Girl Walks Out of a Bar by Lisa F. Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

hand, I pushed back my mop of knotted hair and looked Dr. Landry in the eye. “I drink a lot. Every day. I start as soon as I wake up and I can’t stop. I can’t stop.” Wait, what ? What did I just say? I began sobbing, and it felt surreal that I was the one ratting myself out to this guy. And why did I suddenly feel as if a backpack loaded with lead was being lifted from my shoulders? It was as if some healthy part of my consciousness had taken charge.
    Dr. Landry looked like a cop relieved to have gotten a confession without having to beat it out of the suspect. Tears streamed down my face and burned my cracked lips. Werethey from relief? Sadness? Fear? I didn’t know and didn’t care, maybe because by now I was feeling horribly, horribly sick from withdrawal. It was as if someone was trying to pull my head and stomach inside out with their bare hands. A silent scream ripped through my head.
    â€œOK,” Dr. Landry said. “Let me be straight. You need a medical detox. If you don’t do this, you might die. You can even stay on this floor to be more comfortable. That’s all we need to talk about right now. Will you stay and do that?”
    I thought about the night before—the strung-out women fighting in the hallway, the screaming from random rooms, no locks on the doors, the guy threatening to fuck me up. I pictured the scratchy sheets and blood pressure readings every three hours. There were the smells of vomit and antiseptic and no communication with the outside world.
    â€œI’ll stay,” I said, collapsing back onto the smelly cot.
    â€œGreat. Let’s just get you started on Librium and we can talk more when you feel a little bit better.”
    My old life was gone. I could never go back to the time when no one knew about my sickness. Every important person in my life now knew me as an addict. I had taken the first step toward staying alive, but all I wanted was that icy cold bottle in my shaking hand.

3
    Life hadn’t always been about the next drink for me, but it had always been about finding some escape from a world in which I never felt at ease. As a girl, I had no idea how to define the way I felt almost every day and night of my childhood, and I certainly didn’t understand it. But I was always anxious and often sad, painfully sad. While I imagined other kids waking up every day to a bluebird of happiness chirping, “You’re worthy!” “You’re happy!” “Wonderful things are going to happen today!” I felt plagued by a mosquito of doom, a predator I couldn’t swat, all day buzzing into my ear, “You’re not as good as everyone else—everybody knows it.” “Something bad is about to happen.” “You’re not worthy.” “You will fail.”
    I learned at an early age to pretend to feel fine when I didn’t and to act happy when I wanted to shut myself in a dark bedroom and weep. Lying became easy, and habits and substances that brought even temporary relief were my refuge. Little did I know on that wakeup morning in 2004 that my self-hatred had been ingrained from the beginning. It’s just how my brain was wired all along. Of course, the good news is learning that youcan be rewired. The bad news is that you obsess about all the self-destructive years that led to the discovery.

    In the summer of 1974, I was eight years old and attended the “best” day camp in the northern New Jersey suburbs. My mother said that any kid would love the place. Apparently, any kid but me. I was extremely self-conscious thanks to being overweight. I wasn’t obese, but I was big enough to be an easy target for cruel kids, and my nondescript brown hair and small eyes did nothing to flatter my chubby face. Pudgy, unattractive, and miserable—I was a walking ABC Afterschool Special.
    To make the childhood years worse, I wasn’t athletic. My lack of coordination doomed me