Brilliant … But Bouncy

I Had To Want Sobriety More.

Over the years, there have been a million times that I’ve wondered: why me? Why am I sober and so many other alcoholics are dead? And why are so many obviously alcoholic drinkers still drinking?

I can only answer using my own experience. I tried to get sober on my own and failed multiple times. I could only make it a few weeks without anyone helping me. Then I tried rehab – a jump start that I truly needed, but staying sober was up to me afterward.

I have kicked several addictions now – drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, caffeine – and there is only one thing necessary for me to stop destroying myself. There is only one mindset that “works,” that creates a space in my life for the miracle to happen.

It doesn’t work to pretend. It doesn’t work to “try.” It doesn’t work to move toward sobriety because I think I should. Only one thing truly works.

I had to want sobriety more than I wanted to keep using drugs and alcohol.

I had to want sobriety more than anything. I had to want to be healthy more than I wanted to stay sick.

For years I knew something was wrong. For years I thought about drinking, about how it was killing me, about what it was doing to my life. For years I watched myself deteriorate; I looked into the mirror and saw those dead eyes staring back. For years I wondered how I could fix the problem.

And then, one day, I actually wanted to stop. I wanted to stop more than anything in the world. I was willing to do anything it took to get sober. There were no more reservations.

No more, “But what if I’m not happy?”

No more, “But what if it doesn’t work?”

No more, “But … but … but…”

No. More.

When I started trying to get sober, it wasn’t because I really wanted to stop drinking. I tried sobriety because I had absolutely nowhere else to turn.

Nobody else could save me from myself. I had to give up on “trying” and start actually doing. I’d been trying for years. Trying doesn’t work.

In order to start doing something different, I had to be open to changing everything.

I had to change the thought patterns in my head, to change the behaviors I’d perfected, to change the person I thought I wanted to be. I had to open my mind to the possibility that what I believed – what I’d held onto with a death grip for all those years – was absolutely ineffective and, possibly, just plain wrong.

I had to do what other people told me to do, even though I didn’t want to, and I found my people in Alcoholics Anonymous – although sober people are everywhere in the world. Some people get sober through religion or family or work or therapy.

For me, anonymous support groups were the best way to open up and be honest and still do things my own way.

But no one stays sober who doesn’t really want to be sober.

Getting sober is hard. Staying sober is harder. It requires commitment and change. And really, truly, deeply wanting to change is essential for actual change.

So one day, I wanted to change more than anything in the world. I was done with my old life; it had run its course into the ground just as far as it could possibly go.

Unfortunately for everyone in my world, that psychic change didn’t happen to me until 1992.

I walked into the doors of my first rehab on May 4, 1989.

It’s Been So Long Since I’ve Seen You!

When I finally left for rehab, leaving Gregg at my apartment in charge of Kitty, I was still plastered.

I also had to face some truths about myself that I’d ignored for many, many years. My number one ignored truth: the world is not responsible for my problems. I was responsible for my problems. And I had absolutely no idea how to fix that.

I’d blamed the world for all my problems since childhood.

I was sure that the entire world needed to change or I could never be happy. The world sucked. So what could I do? How could I live in a world I detested?

While pondering that question in rehab, I had another easily analyzed dream.

***************************

I am 24 years old, standing alone in a huge, empty room, probably a school cafeteria. Everything is white, sterile.

There is nothing until … I notice someone walking toward me – a little girl, maybe 13 years old. She has reddish blond hair, recently permed and too curly, lips protruding slightly over garish braces. She stares at the floor as she walks; her shyness is palpable.

When she reaches me, she stops and looks up, unsmiling, saying nothing.

I don’t recognize her for a moment. Then, suddenly, I am overwhelmed with a tidal wave of recognition.

“Kirsten!” I say, smiling brightly and opening my arms wide. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you!”

She is scared, confused, but she steps forward. Young Kirsten walks into my open arms and I hug her tightly, embracing her for the first time in my entire life.

***************************

I woke up without sitting up; my eyes flew open. I knew where I was – in a cold hospital bed at Gateway Rehabilitation Center. I knew why I was there.

And for the first time in many years, I knew who I was.

That dream was my first step in making peace with the child I’d discarded so many years ago. I’d loathed that girl. She was duped and bullied and hurt for decades, so I’d ditched her. I’d become someone else entirely – someone tough, someone who did wild, dangerous things in the name of freedom.

But at 24, I rediscovered my inner child. I didn’t need to change the world. I only needed to find myself, to start believing in that younger me, comforting her. Accepting and loving that scared little soul was the key to my adult happiness.

Finding her was a small step on a very, very long road.

Can I Bring My Boom Box?

I envisioned rehab as a sort of vacation. It seemed like a peaceful place to be, where I would be able to sleep and eat and get away from my lying boyfriend.

I really needed a vacation from my life.

So I went into work and explained my situation, told them I would need to take time off. My boss was incredibly supportive, and gave me a whole additional week off.

This was obviously a mistake in judgement on their part, but I relished the extra time. I used that week to “prepare” by getting as drunk and high as humanly possible, assuming it would be my last-ever chance to do so.

But I never forgot my end goal. I called the rehab – drunk – nearly every night.

“Can I bring my boom box?” I slurred.

When they flatly refused to allow my giant cassette-playing radio, I slurred, “Will there be music somewhere? I can’t fuckin’ live without music!”

Another night I asked, legitimately concerned, “Will I have to get up early? I can’t even get up for work!”

I was too drunk to remember their answer in the morning. I just remember repeatedly humiliating myself on the phone, night after night, as I drank and drank and drank.

For the first time ever, though, my drinking had an end in sight. I knew I was going to stop. Finally, I was going to stop.

But I wasn’t going to stop before rehab; that would have been insane. In fact, the night before I went into rehab was one of the best nights I’d had in years.

My friend Jeremiah lived three houses down, having just moved in. Jeremiah – who I knew from a Pennysaver party – was whip-smart and funny as anyone I’d ever met, and I absolutely adored him. If he’d ever been home, I would have spent tons of time with him. But Jeremiah was always out partying.

The night before rehab, though, I begged him to go out drinking with me. Oh, and Gregg, who was still attached to my hip. We smoked a few joints on Jeremiah’s porch, then strolled to a bar for a handful of shots and beers. One of Jeremiah’s friends, a girl named Jackie who was also incredibly smart and funny, suggested we go to a bar in another city and we all piled into someone’s car.

I don’t remember going to another bar, but I remember six or seven people smashed into the car, Jackie and I smashed together on the seat laughing hysterically for hours.

Jackie was the first woman whose company I had enjoyed since … well, since being with my college friends. In three years, she was the first woman with whom I found a real, personal connection. She got me; I got her. And she was astoundingly fun.

“Where have you been all my life!” she screamed over the music in the car.

“Where have you been!” I screamed back. We laughed some more. Eventually the sun started to rise and I had to go home, so the driver – whoever it was – dropped off Jeremiah, Gregg and me on our street.

“When will I see you again?” she yelled.

“I don’t know,” I said, climbing out of the car. “I’m going to rehab tomorrow!”

“REHAB? Tomorrow?” She scrawled her phone number on my hand. “If you change your mind about going to rehab, call me!” Then the car peeled away, her laughter echoing in my soul.

The next time I saw Jeremiah was at an AA meeting. He only went to one meeting.

I never saw Jackie again.

Would You Be Willing To Go To Rehab?

In the months since I started seeing Dr. C, we’d done a lot of great work – or so I’d thought. I believed I’d come to deep personal revelations that would help me be happier in my future.

Dr. C thought I couldn’t progress any further in my life if I didn’t give up alcohol.

Suddenly I realized: he’d had me talk about the consequences of my drinking, try to count my drinks, collect bottle caps – then can tabs – to determine how much I was drinking, and talk for hours and hours about both my dreams and my failures.

It didn’t seem fair that, after building a rapport with him for so many months – now he didn’t want to see me anymore? The alcohol is what gave me purpose, kept me sane and happy. Beer was my best friend. How could Dr. C not have realized this?

I actually cried when he said he didn’t want to see me anymore. I didn’t hear “you need to quit drinking.” I heard “you are not my friend.” I felt betrayed and abandoned and deeply hurt.

But also, I knew how to analyze my own dream, and that dream had been clear. There was no denying the bloody, slashed and brutally beaten body that my subconscious created while I slept. And I remember the recognition, looking at my battered bones, that I had done all that harm to myself.

Most notably: I couldn’t feel any pain, even after destroying myself so completely.

So after crying and begging and fighting more than was necessary I told Dr. C: “I don’t actually know how to stop drinking, so I guess I can’t see you anymore.”

“You can learn how to live without drinking,” he said. “Would you be willing to go to rehab to do that?”

“I can’t! I have to work!” I wailed. I loved, loved, loved my job. And rehab sounded a little scary.

“You might need to take a medical leave of absence.”

A leave of absence sounded nice. That meant I didn’t have to work and I could keep my job! “Will you keep seeing me if I go to rehab?”

Dr. C paused, considering this. “If you complete the program, yes,” he said finally.

I thought about my life. I would need someone to take care of Kitty. I would need to tell my job that I needed to go to a hospital. But that was it. I had exactly two responsibilities.

I thought about the rest of the things in my life – the people who would care that I was going to rehab. My entire extended family would be elated, but I wasn’t going to go to rehab to appease them. I was thrilled to be getting away from Gregg; his lies had destroyed our relationship. I thought about that scary LSD experience with Bonnie, who was finishing her college degree in Ohio. Exchanging letters with my other college friend, Debbie, wasn’t going to stop if I went to rehab.

And any other friends I still had … well, they only visited to drink with me. And even those friends had been gone for awhile.

Rehab wasn’t likely to end my loneliness, but I sure didn’t feel anything pulling me to stay at home.

Plus I could go to a place where someone would feed me and take care of me for however long it took for my “rehabilitation.” And I therefore didn’t have to worry about taking care of myself.

Maybe rehab wouldn’t be so bad.

“Okay, I’ll go,” I said.

Why Aren’t You Sliding?

After all of the nightmares I created for myself in my waking life, it was a dream that changed everything.

**************************************

THE DREAM:

I am inside an enormous, very crowded drinking establishment.

The place has a four-story-high sliding board centerpiece. Its top touches the ceiling; slick, smooth curves swerve atop the crowds below, delivering a dramatic and exciting ride.

Surrounding the giant slide are dozens of bars: glossy wooden platforms with varying themes. One bar is rodeo-style with mechanical bulls. Another is a nightclub, another a hotel bar, another dark and dingy, smoke-filled. Another is a pool hall; another has darts and a bowling machine. Another has a band playing, with swaying young adults waving their drinks above their heads. Everything is in one warehouse-sized building.

All the people look familiar; these are people I know. They are dancing, chatting, drinking, laughing.

Nobody is on the giant slide.

I’m as happy as a kid at Christmas in this place, with the music playing and the thrilling slide in its center. I run back and forth to the various bartenders and get drinks, which I then carry with me to the slide – and I am there for the slide, more so than the drinks. I climb like an ape to the top of the slide and then – WHOOSH! – I zoom down to the bottom, taking the curves at breakneck speed, enjoying the wind in my hair as I fly. And as soon as I reach the bottom, I leap up the ladder to the top again.

I run back to the bar – there’s Larry! ‘Hey Larry!’ – I kiss him, and zip away with my drink. Then – zoom! – I’m up that ladder again and flying down the giant slide, laughing all the way. I go back to Larry after this ride and say, ‘Hey! Why aren’t you sliding?’ And Larry laughs and shakes his head at me, like Larry always did.

The next time I ride, I land in a grocery cart – just an empty cart, so that when I go flying off the end of the slide, the cart catches me. I assume that I can use it to get to the bar faster, and get back to the slide faster, but neither happens. It doesn’t move, so I climb out and walk. I grab my drink, go up the slide, WHOOSH! down the slide, CRASH! land in the cart – then I hop out and do it all again.

And again.

And again and again and again.

Then suddenly, there’s Bonnie at the bar – ‘Hi Bonnie!’ I yell. ‘You gotta try this! It’s so fun!’ Bonnie looks at me, her mouth agape. She says, ‘Kirsten, look.’ And she points at my mid-section, which makes me look down at myself, and I see that I’m not wearing any clothes.

I appear to be tattooed head-to-toe, covered in scrawls.

But upon closer inspection, I realize that the “tattoos” are actually innumerable bloody gashes on my body. I’m completely covered by giant black and purple bruises; slashed, torn skin; crusty scabs; deep scrapes and gaping wounds.

Not one centimeter of clear, unharmed skin remains. And I’m standing there, drink in hand, numb.

I can’t feel a single thing.

I realize: THIS is why no one else was sliding. Because this is what I’ve been doing to myself.

**************************************

I woke, gasping for air, my battered body still visible in my mind’s eye.

My therapist and I had analyzed dreams for many months; I didn’t need him to decipher this.

I told him about it anyway.

Dr. C said, “I can’t see you anymore until you stop drinking.”

The Clamor Was Insufficient.

I remember quite vividly the day that I finally did exactly what I wanted to do.

I prepared on a Friday by picking up a carton of cigarettes and two cases of Natural Light beer. (“Light” because I have never not been on a diet.)

I rolled out of bed and changed it into a sofa. I lit a cigarette, guzzled some Diet Coke, then settled down with a beer to watch Pee Wee’s Playhouse and My Little Pony.

My dream of drinking with zero interference from the outside world was finally coming true.

It was raining outside, so I stayed inside blasting music, thrilled to choose whatever songs moved me. Judas Priest‘s Hell Bent for Leather seemed like a good way to start a Saturday. By mid-afternoon, I’d run through AC/DC, Donny Osmond, John Schneider, The Carpenters and Ten Years After.

I drank with purpose; I wanted to inject the alcohol directly into my soul. I drank and drank and drank.

As the sun started to set, the music stopped making me happy. I felt – quite suddenly – extremely and unbearably lonely, and didn’t know how to handle that loneliness.

I turned on the television – blah blah blah emitted from the tinny speaker. The music continued to blast. When I realized the people-sounds weren’t enough to quell the creeping sadness, I looked for other things to fill the silence. I turned on the water in the bathtub – PSHHHH! – loud, but not enough.

Kitty raced to her spot on top of the refrigerator.

I turned on the water in the bathroom sink. I flushed the toilet. I turned on the water in the kitchen sink. I turned on the microwave – empty – for 30 minutes.

The clamor was insufficient.

I made a circle out of ashtrays on the floor. It’s amazing how many ashtrays I had, considering I’d never purchased one. I sat cross-legged with my beer in the center of my stolen ashtrays. I ashed my cigarette in every ashtray, then lit another one. I started burning holes in the carpet next to each ashtray, just because I could. I put out my cigarette in the carpet and lit another one.

The stereo blasted. With the TV, the rushing water and the microwave, my apartment blared like a distress signal to another planet.

I held my breath, trying to soak in the external influences. This made me cough.

Suddenly I knew what I needed to do.

I raced into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. And there I was, after a full day of drunken partying my way, with the same dead eyes I saw in every bar bathroom.

I turned off the water in the sink and the tub. I turned off everything in the kitchen. I toppled the ashtrays and ground the ashes into the carpet, destroyed by my pathetic attempt at self-care. I turned off the TV and put a new album on the stereo.

This time: Yaz. An appropriately chaotic song called I Before E.

I flopped onto the floor, into the ash, and curled into a fetal position, every bit as dead inside as I’d felt every previous drunken day. I couldn’t even cry. I felt lost and abandoned and completely hopeless.

Worst of all, I was utterly alone.

I drank another beer anyway, then another. I lit another cigarette and ashed it onto the floor. I drank and smoked and drank some more until I passed out on my face without so much as a pillow.

I had created my dream day and I hadn’t fixed anything.

I was still me.

I Started To Feel Guilty.

Because I worked a standard 9-5 job on weekdays for the first time in my life, I was starting to feel a little bit like I belonged in the world. I loved my colleagues and I was proud of myself for working at such a prestigious institution. I did my absolute best to show up every day, in spite of my insane home life.

But I started to feel guilty showing up at work with a hangover. Especially since I was doing it every day.

I set my alarm for the latest possible time I could: 7:30 when I had to be there (20 minutes away) at 8:00. “Snooze” was a luxury I could not afford. I’d slept through too many temp jobs by hitting “snooze.”

Getting out of bed was excruciating. Some days I could only get up with enough time to brush my teeth, feed the cat, and throw on the same khakis I’d worn the day before. I did better earlier in the week, when I would manage to force myself into the shower, sometimes even washing my hair.

Then I’d drive to work with a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke between my legs, which makes it hard to shift gears in a VW bug. It’s even harder when chain-smoking out the window for the entire 20-minute drive through stop-and-go traffic.

It was well worth it. I wanted this job. I liked this job. Like with The Pennysaver, I felt like an integral part of the team, and I was proud of the work we did together. It was the internal motivation I needed to help me push forward.

But my head throbbed straight through till lunchtime. By then I was so sick, it was hard to choke down whatever I grabbed from the museum cafeteria in my allotted (paid!) lunch hour. (I got a whole HOUR for lunch!) I felt incredibly guilty doing sub-par work in the mornings, but it never occurred to me to get up any earlier, to eat breakfast, or to leave the bar before closing time on a weeknight.

I thought not doing hard drugs was enough to keep me going.

In fact, I felt extraordinarily proud of myself for getting the five or six hours of sleep I did, for staying off of acid and cocaine, for never going to the museum drunk or high. I prided myself on being the employee I believed I was, rather than the employee I actually was – and when my dreams collided with my reality, my delinquency shouted above the din.

I worked with an older woman who chose to take her lunch break after everyone else was finished eating. She would go into our department’s break room and turn off all the lights. Then she’d lie down on the couch and zonk out for half an hour, every day. I was amazed that this behavior was allowed – and that no one minded.

I thought it was odd and unprofessional. My parched throat, throbbing head and sub-par performance every single morning aside, I compared myself to the woman who napped at lunchtime and thought, Well, at least I’m not that bad. At least I don’t sleep in the break room.

I also thought she was wasting the most important part of the day by sleeping through it. Lunchtime was supposed to be fun! Also lunchtime meant drinking enough Diet Coke to categorically dismiss the day’s hangover and prepare for another night of drinking beer until I passed out.

Then I would get up and do it all over again.

I Was Anxious About Everything.

I went to see my therapist on Tuesday, right after my LSD-influenced revelation that all I needed to do was “do and feel and be.” I was thrilled with my knowledge, with the great wisdom that would allow me to take on the world – finally! – without being so anxious and inhibited.

My therapist, for some reason, wasn’t as enthused.

“If you want to use that knowledge in your daily life,” Dr. C said, “you need to be sober.”

“What do you mean? I am using that knowledge in my daily life!”

“Okay,” he said. “Tell me how you’re doing that.”

“Well, I think about it whenever I start feeling bad, and then I don’t feel so bad.”

“That’s great,” he said. “Are you still drinking?”

“Of course I’m still drinking but …”

“Do you think you could test your new knowledge on a day that you’re not drinking or using drugs?”

“Of course,” I said. I felt confident that my brilliant “do-feel-be” revelation would carry me through almost anything.

“Do you think you can go a week without drinking and let me know how it worked for you?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. “Tell me all about it next week.” Our session was over.

Gregg – who had somehow been released from jail and come back – got us some pot. While getting high, I told him about my plan to not-drink and be wise.

Gregg sucked on the joint. “Good idea,” he choked, holding in the smoke.

The next day at work, I decided I would wait until I became anxious about something, and then I’d just feel my feelings and be in the now, which would solve everything.

I didn’t wait long. I discovered that I was anxious about everything, all the time.

I was so anxious, in fact, that my anxiety about talking to my colleague because I felt inferior overlapped with my anxiety about answering the phone with the right tone of voice, my anxiety about answering within the correct number of rings, my anxiety about hurting the feelings of my colleague who was interrupted by the phone, and my anxiety about the person on the other end of the phone asking me a question I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I could answer without asking someone else and what if the person I asked didn’t want to be bothered or what if I should figure this out on my own, … and why didn’t I know the answer in the first place?

And that was just one thirty-second exchange. My whole day went this way. My whole life went this way.

I did not have time to do-feel-be because “the now” was too hectic; I was 100% anxiety.

So I went home and got high with Gregg again. We smoked all the pot on Wednesday so, by Thursday night, I was drunk.

On Friday I wanted to do acid but Al told Gregg that all the local acid was laced with something that was causing bad trips. I didn’t want to take a chance with that, so I just went to the bar again on Friday. And Saturday, Sunday and Monday.

On Tuesday, I went back to my therapist.

“How did it go?” asked Dr. C.

“Not very well,” I grumbled. “When I was at work, I couldn’t figure out how to do and feel and be.”

“What about after work? Did you stay away from drugs and alcohol?”

“Not really.”

“Do you think that had anything to do with your lack of success with this experiment?”

“Not really,” I said, and meant it.

Just Do, and Feel, and Be.

As my life continued to spiral out of control, Bonnie and I reconnected.

First, I went to visit her at the University of Akron, where she lived in a student apartment. We hung out with her new friends; I felt completely out of place. We got drunk for two days, then I went back to my dive bar.

Then in April, the Grateful Dead came to Pittsburgh – and I got tickets. Bonnie reappeared in Pittsburgh for the concert. We did not invite anyone else.

Since the Grateful Dead was known as much for its drug-addled followers as it was for its music, we knew we’d find acid in the parking lot. And we did – immediately. We put those little LSD tabs on our tongues and wandered around, doing beer bongs here, dancing there, eventually feeling daylight fade as we melded into the Dead scene.

Finally, our tickets somehow intact, we went into the Civic Arena.

Whereas it had been beautiful and freeing outside, inside we felt a bit claustrophobic. The sounds echoed off the interior walls, the music a crackling drone in the background behind stomps and clunks. When the Dead started playing, we wandered right up near the stage to gawk at the band from only yards away.

On any other day, this would have been glee-inducing. But Bonnie and I hurtled ourselves away after only one song. We virtually flew to our actual seats, which were somewhere near the rafters.

Too. Many. People.

We sat down and tried to breathe, but couldn’t. My heart was beating too fast, my eyes wildly searching. My limbs felt like lead; the hard chair was like quicksand. I felt invisibly, painfully caged.

“Is everything bad?” I asked, confused.

Bonnie said, “I think we got some bad LSD. I’m fuckin’ freaking out!”

Then I noticed a guy wearing a floppy hat and sunglasses, casually leaning against a wall. Inadvertently, I smiled.

“Nope,” I said, recognizing our conundrum. “It’s just us. Look at that guy with the hat! Everybody else is okay.”

Bonnie couldn’t focus, didn’t understand, saw no guy. She continued to panic. “This is not okay!” she shrieked, her eyes the size of golf balls.

I closed my eyes. Breathed. It helped me concentrate on the music, instantly calming my heart. “Everybody is okay, and we are, too,” I said. “Close your eyes!”

I opened my eyes and Bonnie closed hers. “What’s this supposed to do?” she asked.

“Just be here,” I said. “Just be here, listen to the music, feel the air.”

“Oh right!” she said, starting to relax. “But I need something to do!” Her eyes popped open again. “What can I do? I think my heart’s going to explode!”

“Just do whatever … and feel the music … and be where you are,” I said. “We are here right now, and we’re okay. Just do and feel,” I smiled. “And be!” Arms calmly outstretched, I suddenly became a buddha.

“So just do … and feel … and be,” Bonnie said, nodding, relaxing, finally enlightened.

“Just do, and feel, and be,” I agreed.

We went from being completely whacked out to being perfectly fine in a matter of minutes.

Do. Feel. Be. We repeated it like a mantra.

We experienced the rest of the show as it was meant to be experienced.

For the first time, though, I’d been close to having a “bad trip” and totally losing my mind. I decided to stop doing acid for awhile.

I never did hallucinogens again.

But that do-feel-be mantra? It still works to quell my anxiety.

It’s the only thing I ever learned while on acid.

Have You Been Drinking?

To say I sobered up quickly when I saw the flashing lights … that would be an understatement. Or at least, I believed I’d sobered up.

Between the scene with Gregg in the parking lot and driving nearly all the way home, I hadn’t had a drink in maybe an hour. But I’d had several drinks, made with four kinds of hard liquor, and I was definitely drunk.

The policeman got out of his car and strolled to my window. I assume he asked for my license and registration, but I don’t recall exactly. I only remember the gist of my shaking and slurring, which went something like this:

“I’m sorry I ran the red light, but I just wanted to get home. I’ve had a really bad night and – “

“Have you been drinking?”

Alcohol oozed from my pores even when I was sober. “Well, not for awhile,” I admitted.

“Get out of the car.”

I got out of the car. “I could just leave the car here and walk home,” I said. “I only live two blocks away!”

“What’s your address?”

I recited my address. “It’s just right over there,” I pointed. “I don’t need to drive. I can just walk home!”

“What’s the alphabet?”

“Huh?”

“Recite the alphabet.”

“Um, you mean A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-K …”

“Now say it backwards.”

The policeman had no idea that memorizing the alphabet backwards had been one of my favorite ways to escape boredom in school, so he thought this was a challenge. If he’d asked me to count backwards from a hundred, I would have been completely stumped.

Instead I recited: “Z-Y-X-W-V-U-T-S….”

“Good enough,” he said. “Now I’m gonna need you to walk a straight line. Right over here. Toe to toe.”

He pointed to black asphalt in the black night. I thought I’d be given a chalkline to follow – some tape maybe – but no.

I put a foot in front of me, too drunk to realize that taking a larger first step would have been helpful for balance. I put my other foot in front of the first and nearly fell over – but didn’t. I expanded my arms at my sides and started blabbing at the policeman. “This is just like walking the balance beam in middle school,” I said. “I always hated the balance beam but I can do it.” And indeed, somehow, I did it without falling far off the imaginary line.

The policeman was dumbfounded. I was obviously wasted but I hadn’t failed any of his tests.

“Where did you say you live?” he asked again. “Can you really walk home?”

“I can! But where should I put my car?” There was no actual shoulder where we had stopped.

“How about I follow you home,” he said. “And you drive straight there, nowhere else. Got it?”

“I can do that!” I stood there, bloodshot eyes glistening as I gazed up at him in the dark.

He handed me my license. “Get in your car and drive straight home,” he repeated sternly. “I’ll follow you to make sure you get there safely.”

I put my license in my back pocket, where it lived. Then I did as I was told.

He followed me, silently but with lights flashing, to my house. I parked, got out, and turned to wave – to show him I hadn’t screwed up – but he was already gone.

He didn’t even give me a ticket for running the red light.

But being almost jailed twice in one night? That fact knocked the wind out of me.

And after passing out on the floor, I started drinking again the next morning.