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.