It Never Occurred To Me.
Given that I could not have my ideal life while being a raging alcoholic/coke whore, I decided to try something different. In August 1988, I quit drinking, quit using drugs, and even quit picking up men.
Instead, I got up in the morning and went to whatever temp job I had to do that day. I came home and blasted albums. I wrote down my thoughts in a notebook. I didn’t call anyone.
Not going to bars meant I had no distractions – no people, no noise, no dart boards or pool tables or jukeboxes. I didn’t even have a deck of cards. I found myself craving Space Invaders and Gorf, but I couldn’t play video games. The internet, smart phones – even personal computers – didn’t yet exist.
I played with my cat for as long as she would let me. I tossed furry faux mice across the room and she carried them back to me like a retriever.
Drinking no alcohol meant I gorged on Diet Coke. And I ate. I consumed ridiculous amounts of pasta with Prego. I devoured Fifth Avenue candy bars, peanut butter and banana sandwiches, and heaps of fried bologna. On a big day, I rewarded myself by walking to Arby’s for a roast beef with cheddar.
I walked right past my favorite bar, feeling proud. It looked so dreary from the outside, I couldn’t believe I’d spent so much time on its dreary inside.
It never occurred to me to eat healthier, smoke less, exercise, or play a sport. It never occurred to me to read a book or watch a movie. It never occurred to me to travel, even locally, to visit touristy places, or go to church, or go shopping. It never occurred to me to make new friends.
It never even occurred to me to go to an AA meeting.
I couldn’t think of a single additional thing to do with my life. I thought I was doing “whatever I wanted.”
Eventually I told my parents that I’d quit drinking. Given the horror of our Myrtle Beach vacation, my parents were tentatively happy about this decision.
I didn’t mention drugs to my parents, but now I wasn’t doing those either. My parents seemed to sense the change (somehow) and occasionally invited me over to dinner. I always accepted a free meal.
My parents had a beautiful exchange student living with them, from France. Anne was sweet and kind and funny, and the whole family – me now included – loved spending time with her. After I stopped drinking, we went to Kennywood with her and had a glorious amusement-filled day.
But it was hard being around my parents. I still felt like I was doing something wrong, even though I wasn’t doing anything even remotely “wrong” in the eyes of the law. I felt like a moral degenerate, and I knew they knew I was still a horrible person, even without drinking.
I was sober. I was stone-cold, glaringly, blindingly, despairingly, dully, thuddingly sober.
When it was time for Anne to go back to France, my whole family wanted to be with her, to see her off. My parents called me and asked if I would sit with our dog, Mocha, while they took Anne to the airport. Mocha was older and faltering, and they didn’t want her to be alone for long.
It was a chance for me to show that I was responsible – and I could be in their clean, cool house without feeling guilty about it. I was happy to oblige.
I had no idea what that August day would become.