When I was drunk I didn’t have to be that. It was different. I wanted to be out of control sometimes. See how the other half lived. Being drunk is fun. That’s a universal fact. And I drank on and off for years without a problem.
“At So Cal, I started drinking mostly to relax on the weekends. Then it was Thursday nights, too. Then Wednesday, because the middle of the week is rough, right? Pretty soon I had to drink to get out of bed in the morning. And then I was doing it just to function, period. I was a mess—missing rehearsals, too hungover when I was there, and embarrassing my friends when we went out. My company finally got sick of my antics, and I was fired midseason two and a half years ago. I moved back to Miami, and I was blaming everyone for my problems, yet still drinking and partying all the time.
“One night, I had a bit—a lot—to drink at a bar while I was waiting to pick my dad up from the airport. He was tired and he fell asleep on the drive back. I hit another car straight on. A man, his wife, and their daughter. They’d just had a great week on vacation and were on their way home from Disney. When I hit them, the daughter…” I looked away from Charlie and stared at the stream of headlights going by. “Camryn…suffers from a Traumatic Brain Injury now.”
And in spite of the damage I’d so callously caused, the Andersons, still bandaged and bruised, had pushed for probation for me. They insisted I learn the consequences of my actions by volunteering at the TBI center where Camryn did her rehab. Going there was how I’d gotten close with Lea, too. “I needed to become friends with you so I could stop hating you,” she told me one day.
“She’s different now because of me. It took her a long time to get where she is developmentally and intellectually. They don’t know if she’ll ever be where she’s supposed to be, though.” Not everything I had shattered could be put back together with science. “I want to be there for her through it all, so I go to her rehab sessions almost every other Saturday.”
“Wow.” Charlie exhaled heavily several times. Probably trying to process. “You’re in her life. And her family lets you be there. Says a lot about all of you…”
“I hurt my father, too, that night. I had a few bumps and bruises and a headache, but I walked away. I was literally able to get out of my car on my own.” I sighed. “Those bottles you saw…that’s just my therapy. I destroy them. It’s how I deal.” Well, it was out. All of it. “There. That’s the story. That’s the past part.”
I kept my focus on the windshield. I probably sounded like a PSA, rehearsed and impassive. Inside, each word had been a bullet to my lungs. My throat. My heart. My chest was aching from my attempts to control my breathing. It made me think about what the hell our bodies would really look like if emotions showed scars.
He was quiet for a long time. Actually, it might have been seconds; it played out like years. “Nikki,” he said finally. Then he repeated my name when I didn’t look at him right away. I turned my head. Charlie was staring at me, deep grooves lining his brow.
I had told parts of that story over and over in AA to strangers, but in those musty church basements with stale pastries and cold coffee, the people understood. Everyone was weighed down by the horrors of addiction. Honesty was safe there. But outside in the world, I was just a monster. I pressed my lips together until they hurt. Until the splintering in my chest shrank back to the tiniest crack. “Even if we hadn’t had a conversation about stories today, I would’ve told you soon enough, if we had talked beyond today. I make a point to tell people before…they decide whether they want to know more about me, anyway. It’s only fair. Everyone has a line.”
Maybe other people waited for trust and stronger human bonds before sharing. But what was the point? I had done a terrible thing. Whether I
“At So Cal, I started drinking mostly to relax on the weekends. Then it was Thursday nights, too. Then Wednesday, because the middle of the week is rough, right? Pretty soon I had to drink to get out of bed in the morning. And then I was doing it just to function, period. I was a mess—missing rehearsals, too hungover when I was there, and embarrassing my friends when we went out. My company finally got sick of my antics, and I was fired midseason two and a half years ago. I moved back to Miami, and I was blaming everyone for my problems, yet still drinking and partying all the time.
“One night, I had a bit—a lot—to drink at a bar while I was waiting to pick my dad up from the airport. He was tired and he fell asleep on the drive back. I hit another car straight on. A man, his wife, and their daughter. They’d just had a great week on vacation and were on their way home from Disney. When I hit them, the daughter…” I looked away from Charlie and stared at the stream of headlights going by. “Camryn…suffers from a Traumatic Brain Injury now.”
And in spite of the damage I’d so callously caused, the Andersons, still bandaged and bruised, had pushed for probation for me. They insisted I learn the consequences of my actions by volunteering at the TBI center where Camryn did her rehab. Going there was how I’d gotten close with Lea, too. “I needed to become friends with you so I could stop hating you,” she told me one day.
“She’s different now because of me. It took her a long time to get where she is developmentally and intellectually. They don’t know if she’ll ever be where she’s supposed to be, though.” Not everything I had shattered could be put back together with science. “I want to be there for her through it all, so I go to her rehab sessions almost every other Saturday.”
“Wow.” Charlie exhaled heavily several times. Probably trying to process. “You’re in her life. And her family lets you be there. Says a lot about all of you…”
“I hurt my father, too, that night. I had a few bumps and bruises and a headache, but I walked away. I was literally able to get out of my car on my own.” I sighed. “Those bottles you saw…that’s just my therapy. I destroy them. It’s how I deal.” Well, it was out. All of it. “There. That’s the story. That’s the past part.”
I kept my focus on the windshield. I probably sounded like a PSA, rehearsed and impassive. Inside, each word had been a bullet to my lungs. My throat. My heart. My chest was aching from my attempts to control my breathing. It made me think about what the hell our bodies would really look like if emotions showed scars.
He was quiet for a long time. Actually, it might have been seconds; it played out like years. “Nikki,” he said finally. Then he repeated my name when I didn’t look at him right away. I turned my head. Charlie was staring at me, deep grooves lining his brow.
I had told parts of that story over and over in AA to strangers, but in those musty church basements with stale pastries and cold coffee, the people understood. Everyone was weighed down by the horrors of addiction. Honesty was safe there. But outside in the world, I was just a monster. I pressed my lips together until they hurt. Until the splintering in my chest shrank back to the tiniest crack. “Even if we hadn’t had a conversation about stories today, I would’ve told you soon enough, if we had talked beyond today. I make a point to tell people before…they decide whether they want to know more about me, anyway. It’s only fair. Everyone has a line.”
Maybe other people waited for trust and stronger human bonds before sharing. But what was the point? I had done a terrible thing. Whether I
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