Read Online Dry: A Memoir by Augusten Burroughs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Augusten Burroughs
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everyone’s hands are trembling from withdrawal. I see one person after another introducing themselves. . . . “. . . and I’m an alcoholic.” And I hear the other alcoholics applauding. “Congratulations!! Welcome!! One day at a time!!” Maybe they talk about how much they want to drink. “And I would kill for a Manhattan right now.” And somebody else says “. . . on the rocks, a Manhattan on the rocks . . .” And a few people moan and you hear all of these frantic sips of coffee all at once. Maybe there’s even a secret handshake, like the Mormons who also don’t drink. My feeling has always been that if AA means sitting around in the bottom of a church talking endlessly about how much I want to drink, I’d rather never talk about drinking. I’d rather talk about modern art or advertising or screenplay ideas, while tossing back shots. So yeah, it’ll be interesting to see what the mystical force of AA really is. I can hardly wait. Check please.
Why does this have to be so complicated? I wish they could just cut your “drinker” out of you. Like having a kidney stone removed. You check into the hospital as an outpatient, get anesthetized from the waist down, they put headphones on you and you listen to Enya. Fifteen minutes later, the doctor lifts the headphones off and shows you the small, turd-colored organ he extracted from somewhere inside you. I see it looking like a snail.
“Would you like to save it . . . as a souvenir?”
“No, Dr. Zizmor, toss it. I don’t want any reminder.”
The doctor slaps you on the back on your way out. “Congratulations, you’re now a sober man.”
“Could I say something to the group?” Brian asks.
“Of course,” says David.
“I would just like everyone to know that I am down to my last doses of Valium and by Monday, I should be off of it entirely.”
The room applauds.
Why does he get Valium? All I get is a McFishThing sandwich, along with Mother’s Little Helper so I don’t go into some alcoholic withdrawal shock. I want Valium .
Yet there’s something about this Brian person I like. I sense that he is extremely intelligent. There’s a professionalism to the way he speaks, like he’s a therapist, that I find comforting. That’s just my gut instinct. I think tonight at dinner, maybe I will sit with him instead of Big Bobby and Kavi the Sex Addict.
Group lasts for an hour and a half. Having survived, I now have fifteen minutes before my next piece of structured therapy: chemical dependency history, or CDH.
At the bottom of the stairs, Tom the WASP catches up to me. “It really does get better,” he says. “In a few days, you won’t want to leave this place.”
I smile, say, “Thanks,” and walk to my room thinking, you are so wrong .
I’m standing in front of a white marker board, upstairs, writing down “to the best of your ability” a complete history of my drinking.
“I want you to go back as far as possible and list everything . . . alcohol, barbituates, tranquilizers, speed, everything . . . even prescription painkillers. And don’t minimize. List your age, the substance, the quantity consumed and the regularity.”
So far on the board, I have written:
Age 7: Given NyQuil for cold. Grandfather is NyQuil salesman so we have cases of it. Green is favorite color so sometimes sneak sips.
Age 12: First real drunk. One bottle of red wine. Threw up on friend’s sheepdog.
Ages 13–17: Smoke pot once a week. Drink alcohol maybe once a week.
18: Drink nightly, always to intoxication. Five drinks per night, + or −
19–20: Drink maybe ten drinks per night, with occasional binges. Coke once every six months.
21 to present: A liter of Dewar’s a night, often chased with cocktails. Cocaine once a month.
I stand back and look. A jumble of blue words, my messy writing, my magic marker confession up here for all to see. I’ve never actually quantified before.
People look at the board, then back at me.
Tracy, the leader of
Why does this have to be so complicated? I wish they could just cut your “drinker” out of you. Like having a kidney stone removed. You check into the hospital as an outpatient, get anesthetized from the waist down, they put headphones on you and you listen to Enya. Fifteen minutes later, the doctor lifts the headphones off and shows you the small, turd-colored organ he extracted from somewhere inside you. I see it looking like a snail.
“Would you like to save it . . . as a souvenir?”
“No, Dr. Zizmor, toss it. I don’t want any reminder.”
The doctor slaps you on the back on your way out. “Congratulations, you’re now a sober man.”
“Could I say something to the group?” Brian asks.
“Of course,” says David.
“I would just like everyone to know that I am down to my last doses of Valium and by Monday, I should be off of it entirely.”
The room applauds.
Why does he get Valium? All I get is a McFishThing sandwich, along with Mother’s Little Helper so I don’t go into some alcoholic withdrawal shock. I want Valium .
Yet there’s something about this Brian person I like. I sense that he is extremely intelligent. There’s a professionalism to the way he speaks, like he’s a therapist, that I find comforting. That’s just my gut instinct. I think tonight at dinner, maybe I will sit with him instead of Big Bobby and Kavi the Sex Addict.
Group lasts for an hour and a half. Having survived, I now have fifteen minutes before my next piece of structured therapy: chemical dependency history, or CDH.
At the bottom of the stairs, Tom the WASP catches up to me. “It really does get better,” he says. “In a few days, you won’t want to leave this place.”
I smile, say, “Thanks,” and walk to my room thinking, you are so wrong .
I’m standing in front of a white marker board, upstairs, writing down “to the best of your ability” a complete history of my drinking.
“I want you to go back as far as possible and list everything . . . alcohol, barbituates, tranquilizers, speed, everything . . . even prescription painkillers. And don’t minimize. List your age, the substance, the quantity consumed and the regularity.”
So far on the board, I have written:
Age 7: Given NyQuil for cold. Grandfather is NyQuil salesman so we have cases of it. Green is favorite color so sometimes sneak sips.
Age 12: First real drunk. One bottle of red wine. Threw up on friend’s sheepdog.
Ages 13–17: Smoke pot once a week. Drink alcohol maybe once a week.
18: Drink nightly, always to intoxication. Five drinks per night, + or −
19–20: Drink maybe ten drinks per night, with occasional binges. Coke once every six months.
21 to present: A liter of Dewar’s a night, often chased with cocktails. Cocaine once a month.
I stand back and look. A jumble of blue words, my messy writing, my magic marker confession up here for all to see. I’ve never actually quantified before.
People look at the board, then back at me.
Tracy, the leader of
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