The Meeting

We had friends in high school, but after that we kind of drifted our own way. Now we have each other. And we have drinking. And for a while, that was enough.

Drinking was our hobby and we were very skilled. Practice makes perfect and we practiced a lot. Imagine how good I’d be at piano if I’d practiced with the same dedication I gave to drinking. I’d be a regular fucking Beethoven. But instead, my art is shotgunning a beer and mastering the game of flip cup. How beautiful.

We started dating in high school and started drinking in college. I remember we’d have these drinking contests, just the two of us. Kind of sad when you think about it. They’d end with one of us naked, then both of us in bed together. We’d do this almost every weekend. That is, until he stopped being able to perform. He blamed himself, but it had to be whiskey dick. He doesn’t even bother to try anymore. Neither do I. Now we drink and watch TV and argue and laugh and play games and listen to music and yell and scream and we’re all over the place. Lately, it always ends with screaming and yelling and then, for me at least, waking up in the middle of the night with my heart pounding. My mind races and I regret every decision I’ve ever made, as if thinking about it in the middle of the night is going to change anything. I don’t remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep.

I guess I decided it was time to stop a few months ago. He doesn’t make a lot of money, relies on me, and that bothers him. I went too far. We all say things we wish we could take back, but this was... beyond harsh. I know I shouldn’t blame the alcohol. The thought was already there, but the alcohol bypassed my filter. I shouldn’t have said it. I knew then that I needed to stop, but I didn’t take the first step until today.

It took me a long time to notice that we were alcoholics. I thought we were just kids in our 20s having fun. But we don’t know how to stop. We don’t know how to not hurt each other anymore. Every great night for the past few years is marred by a nasty stain I can’t get out, a stain that wouldn’t be their if we didn’t have alcohol impacting our actions and our words.

I’ve hated myself for a long time now, but never more than when I said those things to him. Nothing else was enough, not the splitting headaches, the weight gain, the memory loss, the lack of sleep, the intense depression that would always appear after one too many. Nothing would convince me to get help. I knew I needed it, but I couldn’t do this until now because it feels like I’m abandoning him. What is our identity, together and apart, without alcohol?

I came today because for the first time, I showed up at work drunk. And I got fired. And I blamed him. He didn’t put the alcohol in my mouth, but I let him stop me from finally quitting. I used him as my excuse. It feels like I’m cheating on him. No, actually, it feels worse, like I’m deliberately planning to cheat by being here.

He doesn’t know I lost my job. He doesn’t know that the drinks we shared last night were my last. He doesn’t know I’m here. This is my affair.

The worst part is, I don’t know if I can do this. For all I know, I could go home, he could offer me a beer as he kindly always does, and I could say yes. It would be so easy.

But I know now that easy is not right and easy is not what I need anymore. I hope I can realize that later. I hope I can be strong. Thank you.

Pretty great speech for my first time, right? I thought about it a lot. I’m on my way home from my first AA meeting now, each step like walking through mud up to my knees.

How am I supposed to face this shit without a drink?

They all clapped when I finished. Clapped. Like for a performance. This isn’t a performance. I’m worried. I need help. Claps aren’t going to help me. A few people came up to me after my speech and congratulated me on taking the first step. Their kind words won’t get me through this night. It’s a paradox. It’s ironic. The only thing that could help me do this is the thing I’m trying not to do.

Despite my best efforts, I arrive at the steps up to my apartment building, glistening with half melted snow and leftover salt, the same salt that ruined my favorite new pair of shoes. The white snow gathers towards the edges of the steps, as if parting the way for my arrival. I wish the snow was six feet high, a gate to keep me out.

My sweaty hand almost sticks to the frozen railing. I take each step slowly, pretending that the steps are slippery. To their credit, they look the part, but the damn salt did a great job.

Once inside, I pass the elevator and take the steps up three floors. I never take the steps. He’s sitting on the couch, beer in hand, sports on the TV. My arrival prompts a smile I don’t reciprocate.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his face twists with concern. His caring light blinds me. All I can see now are the laughs. The fights, the yelling, the crying. Every bad night evaporates from my mind.

An unopened beer sits on the end table next to my side of the couch, greeting my with its frosty exterior. He rushes over to hug me, his warmth injecting comfort to my heavy, fearful heart.

“Seriously, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just need a drink.”

The psst of the can opening brings me back home.