I Just Can’t.
Other than marrying Paul and having his babies, my only goal in sobriety was to self-advocate. I did not want to be a meek little mousy thing, like I’d been before I started drinking. I didn’t want to be bullied in adulthood. I wanted to stand up for myself, to be myself, and to not care what anyone thought of me.
Unfortunately as soon as alcohol was removed from the equation, I morphed back into the quiet, wanna-do-good little girl I’d been in 1978. As such, it took a lot of practice for me to learn to stand up for myself, to figure out what I wanted without being all wishy-washy during decision-making times, and to say no when I needed to do that.
Most important on my list of things to do right: stay away from triggering people, places and things.
But when the Grateful Dead returned to town in July, with Crosby, Stills & Nash opening, I couldn’t miss it.
And I couldn’t take Gregg or Kurt or Bonnie, or any of the people with whom I’d gotten wasted. Paul said he didn’t have any interest in being “part of that scene.” So I camped out alone for tickets, put on my old hippie hat, and took my sister, Tracy, to the arena.
The place was packed with dancing young adults in baja hoodies and flowing skirts, every single one of them high as kites. And I was stone cold sober, trembling, walking among them, trying not to notice.
We got to our seats, sat through a really great set by CS&N, and then I begged Tracy to leave.
“Please?”
“Okay,” she said, and we walked out. She didn’t have to be asked twice. I never even attempted to see the Grateful Dead again.
So a few months later, when Bonnie called me from North Carolina, I faced a major dilemma. I’d never spent one sober minute with Bonnie, unless you count mornings at college before we ingested our first beers.
And Bonnie was getting married.
She was marrying an Australian who needed a green card. “You have to come to my wedding!” she whined. If I ever wanted to see her again, this was the time. Plus I loved North Carolina. But ….
I remembered Marti’s wedding – which I had survived sober before my rehab days, only to come home and get drunk for another six months. I remembered my cousin’s wedding, where I’d drunk from all the abandoned glasses while everyone else danced. I remembered the last time I’d seen Bonnie, doing LSD at a Grateful Dead concert.
And I remembered how I felt being sober at the Dead concert with my sister.
“I can’t,” I said, almost in tears. “I know I would drink and I can’t drink.”
“You don’t have to drink!” Bonnie said.
“I just can’t.”
Another day, I called Bonnie to see if she had any interest in trying Alcoholics Anonymous. “It’s all about a higher power,” she yelled loudly through the phone, directly into my ear. “And there is no power greater than me! I am the highest power!”
Of course Bonnie was drunk.
This made me glad I hadn’t gone to her wedding; I’m not sure I would have survived. Bonnie got divorced – twice – anyway, so I guess it didn’t matter that I missed the celebration. I wasn’t invited to the second.
Like most other friends, Bonnie drifted away.
Meanwhile I learned how to talk, eat, shop, play games, read, watch movies, drive, work, socialize, dance, party and live, all without the influence of alcohol.
It was hard.
But I had Paul.