I Had Reached My Bottom.
In Alcoholics Anonymous, it’s said that every alcoholic needs to hit bottom before it’s possible to get sober. That “bottom” is a point in an alcoholic’s drinking where we believe we can’t go any lower – hence the term.
On January 4, 1988, I had reached my bottom. I didn’t realize it then, but while everyone else was sleeping, I was reflecting on my life after three days without alcohol.
I ruined the Eiffel Tower, I thought. I completely ruined my trip to Paris. I spent my whole time either sleeping or bitching about everything.
I fell over in customs. I thought I was going to die. It really, really felt like I was going to die.
The plane ride resurfaced in my mind: Throwing up on the plane wasn’t pleasant either.
I puked all the time at home, I thought.
I’d often drink so much that I vomited, which made more room in my stomach for alcohol. I’d considered this a win-win situation – staying drunk and vomiting up excess calories.
But puking on the plane was bad. Vomiting in front of my family was bad.
As I reminisced about my Paris trip, I wandered out onto the back porch in Bletchley. It was the middle of the night, pitch black outside, and dead silent.
Perfect for reflection.
I lit a cigarette and stared at the sky.
My family was inside, asleep.
I thought back to the time in high school when I’d come home from a party and vomited into the toilet. My mom held my hair back for me, like she’d done when I had the flu when I was little.
My parents don’t deserve this, I thought. I am breaking their hearts and they don’t deserve this.
Standing on that porch I considered suicide, but then I remembered: it’s only been nine months since I dove out of that window and landed on my head. I remembered screaming, “What do you want from me now, God?!”
Standing on that British porch I thought: God isn’t finished with me yet.
But why would God keep making me suffer? I wondered. Not only did I jump out that window, but I was raped, too! I put a guy in jail!
And what about Larry? Why am I still living with Larry?! I hate living in Pitcairn, that dark apartment, motorcycle rides where we never go anywhere. And it’s cold in Pitcairn!
Suddenly my whole life was flashing through my brain.
I wanted to marry a rock star! Or a writer! I visualized my dream man who looked nothing like Larry, and imagined a dream life that looked nothing like mine. And why do I keep sleeping with idiot guys? And this is the first time I’ve ever traveled! My life at home sucks. I don’t like anything – nothing – about my life.
I just want to be happy, I thought. Why can’t I ever be happy?!
And then I had a thought that had never crossed my mind before – a thought so obvious and necessary, it could only be expressed in the form of a platitude.
I had the thought right there on that back porch.
It was so profound that I declared it out loud to the sky: “Well you can’t find happiness at the bottom of a bottle, Kirsten,” I said.
And just as the words came out of my mouth – at that very instant – a shooting star streaked across the British night sky.
It was the first and only shooting star I’d ever seen.
I nearly fell to my knees.
That star shot across the sky … for me.