Brilliant … But Bouncy

Done. Done. Done.

I’m done with this blog. Done with the page. Done with the archives. Give me a minute to take it down, but it will be gone forever once it’s down. Sorry for anyone who cares.

Epilogue

Today marks 33 years since I took my last drink – and three years since I started blogging about it. A lot has happened in those 33 years.

I left Pittsburgh. I couldn’t find a teaching job in Pittsburgh schools, so I started a television career at ABC/Kane in Washington, D.C. With 14 months sober, I moved in with my parents who eventually, gently, forced me to find my own place before I turned 30.

As I tried to maneuver in the corporate world while my entire psyche just wanted to be barefoot in the woods, I started dating a man who made me laugh, sometimes in a deep way that also made me think. Bill was whip-smart and unbearably kind and already a wonderful father to little Chris.

After I convinced Bill to marry me, we had our ceremony under a tree, with a picnic. We rode off into the sunset on his beautiful (“Jap-shit“) motorcycle, which momentarily transformed me into a fairytale princess.

In marriage, I discovered no bluebirds making our dinner. I had geriatric pregnancies resulting in two beautiful boys, now beautiful men. The joys of sober parenting are indescribable. Bill balances my extremes and our family is imperfectly perfect.

For decades, my parents have been my best friends. I play softball with the dad I tried to fist-fight in a parking lot. I have book club with the mom whose high school reunion I ruined. We talk constantly. I love them infinitely.

I have deep, lasting friendships with people who enhance my life even after Empty Nest Syndrome hit hard.

I made a life for myself in Maryland, though I spend hours planning trips to anywhere-but-here. I don’t always take the trips but I enjoy the planning. I spend a lot of time preparing, trying to control uncontrollable outcomes, being reminded that I have zero authority.

I worry and whine unnecessarily about small things; I step up for big problems.

I have Complex PTSD which generally means that when I am reminded of certain experiences – many of which were detailed in this blog – I dissociate. I shut down; I feel nothing. It is a learned behavior that I’ve used to ward off pain, but it also temporarily blocks my capacity for joy.

Dissociation does what alcohol used to do, but without the notoriously obscene consequences. I dissociated during my promiscuity; now I know that every unwanted sexual encounter was a separate trauma.

I’ve recently started C-PTSD therapy, mostly because living in a constant state of catastrophic fear isn’t as peaceful as I’d like it to be. I am seeking healthy ways to cope; I’m never too old for continued personal growth.

In fact, it’s my life’s goal to keep improving myself.

I have an autoimmune disease that destroyed my thyroid, likely due to the excess of beer, cereal, pasta and peanut butter sandwiches I consumed while others were learning to cook. As a result, my internal organs become ridiculously inflamed whenever I eat wheat. If I want to live, I can’t eat gluten. So I don’t.

I immediately quit smoking cigarettes when I learned I was pregnant with my first child. I don’t take pills, even aspirin. I gave up caffeine after one adrenaline-induced heart palpitation. I drink a ton of bottled water and green smoothies.

I’m curious. I recycle obsessively.

I am probably neurodivergent.

Since getting sober, my life is sometimes predictable, sometimes boring, often wildly serene. Life is always an adventure when looking through an adventurer’s lens.

Sobriety saved my life, gifted truth, and nurtures my soul. I brazenly no longer seek more than that.

I Am Still A Work In Progress.

Once I realized that I would never beat alcohol, I had to learn to live without it. Since I’d already tried doing things my way – which never worked – I started doing what AA suggested.

This was different than just listening to AA stories. This meant I had to be honest about how I really felt. I had do things that made me uncomfortable. I had to learn how to live in a world where I did not fit instead of trying to isolate behind a mask.

In other words, I had to get a whole new life.

The first thing I needed to know is that being popular is overrated. Ever since Mindy Ford sent me a really mean Valentine in the fourth grade, I spent a great deal of time trying to force people to like me. So when my first AA sponsor didn’t understand my quirks in 1992, it devastated me.

But I learned to talk to people in AA about my devastation, and I learned to listen to what other people said. Not everyone understands me. Not everyone cares to live by The Golden Rule, which has been my beacon on my sobriety journey.

But “not everyone” is different than “no one.”

This means I am not actually alone. I’d so wanted everyone to like me that I’d been willing to decapitate myself if it meant fitting in. I’d wanted to be liked more than I’d wanted to be myself.

Being me is both easier and harder than pretending to be someone who can fit in everywhere.

And it can be hard to figure out who likes me for who I really am. I’m quiet; sometimes people literally can’t hear me. My jokes are bone dry and often go right over people’s heads.

It also took time to recognize that I was (key word: was) smart, attractive and funny – in a certain, non-traditional way. I’m not nearly as repulsive as I’d imagined.

Still, it was unexpectedly challenging to learn how to live life. I wanted to follow my dreams and passions. I didn’t know how to choose a bar of soap or maintain a car. I didn’t know the necessary etiquette for office banter, parties, weddings, or funerals.

Life is hard. And I wanted to live, rather than just survive.

In other words, I needed to decide what was important to me, what mattered most in life, and then figure out how to make those things happen. I didn’t need to just find a man and settle down. I needed to find me and do things.

This is how I started discovering what I call “signs from God.” If I listed all the things I labeled “signs,” no one would believe in them. But after the shooting star in England, I knew signs existed; I just had to pray – then watch and listen. I found my answers in books, in meetings, on the radio, in the sky, on highways, in forests – virtually everywhere.

I still do. Lest anyone think I am insane, I keep them to myself mostly. But I use signs to make decisions and I pray every day. I still don’t appreciate religion or church; I am not even wild about the term “higher power.”

But believing sincerely helps.

To me, God doesn’t fit into a box, just like I don’t fit into a box. God is a profound human concept. Mine takes care of everyone. And that works for me.

I am still a work in progress. But after all this time, being me without alcohol or drugs feels okay. Often I feel loved.

I’d Been Completely Blind.

David moved in with me after rehab. He introduced me to flaming hot potato chips and in return I helped him buy presents for his children, and I helped him get a job. He worked from (my) home telemarketing – for three days. Then he quit his job and left, calling me a couple of weeks later.

“I’m thinking about drinking again,” David said.

“I can’t stop you,” I said. And that was the end of our relationship.

I quickly found John, a bipolar guy who asked me to marry him so that I could sign him out of the insane asylum whenever he was committed. When he was, I bailed.

I jumped from John to …. Well, I jumped and jumped. As predicted in rehab, focusing on men kept me from focusing on myself. This “problem” went on until one night, sometime in 1995, when I literally cried during sex because I didn’t know how to say no.

That experience led me to a realization: There is no knight on a white horse who can save me.

I was raised on Disney. I’d been completely blind to this obvious fact.

I’d always needed to focus on myself, and I spent the first years of sobriety struggling through absurd (but sober!) relationships and wondering what was wrong with me.

In spite of years of AA meetings and getting to know a few people, I still didn’t know what the heck I was doing. I didn’t understand that I didn’t have to quit forever; I only had to quit for one day. When I realized that, things got easier.

I also learned H.A.L.T. – Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired – for craving management. Amazingly, I have never once wanted to drink when I wasn’t hungry, angry, lonely or tired. Never, in 33 years.

A rehab nurse told a story about addict mentality.

“Addiction is like being in a boxing ring with Mike Tyson,” she said. “You’re prepared to fight. You’ve trained; you’re ready! Then you’re knocked out in one punch. So you pull yourself up and decide you’re going to try harder. You train harder. Then you get back in the ring with Mike Tyson. And he still knocks you out in one punch.”

The rehab patients laughed. Mike Tyson was in his heyday as a world champion boxer so we all knew we’d be knocked out.

“So you try harder. You get a trainer. You train for weeks. You get really pumped. When you’re finally ready you get back into the ring. Maybe you throw a few punches. Then … Boom! You get knocked out in one punch.”

After that rehab, I was at a meeting sitting with my head in my hands, depressed, confused, unsure. I had no idea how AA was supposed to work for me.

Eyes closed, I saw a vision of a Mack truck – its giant front grill right next to my face, the monstrous truck looming over my 5-foot-4 frame.

That’s when I realized: I haven’t been fighting Mike Tyson. I’ve been fighting a Mack truck!

I saw my tiny self, uselessly punching the front bumper. I will never, ever win against a Mack truck.

Every time I’d ever picked up a drink, I’d lost control over what happened next. Outcomes were never based on what I wanted. Drinking meant I couldn’t choose anything in my life beyond obtaining and consuming another mood-altering substance.

And right then and there: I surrendered. I decided to do things differently. I gave up on trying to do everything my way and started listening to suggestions in AA.

That Mack truck vision changed my life.

I Wanted Something From Sobriety.

I was talking to a nurse at the front desk when my parents walked in.

My mom said, “I’m here to see Kirsten Moore.” She sounded so concerned.

“She’s right here,” said the nurse, waving her arm.

I hadn’t yet showered. My hair looked like I’d stuck my finger in an electric socket. I was still wearing Marvin’s sweatshirt, week-old underwear, and leather boots without socks.

My mom turned away from the nurse and looked directly at me, then turned back to the nurse. “Where is she?”

“Mum!” I said loudly. “I’m right here!”

Hearing my voice, my mom looked at me again. “Oh, Kirsten!” she said. I was a grubby, dead-eyed daughter, an unfathomable version Mom hadn’t seen in years.

She literally had not recognized me.

My parents drove all the way from Maryland to bring me clothes.

Then they drove to Chautauqua where the Clinton-Gore campaign was holding a planned rally.

When my parents visited me again, we didn’t talk about relapse or rehab. We talked about Hillary Clinton who, they said, shone brighter than the rest.

When my parents left town, I cried.

During my 14-day stay, I connected with the other addicts to rebel against hospital rules, which included being forced to smoke infrequently – and outside. We failed in attempts to retrieve our cigarettes from behind the nurses’ desk.

We also weren’t allowed to have caffeinated coffee. For my 28th birthday, a bunch of us got up at 4 a.m. to steal coffee from the staff lounge. I’ve never been a coffee drinker but the thrill of stealing caffeinated beverages was a major adrenaline rush.

“Happy birthday!” We clicked “cheers” with our hot paper cups.

Later that day, we went to an outside AA meeting. Someone asked if anyone was celebrating a birthday. I raised my hand.

The whole room laughed. It was my birthday but, in Erie, “birthday” meant “sobriety anniversary.” Wearing my hospital bracelet meant it was unlikely that I was celebrating anything … yet.

Other days we learned line dances. The Electric Slide is still my favorite, having benefited me for 33 years even though my dancing is slightly less bouncy in the 21st century.

Another day, a woman visited the rehab to tell her story of addiction. We all sat around a table listening intently. I stared longingly into her eyes, amazed at how the bright blue literally sparkled.

Afterward I asked her breathlessly: “How did you get your eyes to sparkle? My eyes are just dead. I want them to sparkle like yours!”

The woman laughed. “If you stay sober and go to meetings, your eyes can sparkle, too. It just takes some time.”

Okay, I thought. Finally I wanted something from sobriety. I wanted my eyes to look alive.

At my exit interview, the doctors said: “What do you think your biggest problem is going to be after you get out?”

“Men!” I said, without hesitation. “I always have problems with men.”

“We think you’re right,” said my therapist. Around the room, all the heads nodded.

After 14 days, I graduated without a nickel to my name. David, who’d left rehab two days before me, picked me up in his boat-sized car.

But neither of us had money for gas. Instead we drove to his sister’s empty trailer and had sex.

Weeks earlier, my parents had mailed me a birthday card with a fifty-dollar bill inside. I asked Louise to open the card; she wired me my birthday money so I could buy enough gas to get home.

David drove me to Pittsburgh … and stayed.

We were right about the men.

So You’re Safe?

In spite of only drinking for two months, I walked into rehab with the worst DTs I’d ever had. My teeth were chattering and my hands were shaking like it was -18° so I hunkered down into Marvin’s sweatshirt – a black Harley Davidson crewneck that smelled like oil and dust.

“I’m here for rehab,” I said at the front desk of the Erie hospital. They sent me to the fourth floor where I showed up not only without my purple duffel, but without even a toothbrush.

They quickly put me in an empty room. They were not nearly as thorough as my first rehab, nor did they shoot me in the butt with librium. Instead, they told me I could rest.

I slept for two days.

Then I called my parents for the first time in many weeks.

They’d moved to Washington, D.C. months earlier. My dad wasn’t home; my mom answered.

“I drank again,” I told my mom. “I’m in rehab.”

My mom did not reply for a long time. After an eternity of silence my mom breathed.

“So you’re safe?”

“I’m safe,” I said. “I’m at a hospital in Erie.”

She didn’t ask why I was hours from home. I asked her to mail me some clothes if she could, and to please make sure Louise was still feeding my abandoned cat.

My mom said she would do what she could.

I was put into the general population on the third day. Like my prior rehab, I enjoyed this immensely. As soon as I started to feel better, I started making friends: Big John, who was terrifically funny; Marianne, a skinny junkie who talked about slitting her wrists to try to get off crack; David, a short guy with a ridiculous mustache and a speaking voice like a country music superstar. (I fell in love with David instantly.)

When Big John graduated from rehab, he offered to deliver our cigarettes. We gathered up our pennies; he wrote down our brands. I gave him my last $5 bill, which I’d been carrying “in case” for weeks.

Big John – who was smarter than we’d guessed – never came back with any cigarettes.

Completely broke and hours from home, I decided to figure out why my credit card had been randomly declined. I didn’t have a quarter for the payphone, but Chase Bank had a toll-free number.

“I need to find out what’s wrong with my credit card.”

“You reached your maximum limit,” said the Chase Bank representative.

“I need you to raise my maximum limit,” I said. “I need money.”

“That won’t be possible at this time,” she said politely. “We have already raised your limit to $12,400 and it looks like you’ve been having some trouble paying your bill. Would you like to speak with a Chase credit repair consultant?”

“No,” I said shrilly. “I just need money. Can’t you just raise it just a little bit? I don’t need much.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I started to panic. I tried complete and total honesty, playing on her emotions, hoping for sympathy.

“But I’m in rehab!” I shrieked. “And I can’t get home without any money!”

Looking back, this might not have been the best card to play.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. Then, brightly: “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

“You haven’t done anything for me!” I screamed. Then, as though it would accomplish anything, I slammed down the payphone receiver.

Nearby nurses frowned.

With no idea how I would ever get home, I immersed myself in rehabilitation activities.

This time, I wanted help.

It’s Open! Please?

I was so drunk that I’d forgotten the name of the hotel; if it hadn’t been etched into the keytag for my room, I’d never have found the place. But all I could think about was my empty bottle of schnapps.

That mother fucker drank my last drink, I thought. He probably thought I could just buy more.

But I knew my drinking time was limited. And now all the bars were closed.

Like all the other times I’d been drunk in my entire life, I’d ended up nowhere near where I wanted to be, doing nothing like what I’d wanted to do, with some strange guy on top of me and wondering if I would ever get home.

All of my drunken episodes were the same. I thought I was having spectacular adventures but they were all unpredictably messy, and always ended with something I didn’t want. Once I started drinking, my decisions were made based solely on getting more alcohol, more drugs, more more more. More was all that mattered.

The rest – the men, the sex, waking up wherever I landed – that was payment for “more.”

I sat on the curb outside and stared at the asphalt. In front of my eyes, the pavement melted, waves of color swirling over the black.

I sat up, eyes wide: my first-ever alcoholic hallucinations. I’d heard about but never experienced them.

I panicked and called my neighbor, Louise, from the nearby pay phone. It was maybe 4 a.m.

I called collect because I had no cash. Louise accepted the charges.

“Are you okay?” she answered.

“I just want to check on Kitty,” I drawled.

“Are you okay!” Louise repeated emphatically.

“Well I was raped, and that mother fucker drank my last drink.” I told her about Marvin and Meadville and the hotel, then she abruptly hung up.

I plopped on the curb and watched the asphalt swirl.

Moments later, the police arrived and found me in the parking lot. “We got a call from a Louise. She wants us to make sure you’re okay.”

Both officers were male.

“I’m fucking fine,” I said. Swearing came to me so easily when I was drunk, especially when people were – like police officers – preventing my continued attempts at making poor choices.

“We’d still like to ask you some questions,” they said.

I sighed.

When I’d finally convinced them that I didn’t need a hospital, I went into the hotel room. Marvin’s wooden leg was next to the bed. He sat up a little. I walked over and started kissing him, climbing on top of him, trying to have sex with him.

I figured payment was definitely owed.

Gently Marvin rolled me onto the bed, placing my head on the pillow.

“Just get some sleep,” he said calmly. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

When morning came, I was shivering, teeth chattering, the DTs setting in. Marvin gave me his sweatshirt for the ride.

An hour later, we stood outside of the hospital in Erie where the rehab awaited.

But I saw a bar across the street.

After losing my last drink to the would-be rapist, I desperately wanted one more chance – to do it right this time.

“It’s open! Please?” I begged.

Marvin shook his head. “No more bars,” he said. “You’ve gotta go in. And I’ve got to go to work.”

“Work?”

Marvin nodded. “I’ve got to go in today.”

I tried to remove Marvin’s sweatshirt, but I was shaking uncontrollably.

“Give it back when you get out,” Marvin said.

I hugged and thanked him, and walked inside to rehab.

This Was Not Where I Wanted To Be.

It was a spacious bar, with a jukebox blasting and people playing pool. Carrying a bottle in my pocket made me feel like a degenerate but I sure wasn’t leaving it outside.

This bottle would forever be my last drink.

I sat down on the bar stool in Meadville, feeling completely at home with the strangers. I felt safe.

This was a mistake. Drinking always implied my relative safety while simultaneously throwing it out the window.

I carefully concealed the bottle in my leather jacket pocket as I sat down and ordered a draft beer. Finally, I thought. I completely forgot about the root beer schnapps I’d wanted. Instead I drank two beers, then slipped into the bathroom to take a clandestine sip of peach schnapps in the toilet stall.

When I got back to the bar, an uninvited man was waiting for me on my bar stool.

I don’t know his name. I’ll call him Hank, though it could have been Eric or Tim or Bob. He was scruffy, blond, tall, obnoxious and drunk, not necessarily in that order, and his name didn’t matter.

When Hank found out I was buying beer on credit, I bought him some drinks.

Then, when my credit card was suddenly randomly declined, Hank bought me drinks.

So when the bar closed and Hank offered to drive me back to my hotel, I accepted. I still had visions of finishing my bottle alone.

I hopped into Hank’s pickup truck, but he didn’t drive me to the hotel.

Instead he said, “I’m gonna show you a special place.”

“I don’t want to go to a special place,” I said, fondling the bottle in my pocket. “I want to go to my hotel.”

“Just wait,” he said, putting his unwanted hand on my knee. “You’ll love it.”

I did not think I would love it. I didn’t even like this guy. But, completely stuck, I rode with him to what can only be described as the middle of nowhere.

I stepped onto an enormous grassy field. There was no light.

“This is the best place to see the stars,” he said. “C’mon, lay down!” He threw himself into the grass in the pitch blackness. I sat down warily next to him.

This was not where I wanted to be.

Within minutes, he was kissing me, rolling on top of me, slobbering all over me, taking off everyone’s clothes leaving me half-naked and scratched by rocks in the grass.

I did not participate. I turned my head and said, “get off of me” and “I want to go back to the hotel” and “stop it” until finally, in the darkness in the middle of nowhere, I screamed, “You’re raping me!”

And that’s what finally made him stop.

“I thought you were enjoying it,” he said.

“No,” I said.

I opened my schnapps and glumly took a sip, calming my nerves.

“Aw man,” he said. “Gimme some of that.”

Then the obnoxious man whose name was probably not Hank took my bottle of peach schnapps out of my shaking hands, put it up to his lips, and downed the remaining liquid in one agonizing gulp.

I stared, dumbfounded.

“You drank my last drink!” I screamed at him. “You drank my LAST FUCKING DRINK!” I started whaling on him, swinging hard, fast, repeatedly. “You fucking raped me then you DRANK MY LAST FUCKING DRINK YOU FUCKING BASTARD! TAKE ME BACK TO MY FUCKING HOTEL!”

Within seconds we were in the truck, within minutes at the hotel. Still fuming I leapt out, cursing him. He barely stopped, then careened away.

Do You Have Any Root Beer Schnapps?

I loved walking along train tracks. As a drunk, I’d ridden four-wheelers in the snow on the train tracks in Ohio. After tossing myself out of detox, I’d stood close enough to a train to nearly lose my life. And now, in Meadville, Pennsylvania, only a few weeks later, I was strolling on the tracks again.

My entire goal: find a liquor store and keep drinking.

I expected to buy a bottle and sip shots by the tracks, staring at the freights as they rumbled by and making my way back to the hotel when the bottle was gone. I’d drink the whole bottle myself, I reasoned, since Marvin was asleep, and then I’d go straight to rehab when he woke up.

But my plans rarely worked out when I was drinking.

I walked and walked in the hot summer sun. And while I was enjoying my stroll, it felt like the end of my life. I’d been dragging out my last drunk for … how long had it been? What day was it? What time was it? I’d left home to go to a bar and find someone to drive me to rehab … on Monday, I think. Or was it Sunday? I couldn’t recall. And it didn’t matter.

I just needed more. And as I walked and walked and walked, I wondered if the desk clerk had been confused, or if he’d lied to me. And just as I was wondering if there was actually a liquor store close enough to the tracks to see it, I saw a shopping plaza in the distance. I felt hopeful.

It was still a long walk to the plaza.

As I walked, I considered the most important question: What will I get for my last drink? I thought about buying rum and drinking rum and cokes, since that had been my first drink. I’d come full circle. But then I would have to buy coke, and mix drinks, and I just wanted to drink out of the bottle. I didn’t want beer because it would get warm. Finally I settled on root beer schnapps. I loved root beer schnapps. It would be the perfect thing.

I finally reached the plaza, found the store, and felt hopeful. I walked inside. Unaccustomed to buying hard liquor after drinking beer for most of my drunken years, I felt a bit let down that the store was so small. Sure, there were plenty of options – but wine? Yuk. Too much wine. Too much vodka. Where was the schnapps?

Finally I found it: a whole section of schnapps: apple, peach, and peppermint. Yuk! Who wants fruity schnapps? And peppermint schnapps reminded me of drinking that minty mouthwash at Ronnie’s house.

These will not do, I thought.

Then to the bored guy behind the counter I called, “Do you have any root beer schnapps?”

“Root beer? No.” He didn’t move from his spot.

I stood there for a long time. Finally I picked up a bottle of peach schnapps, which seemed like the least awful choice, and bought it with my credit card.

Is this even enough?

It would never be enough.

Somewhat desperate for the perfect last drink, I asked: “Is there a bar anywhere around here?”

“I think there’s a place about six blocks that way,” he waved. “But it might have closed down.”

That sounded like my kinda place. “How do I get there?”

He waved haphazardly, “Six blocks that way.”

So I discarded the last-drink-on-the-tracks idea and started walking “that way.”

The sun disappeared as I walked. My bottle was half-gone when I stepped inside.

Oh My God Stop!

After Frank the Angel’s visit to Barry’s Bar, I was reminded that I needed to get to rehab. I remembered the lady on the phone: get here soon – blah blah – beds might not be available – blah blah blah….

When Marvin said “are ya ready to go?” I looked around at Barry’s Bar. There was no better dark, grungy place in the world for me, right then and there. I wanted to stay forever.

I would never, ever be ready to go.

“I guess,” I said. If I had to stop drinking, this was a great last place to drink.

And I had to stop drinking. Even though every molecule in my body wanted more more more MORE! I knew that I needed to get to rehab. Even though my brain was demanding: GO TO REHAB! the ticker tape in my brain was saying only one thing: this is the last time … this is the last time … this is the last time ….

I am an alcoholic. There would never, ever be enough beer for me. I couldn’t have one drink, because I would not be able to stop. I would never be able to control the consequences. I would not be able to have a life of any kind unless I could get off the alcohol.

I needed rehab. I needed it like I needed oxygen. But with alcohol already in my system, the only thing I really wanted was another beer.

Still, Erie was only a couple of hours away. Marvin was ready to go. I needed to go with him. So with a nod to Barry, who probably assumed I’d be back in an hour, I walked out the door. I sloshed myself into the sidecar and we finally drove out of Pitcairn.

I passed out almost immediately.

The sun was blazing down on me when I woke and took notice of my surroundings. We were on a highway somewhere, nothing but green all around us. I lit a cigarette inside the sidecar.

That’s when Marvin said, over the din and without so much as a hint of exhaustion, “Um, I’ve been awake for more than 24 hours. And I need to call work. They don’t know where I am.”

Marvin’s well-being had never crossed my mind.

“Oh my god stop!” I said. “Stop somewhere, anywhere! And call work! And get some sleep!”

A normal person might be worried that sleepy, drunk Marvin would crash the motorcycle and kill us both.

My first thought: if we stop, I can get more alcohol!

“Are you sure?” Marvin asked me. “I know you want to get to rehab.”

“Yes! It’s totally cool! You need sleep!” I said. “I’ll pay for your hotel!” (I loved that credit card.)

Within minutes we were checking into a hotel in Meadville, Pennsylvania, 45 minutes away from rehab.

“Is there a bar within walking distance?” I asked the desk clerk. I’d been sleeping for maybe two hours, but I was ready to start drinking immediately.

“I don’t know of any,” he said, sizing me up. “There’s a liquor store a couple of blocks east.”

“Which way is east?” I asked him. I had no sense of direction and just wanted him to point.

The desk clerk stared. “I guess you could follow the train tracks,” he said. “Just follow them awhile and you’ll get to a plaza with a liquor store.”

Train tracks.

We got our room keys and I waved to Marvin. “See ya!”

Marvin was too tired to argue. “Just make sure you come back,” he said.

Marvin was starting to figure me out.