Between junior and senior years of high school, I went on a mission trip with the church youth group. We traveled to churches in the northeastern part of the United States and up into Canada – a spectacular experience that I loved so much, I sent my own children on mission trips years later.
At church, I felt “part of” the group. Unlike school, where everyone cliqued and clacked together, the church group was a mix of jocks, geeks and wallflowers. We all fit in and we had a great time together, prepping for the trip and playing games together.
Our youth director/phenom, Renny, gave me actual comfort when I wanted to know: “But how do you know there’s a God?” Renny said, “I just believe, and that’s how I know.” It took me decades to understand my own concept of faith, and that’s where my journey started.
The youth group tirelessly rehearsed, and then performed, a musical show for a variety of congregations. We sang an upbeat version of “Seek Ye First The Kingdom of God,” which actually made me feel like God was with me as I sang.
As was the case with many of my high school experiences, though, the mission trip memories that return to me mostly revolve around alcohol. I didn’t drink on the trip except during the three days we spent in Canada, where legally we were allowed to consume alcohol. This means that the other 17 days were blissfully alcohol-free. We sang in churches, fixed a roof, traveled on a bus and ate at Ponderosa buffets.
One night in Canada, though, a bunch of us went out for pizza. Someone bought a couple of pitchers of beer for the table – all high school kids. We passed around the pitchers and filled our mugs. After one beer, I was still shy enough that I didn’t want to ask for a refill, even though the pitchers were sitting partially full. I couldn’t reach them without making a scene and this group wasn’t about getting drunk. They just happened to drink beer with their pizza. (This concept never made sense to me; food always got in the way of my alcohol consumption.)
When it came time to leave and the group started walking out, I was astounded. Two pitchers still contained beer! What was wrong with these people? I looked at those pitchers like I was leaving a stray puppy on the table.
As everyone else walked toward the doors, I asked meekly, “What about the beer?”
A boy said, “Go ahead and drink it if you want.”
Finally! Permission to do what I wanted! I grabbed the nearest pitcher and drank from its side, guzzling the rest of the warm beer without another thought. Then I drank the beer from the other one, too.
A couple of kids laughed; they didn’t understand my need.
Over the next two days, I befriended Johanna, the coolest kid on any block. We found a store that sold beer until 3 a.m., then stayed up all night drinking, waiting for the 6 a.m. store opening to buy more – and guzzle it before the other kids woke. We played free music on the jukebox in the basement of our host church – Greeks Don’t Want No Freaks on forever repeat – and talked and laughed and thought life had never been better. I thought I had a new best friend.
After that trip, I never saw Johanna again. But I still remember that Canadian beer.
One of the coolest high school parties I ever attended was a sleepover bash. The cool kids, who all attended too, called it a “bash.” I’d never been to a bash, but I was darned excited to be invited.
There were no parents at this party; nobody was supervising. It was the kind of party you see in the movies, but I saw it from the inside. What I remember most: everyone was LOUD. The music was loud; the speakers were blaring in every room. All the cool kids called across the room to one another, cups raised in unison, grunting and bellowing and belching. In order to be heard, it was essential to shout.
I was a mouse. I did not shout. I mostly just watched. And I drank, of course. A lot.
At some point, it was time to go to sleep. I am pretty sure this part was female only, but I can’t be sure. We had sleeping bags, which we rolled out on the floor. The music went off, and my friend and I were rolled up in our bags, whispering to each other about how much fun we’d just had because we were suddenly so cool.
Then my friend whispered, “Waid – did you hear that? Did you see that?”
“What?” I asked. I saw nothing.
She said it again, louder, “Did you see that? I know you saw it that time!”
“I didn’t!” I said. “What did you see?”
“Like a guy or a troll or something…” she trailed off, realizing she didn’t know what she was saying. “I think I’m hallucinating.” Realizing this, she started to panic. “I must be hallucinating!”
My friend had taken a pill that I hadn’t taken, and for a minute we wondered if it was some kind of hallucinogenic. After about ten minutes of sheer terror, during which my friend’s hallucinations became even more realistic and frightening, she said, “Feel my forehead! Feel it! It’s burning up!”
Sure enough, my friend had a fever – a very, very high fever – and she was hallucinating. I didn’t know these symptoms could be related.
It’s a scary thing when you’re a kid – even though you think you’re all grown up – and your best friend is really, really sick but there are no real grown-ups around.
“Do you want me to call your mom?” I asked.
“No!” she nearly shrieked. “You can’t call my mom!”
“Right, okay…. Do you want to go to sleep?”
“Yeah, sleep, yeah. I will go to sleep.” She passed out the moment her head hit the pillow, right there on the floor.
She woke me up four times during the night, freaking out, still hallucinating. I had no idea how to help. I couldn’t do a single thing for her.
Morning came and she went home, crawled into bed, and eventually recovered. Miraculously, I didn’t catch whatever caused her fever. But I crawled into bed and slept for as long as I possibly could.
We didn’t go to any more sleepover bashes after that.
My high school graduation, like most, was a huge ceremony in the sun with happy teenagers throwing their caps in the air afterward. (My sons were not allowed to decorate or throw their caps, the logic of which completely eludes me.)
After graduation, I had the thrilling opportunity to drive my parents’ car to the graduation party to which I’d been invited. Given that I had only gone to my high school for two years because of all the moves, the fact that I’d been invited to any graduation party was huge excitement. But being able to drive … well, that was the best graduation present ever!
Except, in reality, it wasn’t.
I gathered up a ton of friends, who piled into our Datsun hatchback until they were sitting on laps and spilling over one another – and onto me as I drove. I played the music loud but everyone was talking, so no one really enjoyed my musical choices. With everyone on board though, we arrived safely, happily at the party. That’s when the problems started.
I was driving, which meant I couldn’t drink. Long before “designated drivers” became a trend, I promised my parents I wouldn’t touch a drop.
And I didn’t.
With all of my social anxieties still hugely intact, I walked around with my soda(s) while my friends drank champagne. When they moved onto other drinks, I ate cookies and chips. I wandered around standing near friends, but never really talking. I could hardly wait to leave.
And that’s when the other issues arose. Some of my friends wanted to go to another party. Some of my friends wanted to stay. I was the only one who wanted to go home – and I was driving everybody. I can’t recall how this problem was resolved; I am certain that some people were unhappy with whatever decision was made.
My best graduation present was a trip to Florida, which came with a purple duffle bag that lasted literally 30 years. My friend, Sherry, and I visited Magic Kingdom and I had the time of my life. Disney World was my kind of place, and I wanted to live on Space Mountain.
During that trip, I also went out with a bunch of Sherry’s friends. We piled into a car, just like my friends had done on graduation, and the driver – who didn’t care if he drank before driving – blasted through the farmlands at a full 100 miles per hour. He didn’t slow down for anything.
I remember thinking, I am going to die today. This is how I am going to die. I couldn’t say anything out loud; I was merely a passenger with no control over my impending death.
I think back on my ultra-safe driving decision from graduation day now with relief, even though the party was awkward and horrible. I’m glad I stayed sober. I’m glad the day wasn’t made worse because of alcohol. I’m glad I didn’t spend the day with my head in the toilet. I’m glad I didn’t drive 100 and I’m glad I didn’t kill any of my friends.
I think that is both a gift and a miracle.
I don’t remember where I was beforehand, the night that I came home and puked out my guts for hours. I only remember my mom holding my hair back out of my face, like she did when I was little.
But I was a teenager. We were alone in the bathroom: me with my head in the toilet, her overcome with exhaustion and worry, loving me anyway.
I remember wondering why she was being so nice to me; I was sure she couldn’t stand me. But she was actually sweet, talking to me between heaves. She wanted to understand what was going on with me. Now as a parent, I finally understand this. But then? I was completely confused.
“Why do you drink?” She really wanted to know. “Why do you do this to yourself?”
I didn’t understand “do this to yourself.” I hadn’t done anything to myself. The alcohol had done this to me. It wasn’t my fault! I was in heavy denial even then. Nothing was ever my fault.
But why did I drink? I had no doubt about that. Drinking was the only thing that gave me peace from the mess that was inside my head. It was the only way I could fit into a crowd of people. It took away the angst that occurred after every single word I spoke. Drinking was the one thing that allowed me – I thought – to be the person I’d always wanted to be.
But none of that had gelled in my brain yet. I was a kid and my entire goal in life was to feel good.
So I told my mom: “Because it’s fun!” Then I wretched again.
“You’re an alcoholic,” my mom replied. “I know you’re an alcoholic.”
She doesn’t remember saying this, but I remember.
I knew the word, but I didn’t really know what that meant. My mom wasn’t an alcoholic; my dad wasn’t an alcoholic. In fact, I didn’t know any alcoholics – not in my entire extended family or any of my friends’ families.
But my mom did. Her dad died of alcoholism. And even though she grew up with a mostly absent father, she recognized an alcoholic when she saw one.
She told me I was an alcoholic when I was 17 years old, vomiting in the safety of her arms, believing I was still okay. I didn’t understand and I didn’t believe.
I drank regularly until I was 25. By then I’d been threatened, terrified, attacked, assaulted, raped, nearly arrested multiple times and thrown out of more than one home. I’d sacrificed all of my dignity, morality and sanity in order to stay drunk. And that’s just the surface of the horror that was my life.
But I still didn’t understand alcoholism. As I drank, I believed that alcoholics were simply able to drink more than other people, and I definitely could do that. I sang loudly with my friends to the tune of Juke Box Hero: “… and be an AL-CO-HOLIC!” as loudly and proudly as I knew how to sing. I still didn’t get it.
But my mom knew. “Why do you drink?” she said.
“Because it’s fun!” I said, and wretched again.
Years ago, I read Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. It is one of my favorite books – a spectacularly written memoir of growing up in Irish poverty.
So when Frank’s little brother, Malachy, also wrote a memoir, I was intrigued. In Angela’s Ashes, little Malachy is portrayed as the “golden boy” of the family, so I was excited to hear his viewpoint. I found a copy of Malachy’s A Monk Swimming and started reading.
But the book Malachy wrote didn’t tell a sad story about a family growing up in poverty. Maybe by design since his book was written after Frank’s, Malachy told a different story entirely. He mentioned his unpleasant childhood, but he skipped right into the hilarity that he remembers from his young adulthood.
This disappointed me; I loved Frank’s book. But it also taught me a valuable lesson: perception is everything. Malachy didn’t grow up feeling destitute and sad like Frank did; he grew up happy and determined to get out of poverty. Malachy reflected – and probably lived – completely differently than Frank did.
It is interesting to me, because I relate better to Frank, that Malachy ended up becoming an alcoholic, while Frank did not.
I have two younger sisters and two parents, all of whom shared my life experience, none of whom are alcoholic. I was always substantially more sensitive to things that didn’t seem to devastate others: the deaths of the baby rabbits in the fields, the snowball that hit me in the breezeway between classes, the loneliness and despair and bullying in school.
My family didn’t do anything to “cause” this sensitivity in me; I was born with it. Like Frank, and nothing like Malachy, I attached myself to the sadness in life. I still do, although now I am more aware of good things and I try not to whine incessantly.
I am writing a blog about my life, and I am trying to tell the story the way I remember it. I’m a huge proponent of truth-telling; I abhor liars. It’s important to me to get everything right, but the way I remember it – from 40+ years ago – may not always be 100% accurate.
I do not have a photographic memory and obviously my perception plays into everything I write. I can, and will, only tell my story from my viewpoint. But this may cause some challenges.
For example, here’s a memory from my childhood, when I lived in New Orleans: my parents wouldn’t allow me to attend an Osmonds concert. The concert was the day after Thanksgiving, and we spent the holiday with family in Pittsburgh instead. I remember this as clearly as if it happened yesterday.
I developed a searing resentment about it, and 50 years later I finally discussed this injustice with my mom. Mom carefully but honestly explained that this never happened; she had facts to back up her words. There was no concert. In fact, we hadn’t even gone to Pittsburgh that year! Everything she said made perfect logical sense. Still, I remembered it so vividly!
So I did a thorough internet search, scouring online Osmond concert databases. And – no way! – my mom was right! I’d been angry for five decades over something that never even happened.
So as I delve deeper into the story of my alcoholism, I hope those of you who remember my story from a different viewpoint will forgive any discrepancies. I want to forge forward freely without worrying about historical inaccuracies, although I will never purposefully embellish.
This is my way of saying: I can only do the best I can do.
One night, my friend and I went to a party where we knew absolutely no one. I have no idea how we got there, but I was bored to tears until I met the guy with the red Jeep.
In my memory, he will always be “the guy with the red Jeep.” He had a Southern drawl, unkempt curls and a crooked smile and I have no idea what his name might have been. But he had a red Jeep Wrangler with a convertible roof and it was beautiful outside.
Sometime after the sun went down, the guy with the red Jeep said, “This party’s lame! Who wants to go for a ride?” And he looked right at me. So my friend and I hopped into the Jeep, along with a handful of strangers, and off we went. As we pulled out of the driveway I thought, Gee, I wonder how I’ll get home. Then I forgot about “home.”
We drove a ways, then careened off-road and drove down into the woods. Driving off-road meant we could all stand up in the Jeep, which we did – hanging onto the roll bar, hooting and hollering and bouncing way up into the air with every bump.
In the woods, there are a ton of bumps. We rode and we rode and we hooted and we hollered and we all had a great time. And then, quite suddenly, we drove into a muddy ditch and … the Jeep. Just. Stopped.
We all barreled out over the sides without opening any doors, laughing and cavorting and waving around what was left of our very spilled beers.
We all continued to laugh, until the guy with the red Jeep started to yell at us. It had occurred to him that he might not ever get the Jeep out of that ditch, and that we weren’t helping the issue. All the fun immediately drained from the evening as everyone started pushing and pulling and trying to figure out how to get the Jeep out of the ditch.
We got very muddy but it wouldn’t budge.
Someone must have taken Physics because he looked at the quicksand-textured ground and said, “If we could put something under the tires, they wouldn’t just spin around in the mud like that.” So we searched for big branches and eventually found one big enough to put under the tires for traction. The Jeep moved a little, then a little more, and with some more pushing the Jeep finally lurched from the ditch.
The ride back to the party was substantially less fun. There was no more hooting or hollering, and we all sat squashed together in the seats. When we got back, the guy with the red Jeep put the roof back on his very muddy vehicle, then he drove us home.
I was silent in the back seat, and very very cold. Even with the roof on and the heat blasting, there was no way to stop my shivering. The guy with the red Jeep let me wear his coat but I was freezing. Many years passed before I learned that withdrawal from alcohol causes the exact same kind of shaking.
It was almost dawn when I climbed into bed, finally, sincerely grateful to be alive.
After my junior year, drinking had become a semi-regular occurrence – but vacations at the beach were special. Like skating, beach days didn’t require drinking. I loved the sunshine and splashing around, trying to tame those ocean waves.
But when night rolled around, I got lonely – until the video game craze struck our little campground. All the teenagers gathered inside the arcade. I could show off my Space Invaders skills and I’d learned the patterns on Pac Man; I even discovered Gorf in that arcade.
It was there, 600 miles from home, where I met Brian, my high school sweetheart. A gorgeous blond football player, Brian lived just 20 minutes away from me … at home. We were incoming seniors during our beach romance, but we stayed together at home, too. I dated Brian for almost my entire senior year.
I say “almost” because we had glaring differences. Most notably, Brian didn’t drink like I did. Sure, he drank on occasion; what high school football player doesn’t attend raucous football parties? But Brian’s idea of drinking was to walk around holding a red cup in his hand, high-fiving the other players. My idea of drinking was to consume as many drinks as I possibly could until I could no longer physically grasp my own red cup.
Brian was not your typical high school jock, meaning he wasn’t anywhere near as obnoxious and chauvinistic as the stereotypes imply. In fact, Brian was a really, really nice guy. He came from a good family and he did good things. He treated me well all the time. And in return, I treated him like crap.
When we were at the movies, I felt proud and happy to be with him. When we went out to eat, even at Burger King, Brian shined. He was funny and sweet and I loved hanging out with him.
But when we went to parties – which we did often, between my friends and his – we argued incessantly. And by “we,” I mean “me.” When I drank, all of my doubts and insecurities raged. Mostly, I argued with Brian because he was a nice guy.
I didn’t want a nice guy. I wanted a cute football player, sure, but I wanted someone who would drink with me. I wanted someone who would do stupid stuff and get in trouble, like I did. I wanted a bad guy. And no matter how long I stayed with Brian, he never became a bad guy.
Eventually, we broke up. We didn’t see each other again for many years.
During our summer break from college, Brian and I dated again. By then I knew enough to appreciate a nice guy – but by then … my drinking had become impossible. This time while we were dating, I moved out of my house, yet Brian continued to call. My parents had to relay the message that he wanted to talk.
When I finally returned Brian’s call, he very carefully worded his concerns: “Have you thought about what your choices are doing to other people, to your parents?”
My high school sweetheart had grown and matured in beautiful ways, but I fumed when I heard the word “parents” come from his mouth.
“I don’t care what it’s doing to my parents!” I screamed. “This is about me and what I want!“
It’s been 40 years since I slammed down the phone on Brian. If I could see him just one more time, I would like to sincerely apologize for being such a flaming idiot during our entire relationship.
For at least a year, I spent my weekends gallivanting around with friends, often venturing into the local college town. Until one night when we almost drove head-first into an oncoming car, it never occurred to me that anyone was driving drunk.
I remember playing beer pong at Carnegie Mellon – the closest I ever got to “attending” the elite school. I’m not sure what kind of party it was, but I remember loving the combination of sports and alcohol. This meant that I didn’t have to speak to anyone – the music was too loud anyway – and I got to drink a lot.
We went to concerts, too, rushing the stage as was the custom back then. We saw the hugely popular Styx and Ted Nugent, and the less popular Axe and Tommy Tutone whose 8-6-7-5-3-0-9 stood the test of time way longer than any of us could imagine. I caught a backstage pass during Cheap Trick’s show and met the band afterward. Music was a solid backdrop to all of our events.
I don’t know when we started frequenting The Rocky Horror Picture Show, which played every weekend on Fridays and Saturdays, but this was an incredibly exciting time. We’d go to the bars beforehand, who served us long before the laws eliminated some of that underage drinking, and then we’d go to the show. For me, seeing the movie over and over again – screaming at the screen and delighting in the actors – was not only fun, it was almost comforting. I mostly knew what to expect.
I say “mostly” because one night I slugged my dear sister, Tracy, during the show. She did nothing to deserve it; I have no idea why I wasn’t able to communicate anger without fists in my youth. Drinking was already beginning to change me, and my family was beginning to feel the brunt of that change.
I went to parties at friends’ houses, too, which often involved drinking. I was particularly concerned about my friend Laura’s party because her dad was a pastor. I didn’t think there would be enough alcohol for me. But that party turned out to be a wild success, with alcohol flowing everywhere. I’ve often wondered how and why Laura’s parents didn’t destroy her for this event.
At another party, somewhere far from home, I remember only one piece of the evening: Robby. A high school freshman, maybe 15, Robby had long black hair that swooped over his eyes and made him look even younger. What I remember is Robby sitting in a porch chair, passed out and absolutely impossible to revive.
I stared and stared at him. His head lolled to one side, dried vomit covered the right side of his face. Robby’s baby eyes wouldn’t open and he didn’t appear to be breathing. I thought he was dead.
My friend, Bernie, who didn’t drink alcohol, assured me that Robby was alive. He laughed it off and told me that I should “just think of him as being asleep.” But Robby didn’t look like he was sleeping. I’d never seen anyone who looked so dead.
As an adult, I think back and wonder: why didn’t anyone do anything? Robby probably had alcohol poisoning; he could easily have choked to death on his own vomit. But I just stared at him.
I drank while I stared. I thought, he’s so young. At 17, I thought he was young.
Somehow, we all made it home alive.
One night, when my parents left for the evening, I went to the park to drink. With them gone, I had no fear of ramifications at home. I drank and drank and drank and drank.
There is a sense of lost time with every drunk episode for me – not because I was killing brain cells and blacking out, because that didn’t happen until way later. But with rare exception – say, when I kissed a boy I really liked – I remember every party as something like this:
I am walking into this party. I am scared. Where is the beer? A keg? Cool. Non-stop beer! I will drink one while I stand here by the keg, then I can fill up my cup again. Oh yuck, I hate beer. I won’t taste it if I drink it fast. Okay, second beer. I could probably mingle. (Takes one step away from keg) Just one more beer first. Okay, this is good. I am feeling better. I am less scared. I should talk to someone. I will wander over there and sit down. (Sits 30 feet away from everyone else) Good. I will just sit here and if someone talks to me, I can talk back. Plus I can see the keg from here so I’ll know if it’s running out.
My life wasn’t all “yay! drink! party! fun!” It was “need beer need beer need beer.”
This never changed.
So on that particular night, when the beer finally ran out or the cops broke up the party (whatever came first), I wandered back toward my house, 100% wasted but feeling safe from the wrath of my parents.
And then I saw their car in the driveway. My parents were already home.
I prepped my ridiculous story as I walked in, blurting something about a group of bikers chasing us all out of the park; I claimed I’d been running for my life.
My parents just stared at me.
Forty years later, I vividly remember the look on my mother’s face. It is a look that only a true addict can comprehend – a look that cuts deep without words. It leaves shame festering inside the heart for life. But it’s not a look of anger; it’s a look of terror and disappointment and agonizing concern.
My parents had gone to my mom’s high school reunion. They’d been having a great time and were headed to a friend’s house afterward. When they found me gone instead of caring for my little sisters as I probably said I would, they had to stay home. It’s a night that crushed my mom. I took that from her.
I took a lot from my parents. I took their confidence and their security and tossed them out a window. I drove stakes through their hearts with every stupid decision I made. I stole their comfort at night and replaced it with searing fear. I took their dreams and substituted the constant worry that I would be dead before morning. I took their sanity and their peace and their hope.
That night, for the first time, I saw what I was doing to them. I realized that my actions have consequences, that I could hurt other people with my behavior. It was the first time I knew, unequivocally, that my choices hurt my parents.
I decided not to care. It hurt me too much to care about them, and my pain was all that mattered.
That night didn’t stop me from drinking. The shame, in fact, spiraled into my downfall.
On special occasions, I weekended with my friend Paula to her home in Lake Erie. We’d hang out with all the other teenagers on the beach, drinking and laughing and playing loud music from a boombox. While I was still socially awkward and had no idea how to talk to people, these nights were good nights.
One night, after everyone else fell asleep, I stayed awake to watch a video that I’d seen in Paula’s parents’ collection: a movie called Days of Wine and Roses.
I had a special curiosity about this particular movie, because I was named after the lead character. Lee Remick played a woman named Kirsten, and my parents – who saw the movie at the theater – thought that name was beautiful.
So my name is Kirsten Lee.
With the old VHS player at hand, I watched Days of Wine and Roses, listening for my name. It was only uttered a few times, and even in the movie, no one ever pronounced it correctly. I rewound and rewound and rewound, every time they said, “Kirsten.”
At the age of 17, and in my drunken stupor, I didn’t really understand the movie. The old black-and-white flick was a bit dull by 1980s standards.
But the movie is about alcoholism.
Spoiler alert: if you haven’t seen the movie, I am literally about to reveal the ending. Of course, if you haven’t seen the movie in the past 60 years, chances are that you aren’t breathlessly waiting to know what happens.
At the end of Days of Wine and Roses, a very drunk Kirsten leaves her (now sober) husband and her newborn baby to become a full-time alcoholic. The character simply can’t – or won’t – stop drinking.
And I was named after her.
The irony was lost on me at 17; I was just trying to figure out how to pronounce my own name. Many years later, after I got sober, I watched the movie again. This time, it made so much sense! And it was so incredibly sad, watching Kirsten stumble away into the darkness.
Kirsten was trying to explain why she drank and said something that has stuck with me for decades. She said, “I want things to look prettier than they are.”
And as a sober adult, that’s the part I rewound over and over again. Because it hit on something I’d not previously understood. I drank because the things around me didn’t live up to my dreamy standards. I thought the world was spectacular and magical – and by middle school I realized that my idealized version of reality is … not real.
I still have issues with this. Ask my husband.
But I somehow got sober and the fictitious Kirsten stayed drunk.
So when Lee Remick, the actress, died of lung cancer, I took it to heart. I felt emotionally tied to this woman, whether or not it made any logical sense. And I quit smoking cigarettes – finally – just a few years after her death.
Sometimes people can beat the odds.
