Paul introduced me to Louise, who immediately became my favorite person on the planet. Louise was the life of the party wherever she went, using brilliantly sarcastic wit to leave friends, colleagues and even strangers in hysterics.
When I met her, Louise was telling stories, drinking iced tea, and laughing like I hadn’t laughed in years. I admired her right away, and I envied the ability of the people around her to laugh.
Sober laughter took me a long time to learn, but that changed as I got to know Louise.
Louise lived in Oakmont, a Pittsburgh suburb further north than I’d lived before. Oakmont was a darling little community with local stores and restaurants that stayed afloat whether the steel mills closed or not. It was so adorable, it was practically fictional.
When I was younger, my parents used to drive through the brick streets of Oakmont, me admiring the little stores and movie theater as we rumbled past over bricks. I’d think: This is what a town should be. And then we’d be past it, and I’d forget about it until our next trip through.
Louise lived in a duplex – and the other half of her house was vacant. After being attacked, I rented it quickly, in spite of my fear of living next to a female (who might not like me!) Then I spent years at that residence enjoying the company of my next door neighbor and, eventually, my dearest friend.
On most nights, Louise and I would sit outside and smoke cigarettes. We both had cats, and we’d watch them chase critters (and once, birds chasing my cat) along the street. Louise would tell me stories from her shift working as a prison guard, and I’d share my museum day. We’d be visited from passers by, delivery drivers, kids down the block.
“Where I’m from,” Louise said as we whiled away the hours on our shared porch, “they call this stoopin’.”
I don’t know what we talked about, night after night, hour after hour, but I became closer to Louise than any other person in my life. Louise was a better friend to me than any I’d ever had. She not only shared her time with me and allowed me to simply sit and enjoy her company, but she helped me learn how to live life on life’s terms.
For example, when I tried to make a joke and nobody understood it, Louise told me, “It’s not always your fault when people are rude. Sometimes people are just rude.” I’d been blaming myself for other people’s cruelties for my entire life; I’d always blamed myself.
Louise also taught me how to take care of my house. For example: “Baskets,” she said one night. “Ya gotta have baskets.” Then she took me into her house and showed me all the baskets she used to stay organized in her own home, in a stylish, trendy way. I’ve been using organizational baskets for 30 years.
Louise was a single mom to a gorgeous, blossoming teenager, and Louise always put her daughter’s needs above her own – and everyone else’s. Louise showed me how strength guides parenting.
Louise was a fiercely loyal friend, and taught me to be one, too. Louise became my role model for how to live life. She stood up for herself (“Nobody else’ll do it for you!”) and laughed at life from every angle. She was her own person; nobody else was like Louise. She taught me that I could be myself, too.
And somehow Louise loved me enough that I started learning how to love myself.
By the following summer, sobriety was moving along quite swimmingly. I spent my time focused on the future when, I was sure, Paul and I would be happily married with our 2.2 children and white picket fence. I had nine months sober, my job, some true freedoms, and my tiny apartment in Swissvale (where Paul never even once spent the night).
And I had my darling cat, Kitty, who seemed much happier since I’d gotten sober. Except one night, Kitty disappeared. She had been sitting on the kitchen window sill enjoying the summer night’s breeze when – poof!
Kitty was gone.
My apartment was so small, I thought I’d lost my mind. Did I let her out? I opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch. “Kitty!” I called. “Kitty!”
With barely a sound, a dark-skinned man wearing a black ski mask appeared from around the corner. He stepped toward me quickly from the darkness of my yard, holding a huge knife above his head.
He ordered: “Sit down.”
I sat on the porch steps.
He hovered over me, easily six feet tall, held the knife at my throat. With his left hand, he unzipped his pants, shoved his penis at my face and demanded: “Suck it.”
Instantly I remembered how to anesthetize myself, even without alcohol. Trauma can teach. I became numb.
I thought: I would rather be dead.
I shook my head.
“SUCK IT!” he growled in a very loud whisper.
I stared at the ground, shook my head again. Doing this would ruin my sex life, I thought. I didn’t move a muscle.
The man stood there, penis hanging out, perplexed. “Do you see this knife?” he asked.
I nodded without looking up.
He shoved the knife onto my neck without actually cutting me. “Then suck it!” he demanded, whacking me slightly in the face with the thing I did not want.
“No,” I said. The knife felt cold.
I’m okay with death, I thought. I did not move.
The guy looked around, considering his options. He held up one finger. “Wait here!” he growled.
Then he stepped over me and walked into my apartment where, I’m sure, he found no one lurking.
I did not “wait here” to find out.
As soon as he stepped past me, I unfroze. I leapt from the porch, tore through the backyard and raced across the street. Years of drunken, barefoot summers made this part easy. I went to the nearest lit house and banged on the door, rang the bell, banged on the door again.
When no one answered instantly, I turned the knob – not locked! I ducked inside, hiding, shaking, terrified. No people – but a landline phone sat in the foyer on a table.
I picked up a stranger’s phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“There’s a guy! With a knife! In my house!” I shrieked. “I don’t know what to do! I think he killed my cat!”
Within seconds, the older couple who lived in the house appeared, eyeing me.
I started apologizing, “I’m so sorry!” I said, bursting into tears. “I didn’t mean to break into your house! I just needed a phone!” They stood and nodded, unsure but supportive.
The police came and found no one, never found anyone. I couldn’t have identified a ski-masked man anyway.
The police found Kitty in the backyard, rolling around like nothing had happened.
Shaking and crying, I stayed in the house across the street until my parents came to pick me up. I slept at their house that night – and every night, until I found a new place to live.
As summer wound down, and my 25th birthday rolled past, I was feeling entirely dependent on Paul. I didn’t know the word “dependence” but I knew I felt antsy and irritable. I wanted to do my own thing – whatever it might be.
Something didn’t feel right when I wasn’t with Paul. So one Saturday night in September, I went to an AA meeting.
As I sat at my table alone, with no foundation on which to build my new identity, I thought, If this meeting doesn’t work, I’m going to drink.
The meeting was dark and smoky. People talked. I waited for my miracle. I sat through the entire meeting, waiting.
Surprise! Being at the meeting did not change me. I still felt irritable after the meeting was over, and it was Saturday night.
So after more than four months sober, I walked to the local bar and I got drunk. I had less foresight about buying beer than I had when choosing what to eat for dinner.
I didn’t think, I should call my sponsor.
I didn’t think, My family will be disappointed.
I didn’t think, Will I be able to stop if I start again?
I didn’t even think, What if I die?
I simply walked down the street, walked in the door to my favorite dive bar, and ordered a beer.
The only difference between this drunk and all the others is that I was, for the first time ever, completely aware that I was shutting the door on reality.
For four months, I’d been invested in reality. On this night, I wanted fantasy.
It was that simple. I didn’t call Gregg; I didn’t get high. I didn’t do anything I used to do, except play the jukebox. When I went into the bathroom, I found my dead eyes staring back at me.
That fast, my eyes were lifeless again.
I sat at that bar until it closed and then I went home and passed out on the couch without even making it into a bed.
On Sunday morning, I awoke feeling the way I’d felt every day for literally years before rehab: Brutally dry. Pounding. Sad. Aching. Guilty. Nauseous. Morose. Parched. Desperate for anything to liberate me from my hangover – but with no alcohol or drugs within arms reach.
I lit a cigarette, drank a liter of Diet Coke and stared at the wall.
This does not feel good.
I thought about Paul – sober Paul – and realized that I had just done something that would destroy our relationship forever. I didn’t think about my own life, or my family.
I invited Paul over to talk to me on Sunday evening, and he showed up on time as always. He was barely inside the house and I said, “I drank.”
Paul hugged me. “You’re an alcoholic,” he said. “That’s what we do.”
“But I’ve ruined everything!” I said. “I had four months!”
“Are you going to drink today?”
I looked into his beautiful green eyes and remembered that I had something to live for.
“No,” I said, “but ….”
“Then you have today,” Paul said. “That’s all you need to have is today.”
I did not understand this concept at all, but it sounded like he wasn’t dumping me. On the contrary, it seemed like he was helping me.
“Let’s go to a meeting,” Paul said.
So we did.
And through this white-knuckling, do-it-for-Paul mentality, I got sober again – staying on the periphery of AA, using Paul as my rock, my god, my everything.
Instead of depending on AA, I just depended completely on Paul.
After meeting Paul, I willingly tossed aside my own life. Being sober meant doing whatever Paul did, mimicking his actions and behaviors, soaking in his knowledge and education, following him around wherever he went.
We hiked mountains, vacationed by the water, camped in cabins, saw concerts, went to AA dances, rode the motorcycle, wandered through gardens, zoos, museums and architectural wonders. We discussed world religions, AA and existential concepts, ideals for our futures. We laughed a lot.
I’d revel in pretending we were an old married couple when he needed to study for his MBA program, lift weights, visit his family, try new recipes or wash his vehicles (very regularly). He shared his favorite music – Jethro Tull and Neil Young – and I rediscovered quality song lyrics.
I started reading books again – Stephen King’s The Stand, followed by every other Stephen King book I could find. Once I tried to make dinner for Paul and created a bowl of tasteless tofu squares – so I tried new hobbies. I rented movies. I read books about cats and tried to train Kitty.
Mostly I just did whatever Paul did, or sat and stared at him as he studied, or watched PBS’ Newshour, or swam like an Olympian in a nearby swimming pool. I didn’t need to build a life of my own, because all I wanted was a life with Paul.
Why would I need to be anyone other than Paul’s significant other? What point would that have? I didn’t need to find myself, to learn about myself, to create – or recreate – myself. I didn’t need to do anything to keep myself sober, because staying sober for Paul was enough.
There were a few things that concerned me, but only momentarily.
For example, one day after I showered, I hung up my towel in Paul’s tiny bathroom as I’d done for many years in my own home. I carefully folded it so that it would dry evenly, rather than crumpling it or hanging it on a hook. I thought I’d done a fine job of hanging that towel.
But Paul directed me back to the bathroom and showed me that I had not, actually, done a fine job.
“See my towel?” he said. “See anything different?”
I looked. I did not see anything different. “They look the same,” I said.
“The tag is showing on yours,” he said. He picked it up, flipped it around, and hung it back on the rack. “See?” No one would ever see that tag now!
In his otherwise empty one-bedroom basement apartment.
“Why does it matter?” I said. “Who’s going to see it?”
“I’ll see it,” Paul said. “It drives me crazy when the tag is showing.”
From then on, I hung up the towel at his house with the tag in the back. At my house, I tried hard to keep that tag hidden, in case he came over.
Then there was the matter of the dead skin exfoliator we used during every shower on our feet.
“You don’t want to have dead-skin heels like Pop-Pop!” he reminded me.
Paul’s grandfather was 86 years old; I was not quite there yet. But I scrubbed my feet at Paul’s house. I thought this was how sober people lived; I didn’t want to screw up.
Paul learned from me, too: he traded his Honda for a Harley so, when we rode, I was way more comfortable. And more people ogled his bike.
Otherwise, I just followed wherever Paul led. I didn’t even have to think for myself. I had no idea how.
Paul became my new favorite drug.
Afraid to show my true colors too soon, I asked Paul to pick me up at my parents’ house. He showed up for our first date – on time – in a sporty maroon Mazda.
He has a car AND a motorcycle?! I raced upstairs and changed out of my motorcycle boots. It never occurred to me that one person could own more than one vehicle.
What is important about Paul, though, is not that he had a car, or that he arrived on time. It’s not important that he worked in a science lab, that he was working toward his Masters degree, that he lifted weights every day in a makeshift gym in his closet, or that he ate tofu and eggless mayonnaise and spent an inordinate amount of time teaching me about healthy ways to live.
It’s not even important that Paul was 32 years old when I was 24 and that he had never been married, although that should have been a clue as to how our relationship would eventually end.
What’s important about Paul is that I worshipped him. He treated me with kindness and did not lie. Paul was bright – so much smarter than Gregg or Larry that I thought he was a genius. Paul made me laugh like no one had made me laugh in many years, and his dry humor was amazingly on-target.
Paul and I stayed together for almost three years: The Forever One.
We had long, deep, philosophical conversations while lying on a rock on a riverbank in the summer sun.
He once went outside to the tiny garden he’d planted and snipped a few colorful flowers as I watched him through the window.
“For you” he mouthed through the window as I sighed. He smiled that incredible smile and I thought I was the luckiest girl in the whole world, getting those flowers.
He was humble and sweet and caring and brilliant and funny and gentle and considerate and generous and loving. His apartment was meticulously clean. He cared for himself in a way I’d never seen modeled before, so he was drop-dead gorgeous on the outside, too.
This man was everything I’d ever wanted, and he was real.
Paul lived alone, had a full-time job and never traveled. He paid a pittance of rent to his dad, a dentist who worked upstairs, so Paul had lots of money. Every week he would buy chicken salads from the Village Inn down the street. We’d sit at Paul’s kitchen table with our salads and clean glasses of water, and I found this to be heavenly.
When we met, I had two months sober. Paul had seven months sober after a seven-year stint in AA – and then a relapse. He had not lost any of his wisdom from those seven years so I considered him my guru. We went to meetings together regularly, and I went to meetings on my own sometimes, but my “higher power” was Paul.
I saw no reason to change that until it was way too late to do so.
The details of our relationship don’t matter. What matters is that I got out of rehab and immediately started worshipping a man. And he was human and fallible and imperfect and I summarily dismissed all of his flaws except when I started trying to change him into my model of perfection.
He was, after all, my living god.
While it is essential to recognize this flaw in my character as the primary reason that I did not get sober until 1992, this part of my story must be shortened accordingly.
Until that day, the Walk of The One was unique: tall above the crowd, head tilted back just enough for a slight chin-jut, his back so straight it looked like he’d graduated from posture class, arms swinging relaxed at his side.
In years since, I have learned that this walk correlates closely with emotional unavailability. I’ve always found this to be the most attractive quality in men, subconsciously seeking emotional unavailability above all else.
At the picnic, I saw Paul and couldn’t stop staring: wavy brown hair cropped close to his neck, bright green eyes, a flawless smile that lit up the entire park, over six feet tall yet determinably humble. When he slid his sunglasses from his eyes, they didn’t go onto his head but rested on his forehead – a trick that I found astoundingly cool.
Paul was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.
Since I only had two months sober, I didn’t remember how to talk to someone I liked, so I reverted to high school tactics. I followed Paul around the picnic staying far enough back that I wouldn’t arouse suspicion, getting closer when I thought he wasn’t looking, then ducking away to avoid accidental eye contact. I just wanted to stare at him.
Eventually, though, it became painfully aware that he was going to leave. I was accidentally following him to the parking lot when I realized I was the only one striding across the green lawn with him. I thought, You have to say something or you’ll never see him again!
And so I did.
“Hello?” I called, in the mousy voice that always reappeared when I was sober. I could only do “loud” as a drunk, although I’d sworn that I wouldn’t be so passive and meek in my newly sober adult life.
He didn’t turn around.
“Hello!” I said a bit louder. And then he turned.
My heart fluttered and flew into my stomach, making me want to wretch. I had no idea what to say.
“Hey,” he said and smiled. That smile. (His dad was a dentist.)
“I just … wanted to introduce myself,” I stammered. I held out my hand, like they do in AA. “I’m Kirsten.”
“Hi Kirsten,” he said, pronouncing it perfectly. “I’m Paul.” His voice was low, smooth, gorgeous like him.
He wore fingerless leather gloves when he shook my hand; he noticed me noticing them. “I was just gonna go for a ride,” Paul said, gesturing toward the parking lot. “Wanna go with me?”
I looked to where he was pointing and there, in the summer sun, was a clean, shiny red Honda motorcycle. It wasn’t a Harley but, (sorry Larry), I wasn’t going to pass up this chance for anything in the world.
“Sure,” I said, happy to do something that wouldn’t require so much talking.
I had no choice but to put my arms around Paul’s waist, to keep me from falling off the back of the bike. I hadn’t ridden sober in a very, very long time – maybe not since my Uncle Tony rode me to the end of the block when I was nine.
Paul and I rode for less than an hour in the bright summer sun. He pointed at a few things, and I soaked in his voice, his body, his essence. The ride was breathtaking but my breath was already gone.
We returned to the parking lot and I climbed off the bike. Paul tied the helmet on the back and asked, “Do you want to go out sometime?”
“Sure,” I whimpered.
We had our first date the following week.
My life outside of work consisted of only one commitment: I was supposed to go to an AA meeting every day. There were plenty of meetings in my area, one every night – sometimes more than one – all within 15 minutes of my apartment.
I would get home from work around 6:00, eat some pasta with Prego or Ragu (depending on what was on sale) and then head out for an evening meeting. I arrived a bit late every night, and left a bit early, because I didn’t really enjoy talking to people. I had no idea that the key to recovery is, actually, getting to know the people in the meetings and talking with them about my day. (Yes, it’s really that simple.)
I was depressed because I no longer had Don or Keisha or any of the other people with whom I connected in rehab. I was as angry at Gregg for the phone bill as I would have been if he’d cut my eyes out instead of just having phone sex. My emotions were dramatic and raw and vacillating but when I went into a meeting and sat down, I felt peaceful. I was distracted enough by people’s stories that I didn’t feel that rawness for a little while.
One gorgeous spring day, I walked to the 7-11 for cigarettes. As I was strolling barefoot in my cutoff jean shorts across the parking lot, a guy in a car slowed to a stop in front of me. His window already down, he leaned out and called, “Hey!”
He was handsome: sweetly smiling, his bleached-blond hair draped over sparkling brown eyes.
Without any courage from alcohol, I was not only shy but confused. Why is he talking to me?
“Hey,” I squeaked as a form of reply.
He continued to smile, his bright eyes scanning my whole body. “Ya wanna get high?”
The question existentially knocked me over. I wanted to go with this boy in the worst way. But did I want to get high? Did I?
Oh my god! I thought. I don’t actually want to get high! The thought of deadening my emotions on this beautiful spring day was abhorrent.
So, for the first time in my life, I looked at a beautiful young man and I said something I’d never said before.
“No thanks,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” he said, and drove off as casually as if he’d just asked for the time of day.
I told that story at a meeting, and it felt good. I felt good. Things were good. I was nervous and socially awkward and confused about a whole lot of normal adult things, but overall: I was good.
It wasn’t long before people started to announce social events – things I could do on the weekends without alcohol. I went to an AA roller skating event where I met a guy with one arm. I called him “Larry With One Arm” because he had that low raspy voice and looked old and scraggly.
But Vince was not like Larry at all. Vince was brilliant and philosophical and taught me all the things I should have been learning in AA with my sponsor.
I’d chosen my sponsor because she frequently said “fuck.” I never called her. So Vince was a godsend for my mental health.
Then I went to a 4th of July AA picnic, which was a huge step for me. I wanted to make friends.
At the picnic, I saw a guy who walked exactly, identically, like The One from college.
I instantly fell in love.
I continued working for The Carnegie Museum of Natural History after rehab. My colleagues welcomed me back with open arms. Nobody judged me; everyone was supportive. It was weird. These people loved me almost as much as I loved them.
I had some fantastic run-ins at The Carnegie with celebrities. One Monday, when the museum was closed to the public, Mick Jagger and Charlie Watts toured the museum. Word traveled fast that they were there. I raced out and hovered one floor above them, heart hammering. Then I ran downstairs to casually breeze by them, three feet away, without saying a word. Mick looked at me with a half-smile on his face and I caught his eye, then immediately dropped my gaze. Inside I was screaming: MICK JAGGER MICK JAGGER MICK JAGGER! I love Mick Jagger.
Another day, a film crew went into the department next door, Entomology, to film some butterflies. The entire floor was shut down to make way for the huge cameras and all the crew. Later that day, I was smoking in the lounge (back when they had smoking lounges) and a slew of strangers swarmed by. My eyes were drawn to a woman who, while shorter in stature, seemed to walk a full head taller than everyone else. She turned her head just long enough that I recognized her: it was Jodie Foster cruising past. They were filming a scene from Silence of the Lambs.
I also remember talking to “Tom” – not a celebrity, but Carnegie staff.
I was fresh out of rehab and everyone seemed to be proud of me, so I thought I should be proud of myself, too. I shared my story freely with everyone.
One day, I walked into Tom’s office (though I can’t remember his real name) to deliver a document of some sort. As I stood there chattering I casually announced, “I’ve been sober for six weeks!”
Tom’s jaw dropped. A second passed. Finally he said, “Could you shut the door, please?”
I barely knew the man, and this was my first visit to his office. I asked, “Why?” as I swung the door shut behind me.
“Just close it, thanks,” Tom said. “Six weeks, huh? Do you tell everyone you have six weeks?”
“Well not everyone,” I said. “It doesn’t always come up.”
“Good,” said Tom. “It’s probably better if you don’t tell very many people.”
“Why?” I was stunned.
“Because maybe not everyone is going to be understanding,” he said.
“Oh everyone’s been great!” I said. “Everybody in my department thinks it’s wonderful!”
Tom smiled. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad to hear that. But you might want to be careful.”
I considered this. I had no idea why I should be cautious when announcing my alcoholic tendencies. After all, I was sober now! My life was going great!
“I don’t really think I should worry about it,” I said. Then I had a thought. “Did I offend you somehow?”
Tom smiled again. “No,” he said, hesitating. “I have three years sober myself.”
I practically leaped at him. “Oh my god, congratulations!” I yelled. “My work people are sober, too! That’s amazing!”
Tom shook his head. “Thanks,” he said. “But just be careful who you tell. Do you go to meetings?”
“Every day!”
“Maybe just tell people at meetings,” he said. “Just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“In case not everyone is so understanding,” he sighed. “But thanks for sharing your news with me.”
“Okay!” I said. “See you later!” I felt like I had a secret.
And I tried to be … quieter about my sobriety.
When I was in rehab, my parents visited me on every family visitation day. My extended family sent me cards and letters. They sent me flowers and stuffed animals and more cards. This was before emails or smart phones, yet every day brought something new and wonderful from my family.
Debbie, my friend from college, had always had hope that I’d recover; she sent me two cards during my stay. But my other “friends” didn’t notice my absence. Most just kept using. Bonnie – my supposed “best friend” had no support to give.
The people who drank the way I drank didn’t actually want me to get sober. Some of them ended up getting sober; some went on to die of alcoholism. Some are still drinking excessively decades later.
None of them were in touch with me during rehab.
My therapist didn’t acknowledge my stay. For 31 days, I heard nothing. After receiving so much support from my family, I didn’t understand it. I’d only gone into treatment because Dr. C said I had to stop drinking in order to continue seeing him – but while I was in rehab? Crickets.
I went to exactly two therapy sessions after rehab, announcing that his lack of support infuriated me. I felt like I’d paid him to be my friend when obviously he wasn’t my friend at all. So I quit therapy with Dr. C – and landed in therapy with at least five other female therapists over the next ten years.
But my family? They were the most supportive, loving, wonderful people – even from afar – even after all that I put them through, after all those insane escapades when they were pulled into the riptide, after all those months and years of pain, not being able to do anything to help. My family saturated me with love, and I felt like I’d been reborn.
When I got out, they continued to support me. I was invited to family reunions and picnics, holiday dinners and shopping sprees. I got letters and cards in the mail. Sometimes, just when I thought I wouldn’t survive another minute sober, a card would appear and I would think, Well, for my family I can probably make it one more day.
And so I did. I would head off to a meeting – often walking in bare feet for miles, because it was summer. And I would sit in the back of that meeting and listen while people described my life – as they told their own stories.
No one was happier that I was choosing a new way of life than my parents. For some reason, in spite of all my prior attempts at getting sober, my parents had hope. They invited me over for dinner on several occasions, and I cherished this time. I felt like I’d come back from the dead. We practiced using our “I” statements (learned in rehab) to communicate, which was helpful in making sure we didn’t overtly irritate each other.
My mom and I talked almost every day again, like we had when I was in college. She listened, and I talked, and she listened some more. No one listens like Mom.
And after our dinners when my dad would hug me, he’d sneak money into my hand, my pockets, anywhere he could. He did this for months before I stopped him and said, “Thank you, but I know you love me. You don’t have to give me money to prove it.” Dad hugged me again, kept the money, and we moved forward into a more adult relationship.
I felt supported, appreciated and overwhelmingly loved.
The rest of rehab had its ups and downs. I recognized that I had a purpose for being there – to learn, and to follow the rules. I didn’t like the rules; I have never been a fan of authority. But I enjoyed the groups, I loved the people, and I became vulnerable enough, finally, to be happily sober for 31 days.
My graduation from rehab was terrifying. I’d made a home for myself there. I didn’t want to leave. Everyone assured me that if I went to meetings and got a sponsor, I’d be fine. But I liked the people I met in rehab; I didn’t want to find new people.
Rehab suggested that I transfer to a sober living facility to keep me free from old triggers, but I declined. I had an important job at The Carnegie. I had to go home!
Also, Gregg was waiting for me. I didn’t know what to do with Gregg, since he was my only friend and I also detested him. I’d asked him not to visit me – which worked out fine, since he didn’t have a car to drive. I’d taken my car keys to rehab, so he couldn’t drive my beloved Bug.
I called the night before I left rehab and alerted Gregg to clean up the place and make sure that my tiny apartment had no alcohol or drugs. He assured me that he would do that. My guess? Any mood-altering chemicals that were around after I left had already been consumed in my absence.
Gregg had been taking care of Kitty, and I was happy he’d been there for her. He ran to meet me on the street, under the guise of helping me with my stuff. I had one bag, and I could carry it fine myself, thanks. He gave me a big hug and spun me around.
I really just wanted to see Kitty.
Upon arrival, I looked around. Everything was in order – no drugs or alcohol, and sadly no cigarettes since Gregg had smoked all of those, too. I gave him five bucks to go get me two more packs.
While he was gone, I opened my mail. I had a lot of junk and a bill, so I opened the phone bill first. Inside the envelope was the highest bill I’d ever received – more than $50! I was stunned. I flipped through and found several phone calls to places with monikers like “SEXY PHONE CHAT” and “900 WOMEN XXX.”
When Gregg returned with my cigarettes, I’d already thrown his stuff into a grocery bag. I waited for him outside, the bag on the ground.
I had not learned to curb my anger.
I ducked my head and ran at Gregg like a football player trying to make a tackle, bowling into him and bouncing backward. Then I swung my fists at his face, screaming obscenities like “FUCKING PHONE SEX!” and “FIFTY DOLLARS!” … hoping to land a blow and break his nose.
Gregg barely flinched, finally pinning my arms and explaining that he had just been lonely while I was gone, and that he would pay me back just as soon as ….
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY LIFE!” I screamed.
Gregg unpinned my arms and looked down at me. Then he turned and walked away, never to return.
I ran into Gregg about a year later, after I’d heard that his dad died of alcoholism. I told him I was sorry and hugged him, because I was sorry. I always felt sorry for Gregg.
Finally, though, Gregg was out of my life.
