the screaming volume.

  I take out my other breast, as discreetly as I can, flip the baby around on my lap and press him against the nipple.

  Bobby gives me the same tranquil smile.

  Outside, it’s winter still but I’m sweating like crazy, from all the breastfeeding exercises and everything else that went on in Bobby’s office. I open my jacket as I walk. I don’t make a right turn toward the liquor store.

  Instead I walk south to the main street where on the corner there’s a Native meeting centre. I like to walk by this corner. It’s sad and thrilling. A proverbial car crash you’ve got to stop and watch except this one has been happening for ages so people stopped stopping. The corner, it’s usually swarmed with street people in various stages of drunkenness.

  There are squeegee kids with mohawks and piercings, in military boots. They are always surrounded by mean-looking dogs, pit bulls and pit bull crosses and other four-legged jerks.

  Besides the kids, there are some older people, shiny and mauve in the face, with dirty, stringy hair. The genders in both groups are almost impossible to discern. There’s lots of hugging and cursing. There are big plastic bottles of beer or wine or Listerine going around; everyone smokes. There’s always some version of a lady in a robe and slippers, with a grey and sunken face, sitting and smoking to the side: freshly released.

  There’s often a guy taking his clothes off, yelling, yelling, yelling. There’s a girl, too young to live this way but with front teeth missing already when she smiles at the stroller passing her by. There’s almost always a police car.

  I’m passing by with the stroller.

  And I tell myself to watch them, watch them close.

  This is me. This is me passing by with the stroller.

  This is me too, watching me passing by.

  I’m right here, on this corner.

  I’m the lady in winter parka but with slippers on, with matted hair and unseeing eyes.

  I’m the yelling guy.

  I’m the guy with the giant plastic bottle of beer, falling asleep with a string of mucus hanging out of his nose, freezing. I’m the kid with a squeegee. I’m the dog with fle
as and bared teeth.

  MORNING AFTER

  I have no idea where I am. Or how. Or when.

  My guess is that I’ve missed the actual kick. Was there a kick? I wake up feeling like a heel is lodged in my solar plexus. It must be my solar plexus because from what I remember about it, this is the body part that, if kicked, draws the breath right out of you. And since I can’t breathe and there’s tremendous pressure somewhere in the top middle of me, I’m most likely right—it is my solar plexus.

  I don’t want to open my eyes.

  I’m lying on a hard surface. It’s not my bed, obviously.

  I’m lying on the carpet and there’s a heel digging right into me and I’m struggling to breathe. I already know that there’s no heel digging into me and that I can, in fact, breathe. But I am so terrified that the anxiety is making me hold my breath. It’s either this, the breath-holding, or I don’t know—I’ll die.

  How could I die?

  I could get up, with my eyes still closed, and just start to run. Depending on where I am I could potentially run into a window, a wall, a mirror. I could fall out this window and break my neck, my head could smack into the wall so perfectly that it would impact just the place where my skull would cave in and kill me, and the mirror could shatter and slice my arteries.

  Not to be overdramatic but right now anything seems better than being inside this anxiety.

  And this is not the first time I have woken up with this type of anxiety, thinking of ways to annihilate myself instead of confronting what could possibly be outside my eyelids. This is the anxiety well known to blackout drunks coming out of the soft, merciful abyss, the dam breaking, the questions rushing in: Where? How? When? Wherehowwhen?

  The more awake I am, the more I know. For example, I already know that I’m at home. I can hear my boyfriend saying something somewhere in the house. He talks in his cat voice, meaning he’s talking to one of the cats. If he’s talking, that means he is alive. I didn’t kill him. So, that’s good.

  His voice sounds calm. That probably means that he doesn’t know yet that the baby is dead, or he knows and has gone mad.

  Or the baby is not dead.

  Maybe I didn’t kill the baby?

  I have to check if the baby’s alive.

  I open my eyes.

  I’m on the floor in the baby’s room.

  I see his crib. Here’s his hand. Here’s the inside of his elbow, the tiny sleeves. Golden curls spilling out from behind his masterpiece of an ear. Here’s his beautiful, chubby-cheeked face. His eyelashes so thick and long they look fake, impossible, but they’re real. His mouth a shade of kissed red like a kiss itself. His lovely chin, a perfect bow of a bone.

  I look at his red mouth again.

  I hold my breath.

  He is breathing.

  I will never do this again. I promise. Thank you, thank you, thank you. He’s breathing.

  I sit up. I’m wearing my soft yellow robe. Underneath I’m wearing nothing.

  I will never do this again. I promise.

  What I’m never going to do again I don’t know. I don’t remember much. I remember being downstairs and watching something on TV. Talking to someone on the phone, laughing very loudly, talking about Bobby, the broken dresser maybe, laughing some more, downplaying, minimizing. My boyfriend making a stupid comment. But what stupid comment? Who cares, it was stupid. He’s always getting involved in my business. Did we have a fight?

  You don’t have to sleep here. Please come to bed, my boyfriend suddenly says somewhere behind me, and the anxiety dissipates a little, and instead of anxious, I’m feeling a tiny bit hopeful.

  Before I turn to face him, I try to, madly, quickly—have to be very quick here, like I’m in the military or something—guess what sort of voice he’s got there. Is it a mad voice, a sad voice or just a voice? Based on my assessment I’ll be able to figure out how to proceed, if there are any mines to avoid, or if we can just call a truce and never in our entire lives talk about what happened last night.

  I go for soft. I say, Okay, and wait.

  He says quietly, Let’s just forget about last night.

  I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  Either way, I ended up sleeping on the floor in my son’s room. I’ve never slept on the floor in his room before. What a loser. I am the opposite of a ghost. My body is here but my spirit is gone.

  Come here, my boyfriend says.

  I’ll call Bobby to see if he can see me tomorrow again.

  Today.

  Today.

  My body follows my boyfriend to our bedroom. It inserts itself under the covers with him. My boyfriend runs his hands over my sore breasts. Even the lightest touch makes them hurt. The baby is getting teeth and my body is what he practises on. My chest is covered in tiny scratches, marks.

  My boyfriend is insistent but gentle. He kisses my body all over. He kisses my lips but suddenly moves away from my mouth and says, I can still smell it on you. But he doesn’t stop kissing me and touching my body.

  My hands touch him back, his skin feels nice. His skin against my skin feels nice. Warm. Except that I’m not really here.

  He moves on top of me, spreads my legs open and starts fucking me. His face is buried in my shoulder. I feel the back of his head with my fingers. His hair is short, soft, spiky. I enjoy how it feels. It almost brings me back to my body, how his head feels underneath my fingertips. I try to pull him further inside me, hold him tighter. I want to feel him. I want to feel something. I consider asking him to choke me. But it’s too light outside for that now and I’m almost sober.

  After the sex, we lie there and I cuddle up to him. I throw my arm across his chest, move as close to him as I can. Smell his cologne. Cedar, musk? I also smell my own hair. Smoky. I can smoke almost a pack a night if I drink. I smoke almost a pack a night almost every night. My boyfriend once said he’d never date anyone who was a vegetarian or who smoked. Then he met me.

  I say, I’m sorry, even though I don’t exactly know what I’m supposed to be sorry for, but I’m sure there are lots of reasons.

  His lips are sexy. They say, You’re always sorry.

  That’s all the sexy lips say.

  I lie stiffening now, against his body. I don’t know how to reply. He’s right. I am always sorry.

  I listen to the silence. You can hear it in the house—now that there’s a baby, silence, too, has a sound. It sounds threatening. As if something went missing.

  He hates me. I hate me.

  This thought almost makes me cry. I could say my heart is breaking. But the non-feeling is a bit of an issue with me. I do feel shame and guilt and sometimes anger but beyond that it gets confusing. I understand the idea of sadness but I don’t feel sad. Still, I feel very guilty, so I think that maybe I could ride on this feeling and maybe some tears will come.

  No tears come. Nothing unusual here.

  I know that the deeper I sink, the more my boyfriend tries to rescue me. He’s almost always submerged now, in me, in my drowning. His arms are extending and trying to grasp my body, which is becoming slicker and more slippery with every touch. But he needn’t try so hard—I am stuck to him, no worries. He couldn’t shake me off even if he wanted to. Alcoholics are the worst of the weak. They hang on like leeches, all suction, no spine.

  From the bottom of my internal despair some tiny, muddy part of me screams to him that I’m no longer even alive. I scream that I’m drowned, I’m done. I know he’ll never hear me screaming from the bottom. He wants to believe there’s hope.

  He says he forgives me. He says it now. He says, I’ll help you.

  I wouldn’t help me if I were him. But now we have this baby together and I understand why he’s saying this, even though it’s destroying us.

  Thank you.

  I try to breathe less noticeably. I am aware that my boyfriend hasn’t embraced me back and that my arm just lies there across his chest, like a prop. His eyes are closed.

  INTERVENTION


  The anxious morning repeats itself more than once, but shortly after my boyfriend’s saying he’ll help me, he helps me. It’s almost Christmas and everyone is in an irritable but clearly generous, helpful spirit.

  My sister and my boyfriend tell me to sit down. I don’t know why she stayed over but I say nothing about her being here. She came over to be with the baby, my boyfriend says. He couldn’t wake me up as usual. The baby wouldn’t calm down but he was scared about bringing him to our bed.

  That explains it.

  Earlier this morning, I found her, my sister sleeping, with the baby, in his office on the camping mattress.

  I grabbed the baby and went back to our bedroom.

  My boyfriend was just getting up.

  I slid back into the bed, hid with the baby, under the blankets. I had no idea what happened. My boyfriend said something but I didn’t reply. It was safer to act indignant.

  By the time they tell me to sit down I’m no longer indignant.

  I can’t hear exactly what is being said, but it’s not angry. Their voices are gentle and worried. The baby gets lulled to sleep on my lap by all this worry and gentleness. I almost get lulled to sleep myself. My sister and my boyfriend say things like “sad” and “serious” and “help” and “get through this as a family.”

  We will, I say. We will. For sure.

  Nothing is said for a long time. Everyone looks out the window.

  Finally, the boyfriend says, We think you should go to rehab.

  I look at my sister. My sister looks scared. She’s got a tiny face, big lemur eyes.

  Rehab?

  They both nod.

  I think of the TV show Intervention and I imagine cameras zooming in on my face. I arrange my face to appear neutral, friendly but inscrutable. I don’t want the audience to guess right away if I will accept the gift that’s being offered to me.