Keeping my head above the firewater

August 26, 2010



I stare down through bleary eyes at the pregnancy test in my hand. The faint pink plus sign glares angrily back up at me. It takes a minute for the reality to sort its way through my alcohol-ridden brain.



I am pregnant. I am eighteen, completely addicted to alcohol, and I am pregnant.



May 15, 2009



I’m your all American high school girl. I’m on the journalism staff, in drama club, dating the popular guy that everyone likes. I have my circle of friends that I hang out with on the weekends, going to movies and swimming in the pool at my parent’s home. I’ve had a beer here and there, but never gotten drunk. I’ve never done anything that would disappoint anyone. I am the star pupil, daughter and friend. I live my life to please others.



I skip school for a day, spending it at the doctor’s office instead. Being fifteen, this is complete torture. I am away from all of my friends, my cell phone is turned off, and there is no connection to the real world. When I finally turn my cell phone back on after the appointment, I glance at the screen out of habit, then look away, sliding the phone in my pocket. A second later, the words I had read actually register in my mind and I pull the phone back out. Sixteen unread messages.



That can’t be right. I shrug it off, figuring the service has just messed up again and I’ve received duplicate messages. I put my phone away and go to find my mom, excited to get out of the doctor’s office and go meet my boyfriend.



In the car, my mom and I talk about the doctor, how everything went. I can’t shake a feeling of pure panic and anxiety growing in my chest. I decide that it’s just eagerness to see my boyfriend, typical teenager reaction. I pull out my cell phone, planning to send a persuasive text for a rendezvous. The message on the screen stops me again. Sixteen unread messages. Aggravated with my phone, I open my inbox, ready to plow through the duplicates and get it over with.



My hand stops, and with it, my heart. They aren’t duplicate messages. Many of my friends, and a few people I don’t know that well, have sent me texts, asking me if I’m alright. There is a piece missing from this puzzle. Everyone is worried about me, but I don’t know why. I take my time, opening and reading every single message. I know the truth lies at the bottom of my inbox, and I am still unsure I want to see it.



The inevitable finally happens, and I reach the last message in my inbox. It’s from Mandy, the mother of my best friend, Caroline. It contains four little words, and with them, my whole world crumbles. There’s been an accident.



I don’t know what the accident is. I don’t know that it’s serious. What I do know is that my heart has forgotten how to beat, my brain has forgotten how to think, and I have forgotten how to breathe. Next to me, my mother keeps chattering on about the plans for the day, recipes for dinner. It’s all just a dull roar to me.



It’s probably nothing, I tell myself. Mandy has a tendency to overreact. Taking a deep breath, I flex my fingers and get the blood moving again so I can text back: What happened? Stubbed toe?



Caroline’s dead. Car crash on River Road. Details later, talking to cops now.



Nothing could have prepared me for this. I drop my phone on the floorboard of the car, and scream.



June 15, 2009



I’m at a party at an old friend’s house. I haven’t seen this friend in a long time, due to differences I’ve forgotten about until this moment. When we reached high school, I chose the straight and narrow life. Church every Sunday, obeying my parents, home way before curfew. Stephanie, on the other hand, discovered sex, drugs, and alcohol. We never had a falling out, per se, rather just went our separate ways. Yet here I am, on her front door step, ringing her door bell. I can’t remember why I’m here, how I got invited to this party. There are plastic cups strewn across the yard, cigarette butts littering the front porch. The stench of unbathed bodies and animal feces hit me before I had even stepped out of my car. What was I doing here?



Stephanie opens the door, a cup in her hand. Her eyes have a familiar glazed look that they’ve had for the past three years. She laughs and says something garbled that I can’t quite make out, but I follow her inside, smiling shyly. There are tons of people here, and I don’t know any of them. Everyone has a cup in their hand, and most of them have a cigarette or a joint hanging from their lips. Stephanie says something to me, but I can’t hear her over the music that’s pounding. I shake my head, pointing at my ear. She holds her cup up, pointing at me. I shake my head again. No, thank you. She laughs and rolls her eyes, forcing it into my hand.



I stare at it blankly. I’ve never had anything but beer, and even then it was only a sip here and there. The liquid in this cup is clear and smells strong and bitter. I glance up at Stephanie and she’s staring at me, daring me. I can’t say no. I’m a people pleaser. I can’t let her down. I take a gulp.



It burns. It burns so badly, I think I might spit it right back up in her face. I gasp for air as my eyes start watering. Stephanie laughs and starts patting me on the back. She leans in close to my ear and shouts, “Start slowly, work your way up. It’ll get better.” On her breath, I smell the same scent that my cup gives off. I don’t know why I trust her, but the burn is already going away. I want to have her easy smile. I want to have those glazed eyes. I want to not care, not feel bad, not feel pain. I want to go away for a night and just be someone else. Tonight, I decide, is the night. I grasp the cup in my hand and raise it slowly to my lips again, just barely letting the liquid seep into my mouth. It’s better this time, not as much fire. Stephanie smiles.



Game on.



February 20, 2010



My childhood best friend, who I haven’t talked to since freshman year due to an argument that now seems completely irrelevant, sends me a Facebook message. My friend Tom thinks you’re cute, she writes. He wants to know if you’d like to go out sometime. You should talk to him. I had kicked my popular boyfriend to the side a few months ago, deciding that his Christian goody-two-shoes ways- that I had once followed whole heartedly myself- did not agree with my drinking. Everyone knew about the breakup, but no one knew why; at least that’s what I was telling myself. I tend to think that no one noticed my drinking, but in reality, I don’t see how anyone could have missed it. I was drowning in a sea of firewater, and I couldn’t find the surface by myself.



Maybe this Tom guy is just what I need; a new guy in my life. How old? I respond. There is a brief pause before she answers: 21. Old enough to buy my booze; I’m in. Tell him I love vodka and horror movies. Mainly vodka. Sam simply types back ha-ha. I shake my head and lean over the side of my bed, grabbing for a bottle. The first four I grab are empty; I throw them back with disgust. The fifth has about a third left in it. I tip the mouth of the bottle to my lips as I study the picture Sam sends me of Tom.



He’s an alright looking guy, nothing special. As long as he can buy the alcohol, I don’t care what he looks like, I think.

This is how I inadvertently chose the father of my child.



September 4, 2013



I walk into my English class slowly, unsure of myself. I haven’t been in a classroom setting in so long, I’m not sure how to behave. I’ve spent the last two and a half years speaking baby and toddler talk, watching Elmo, and potty training. I am a mother; that is who I am, what I know. The last time I was a student, it was drunkenly. I was hiding vodka under my bed and in the dashboard of my car. I was sipping it out of my water bottle during class. As a mother, I’m finding scribbles in my planners and Barbie dolls in my purses.



I sit down quietly, trying to take up as little space as my big frame allows, trying not to be noticed. The professor announces the assignment: write a memoir. Write five pages about yourself, a struggle you’ve overcome, something that means a lot to you. Write something that evokes a basic human emotion.



For the first time since enrolling in the university, I’m not afraid. I look around and hope that most of the eager faces in the classroom have not gone through what I’ve gone through. Writing about my struggles, my fights with my demons, is not new to me. This is something I can handle. I am not intimidated by this assignment, by these people.



Game on.