I am reading Dry: A Memoir, by
Augusten Burroughs. It is vibrant, raw, funny, and I can hardly put it down. And, aside from the fact that the subject matter may not be the most comfortable for me, what gets me most is that the guy "sounds" like me…or, at least "textual" me*. This frightens me on many levels, but primarily because I don't know how many people read me and think, "Hey, that sounds like me." and then run with it (I've come across a few). Nevertheless, I have never spoken to him in person; he could sound like my Mom for all I know. So anyway...the book has me thinking, and recalling some of my own more clumsy moments. I would like to share one, consider it a secret.
One of the first times I ever got drunk, and I mean really wasted drunk, I was at a party with a bunch of older kids. I was a bit nervous, and I
didn’t really want to be there. Most of the kids knew each other. But, I was younger and only knew one other person. I was aware that at some point my friend would be drawn into the party, and I would have to either engage in conversation with strangers or stand by myself. Neither of these options appealed to me. But between the two, I chose awkward conversation over being pointed at or whispered about.
It
wasn’t a large party, there were about fifteen people talking, laughing, and giving each other a hard time just for kicks. Everyone was drinking beer, but I thought I would toughen my appearance by hitting the hard stuff. So, I got real friendly with a bottle of 100 proof peppermint schnapps that one guy swiped, of course, from his parent’s liquor cabinet. Shit felt like motor oil and tasted like the North Pole, so it went down pretty fast.
Time and the absence of much, if any, clarity has left me with dim memories of this event, but I can tell you this much; I drank most of that bottle rather quick while making the party rounds proudly showing off my drinking prowess. For a short time I performed without a net, rambling on in conversations I had no business in, but charmed my way through elegantly, getting laughs along the way. This went along
smashingly for the first hour or so, but soon my head swam in sludge. And, I am fairly certain I became party entertainment, at first intentionally, then later without my knowledge.
I felt good, but soon realized that my brain had to make several requests before my arm would know to bring my cigarette to my mouth. At first, I found this funny. My out sync laughter caused my fellow delinquents to question me, “What…what’s so funny?”
“I
cand fuckinsmoke.”
And, I can recall recognizing the fact that I
wasn’t able to connect thoughts any longer. My mind drifted as my brain dissolved into boozy bath water. This did not help me conversationally. And when I was unable to make sense, I knew I had to get away from the party, the noise, and the people. I wanted to escape, but I
didn’t want anyone to know.
The party was located, as any good high school party would be, in the basement which was split in two equal sides. I was presently located in the side furnished to entertain with sofas, chairs, and a pool table. The other side was a laundry room dark and empty, strictly utility. I knew that side would bring me solace.
I had a mission: to get there without anyone noticing.
By this time, ironically, I was sitting alone on a chair by the pool table. I managed to stand up, cross the room, and enter the darkness without attention. It took longer than normal for my eyes to adjust, and I remember seeing a sink at the far end of the room and thought I could sit underneath it. I had to get there fast, but the floor held my feet. I recall as I moved toward the basin, and just before I helplessly fell to the cement floor, my arms useless at my sides, that I acknowledged the physical and psychological falling feeling, the descent, as something I would find familiar. “Yeah, I like this.”
It went downhill from there. I think the impact broke my face, I was covered in vomit, and I had certainly lost any acquired ground on the toughness front. And, I never made it home that night.
Abuse.
I
hadn’t yet discovered alcohol could be, for me, a tool useful in overcoming social anxiety. At that point it was all about being cool or "checking out" for a spell, later it became a crutch. For me, that required a bit of skill delivered through practice. In time, I learned how to reign in my greedy gut. The art was in just reaching oblivion and then maintaining, keeping my inhibitions restrained while carrying on all night without letting anyone know I was a blundering idiot. Usually, I was successful, but sometimes…not so much. And I would find myself wandering off so that I could be alone and descend without interruption.
And, sometimes I would black out.
It is slippery, I know. And, at any given moment as sure as I write this it can all fall away. I imagine it would go something like this…
So here's the thing...I love being drunk. I always have, and more so now than even before. Perhaps, it is because I don't recall ever being drunk in this way. It hits fast and hard, but it doesn't last long. Maybe that’s because I am not flooding myself for hours on end as I did in the past. And I don't fall over, or at least I haven't yet. But, I'll tell ya...it taps me on the shoulder about the same time each day.
“Remember me?”
“...I’ll take care of you and soon everything won’t seem so overwhelming, looming.”
Mostly, I ignore the call. But I miss that old feeling, and lately I think, “You’re right.”
What follows is more than a tap, it’s direct and in my face, “I know I’m right. And while you are weaving it will all make sense and they won’t care because they expect it, anyway.”
It is still a rare moment that I find myself descending. That old familiar feeling can catch me off guard in a conversation, in a book, or in a memory.
Then, I tell it "Fuck you!" and I kick its ass.
p.s. here's to a fighter's homecoming.
*By making this statement I am in no way saying that my writing ability is even close to that of Mr. Burroughs. I am fairly certain he can spell occasional correctly, every time.
