All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(42)

When we got back to my apartment, I went to pop the cork and asked Jasper to have a glass with me. “No, thanks,” he said nonchalantly.

I felt a flash of irritation. “This is important, just one glass.” He reluctantly agreed, and I sipped the first wine I’d had in three-quarters of a year. The bubbles popped pleasantly in my mouth, and I felt the cool rush of calm immediately enter my brain. My body found it soon after. Forty-five minutes later the bottle was gone. I was drunkenly watching Late Show with David Letterman, but I felt uneasiness course through my veins. Why was I cooling my heels at home watching TV when I could be out? My mind thought back to the years spent weekend warrior-ing at Brooklyn bars from 10 P.M. to 4 A.M. and the occasional creepy apartments that offered access to more late-night alcohol. It hit me, as it had numerous times before, that I am not a normal drinker. The second I drink wine, I want more. I can’t control my moods while drinking. I was able to rationalize it before, but the cravings were real. I was drunk again.

I texted Meagan and told her to tell no one about my decision to start drinking again, choosing to keep my experiment to myself. I got quietly drunk in my room a couple more times over the course of the next few weeks, having as much alcohol as I wanted, while I scrolled around on the Internet for entertainment.

A few weeks later, right after New Year’s, Yunna invited me to happy hour at one of her gigs at Brooklyn Brewery. Very chill, no drunk assholes—it would be a perfect public place to try my experiment outside the confines of my apartment. She invited a couple of people, and a cool/sexy/queer girl I didn’t know who looked like trouble showed up. I love trouble.

One drink turned into another. I was soon whispering suggestions about scoring a gram of cocaine. Since there was now a group of us, I rounded it up to three, just to be safe. My guy was called and we headed to my apartment, rowdy and full of excitement at the promise of the night to come. I put on Iggy Azalea’s Work and set up line after line. A white girl copying another white girl posing something fierce. I felt the drip in the back of my throat, and everything became hysterical and lighter. These people, who I had known only for a couple of hours, began to feel like my best friends.

Yunna, my actual best friend, pulled me aside and told me it was time to go to bed. I looked at her wild-eyed. “Are you kidding?” It was three in the morning, and I felt just right. Two hours passed and the drugs began to run low. Someone in the group had a plan for the comedown. He offered me a Xanax. I swallowed it immediately and waited for the effects to kick in. When they didn’t, I started to panic and asked for another one. He handed it to me and I crunched it with my teeth hoping that the drugs would soak into my gums faster. I finally passed out, my brain shutting off like a computer pushed into force-quit mode.

The next twenty-four hours do not exist in my memory. They have been recounted to me by my sister.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, while I was getting fucked up, I remembered that I had plans with Meagan for the following day. I told myself that I would call it quits “at a reasonable hour.” That clearly hadn’t happened. I partied through the night and apparently slept through the next day, missing meeting up with Meagan. She had called and my phone was turned off, never a good sign for me. She later came to my apartment to make sure I was okay.

“Yunna let me in and I went into your room,” she told me later, her voice thick with discomfort. “You were facedown and the lights were off. I could see that you were asleep and I called your name. You didn’t respond. I came closer and put my hand on your back and gently shook you. Nothing. I started to worry. I turned the light on and checked your pulse. It was slow. I had to decide if I should take you to the hospital or not.”

After finally rousing me, she administered a field test to check my level of cognition, asking my age, how old I was, and if I knew who the president was. I did not answer her questions, but I did keep mumbling the word “shower.” I could not walk or take my clothes off, but I kept saying the word over and over again. She undressed me and held me upright as the water hit my body.

I came to in the evening, having been out for sixteen hours. I noticed my sister sitting on the bed. I thought it was the morning; I was disoriented. In her most gentle voice she asked me how I was feeling. I was groggy and had yet to realize that I’d missed a whole day in the world. She told me she had to leave but that I needed to tell Dad I’d started drinking again. I nodded and said, “I know.” Still, I was certain that I would never tell him the full details of what had just happened. There are some things a parent shouldn’t have to know about their kids. It hit me that the experiment needed to be over.

I waited a couple of days before reaching out to my dad, ignoring the elephant of addiction in the room and lying through my teeth about being reckless. I eventually sent him an email.


Dad, I just wanted to touch base on something. You guys have been a huge part of my recovery so I wanted to let you know that I did drink again. I have been running on fumes for the better part of 9 months and work was a huge part of keeping me sober. When work died down I found it harder to have abstinence be my singular choice.

I totally get that this is crunch time and I am not off drinking in bars or being reckless. It’s hard to be sober at any age but being 26 has its issues. I am not trying to justify the behavior or ask for acceptance but I don’t want to lie to you guys. I love what sobriety brought me this past year. I needed time and space to determine what I wanted and the people I want in my life. Me drinking does not take those choices away but it does make me think hard about picking up the next drink. Thank you for your support in this matter.