Drunk Mom
Page 23
I hope she makes it.
But she doesn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I find out from Cara a few weeks later that Chris goes out, again, and is still out. Out is a popular term for addicts who can’t quit.
This sounds as if she has escaped.
Which is the opposite of what’s going on.
FALLING
Winter is almost over. I’m in a meeting as usual and the windows are open and you can smell the spring: wet cement after the rain.
The speaker is announced. It’s a man I’ve seen around. Seems like a nice guy though we’ve never talked. But I see people’s faces after they talk to him. They look happy.
The man is older, Irish. He speaks with an accent so thick that I find it too hard to understand him at first. I have to listen carefully, let my ears tune in before I can decode the words. This makes me think of when I drunk-talked. When I started drinking heavily in order to be able to talk in the new language after we moved to Canada. When the drink made it seem as if I had the language tamed and manipulated to serve me.
I recall myself in high school, in a car with a boy, somewhere in a cornfield, a farmhouse somewhere beside the cornfield. In the house, a party, also, a case of beer—mine—emptied, and me, finally brave enough to speak in the new language.
Me, so pretty and teenage and sexy, and talking, talking, talking. The boy’s unsure eyes. The boy saying something I couldn’t quite hear, as if I was underwater and he was above it, on the safe surface. The sudden realization that I couldn’t understand him, and that I wasn’t really talking either. It was nonsense falling out of my mouth as I tried to put my mouth on his to make myself shut up. And then the boy, turning his face away and calling me words I did understand: you’re fucking crazy.
Hey, hey, Cara whispers.
Sorry. I roll my eyes.
She shakes her head in exaggerated fashion, stifles laughter. I love you, she mouths.
The room laughs. I don’t catch the joke.
I want to ask Cara to repeat it to me but I feel embarrassed that I didn’t hear it and I lose my nerve to ask.
I don’t know why I’m getting so distracted. I even check my phone, though I should have it turned off. It beeps once when a text comes through. It’s my boyfriend.
We had a nice bath, songs and a story and went to bed, the text reads.
I picture the baby’s fat soft body giving off heat like a small generator when he sleeps. In my mind’s eye I see his room with its tiny yellow nightlight—just enough of a light to draw out my little boy’s impossible loveliness. Arms thrown to the sides, eyelids like shells, thick eyelashes, rosebud mouth. He breathes through his mouth. His breath is sweet.
Right now, in this moment, I am happy and I’m okay with it. Just for now. My boys are at home and I have a home. I don’t wake up to my own slow death anymore.
As if on cue the speaker says, I am not afraid to live. Right now.
I am not afraid to live.
Right now.
The speaker says that he loved to drink. Why wouldn’t he? It was like in that song, where falling feels like flying just for a little while?
The room murmurs in appreciation.
I write it down on a piece of paper, Falling feels like flying.
I think that I could tattoo this somewhere. I want to remember it forever. I want it to be etched into me, stay in my skin. I want it to protect me.
But nothing can protect me. From me. Not even me.
He’s been sober for nineteen years now, he tells us. And then his story is done and he’s done talking. It was a good talk. The room starts to clap.
Cara whispers in my ear that she’s got a car and can drive me. I can’t wait to get home tonight.
Do I stay sober?
Oh, how would I know? I’m still here. But how can I be sure of anything else?
A NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Drunk Mom is an imperfect account of the events that occurred from 2009 to 2010 when I relapsed after three and a half years of sobriety. It’s an imperfect account because memory is an imperfect process, a process in which you are the writer and the brain is the editor. By the time it’s retrieved it’s already been concocted into a story that we need to tell ourselves. I’ve also read somewhere (I can’t remember where) that memory is like any other artifact, prone to erosion. In any event, with these limitations, I’ve tried to record events faithfully but have taken liberties. I’ve made changes to the chronology and conflated some events in order to tighten the story. This is by no means a published journal of my relapse, and for that reason too all the dialogue is an approximation. I’ve changed all names and some details to protect the identities of some of the people I write about and, in the case of people like my son and boyfriend, whose identities cannot be protected, to at least soften the glare.
This has been a painful story to tell. I wrote it for three reasons. First, because I hope it will help some of those who are struggling with similar issues, and give others a glimpse into what that struggle is like. This is a story of an addiction but also of parenthood, which is in itself a major mind game for which no one is really prepared. Second, but most important, this book is an attempt to make amends to my greatest love, my son, Hugo Smith, who I hope will one day be able to forgive me for this transgression. Third, it is a form of apology to both my partner, Russell Smith, and my sister, Laura Bydlowska.
I want to thank the following institutions and people for making my sobriety and/or this book a possibility:
Alcoholics Anonymous
Centre for Addiction and Mental Health
New Port Centre
Beyond Belief agnostic group
Chris Bucci—for taking a chance, for reading and working on my manuscript, and for your superb advocacy as my agent
And everyone at Anne McDermid and Associates
Tim Rostron—for being the perfect editor; I’m eternally grateful and extremely lucky to have been able to work with you
Kristin Cochrane and Lynn Henry—for believing in this book and for all your support
Sharon Klein
Shaun Oakey
And everyone at Doubleday Canada
Jeanne Ryckmans
Rachel Dennis
And everyone at HarperCollins Australia
Russell Smith—for everything, but mostly for being a great dad and for not giving up on me
Laura Bydlowska—for all the love and support; you are the only one who has always stood by me, no matter what
Hugo Smith—for making my life make sense, for the joy and love like no other love
Ann Smith—for her grace
Belinda Smith—for love and support and incredible bravery that has always inspired me
My parents—for taking a really deep breath when I told you about this book and joking we all move to Goa
Melanie Janisse—for all the love and support
Cheryl Brown—for your love and support
Shiraz Ebrahim—the first person ever who encouraged me to write
Agata Miszczyska
Jennifer McGinnis
Naomi Gaskin
Maggie Keats
Nicole Deane
Joshua Marc
Adam Nicholls
Betty Doherty
Robin Barnett
Rod Hope
Dr. Amita Singwi
Darin Meilleur
D. O’Soup
Mary Shriver
Brian Macdonald
Megan Griffith-Greene
Allison Grange, Bunmi Adeoye, Lisa Hannam, Becky Scott, Kristin Kent and Ally Tripkovic
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