Of course, me curling up there on the ground, that just makes it all even worse. She calls me pathetic and a coward and does everything she can to provoke me into fighting her. And, man, I’ll tell you, a lot of times I want to, but it’s almost like I’m physically incapable of standing my ground. Once she starts yelling, I can’t help but totally shut down. I’m like a little kid again, hiding in a cramped corner with the palms of my hands pressed against my ears while my parents, or my mom and stepdad, scream back and forth, throwing things, pushing each other out of the way—my stepfather’s glasses flying off—my mom backing up the car as he tries to throw himself behind it to stop her. And now, having just turned twenty-four years old, I’m that same little kid, crawling into the narrow crack between the bed and the wall, my breath shallow and panicked. But, fuck, man, does that enrage Sue Ellen. She ends up beating her fists against me, screaming at me to get the hell up.
But I can’t get the hell up.
My body is weighted down heavy, so I can’t lift it.
I close my eyes tight and let my breathing calm slowly until I finally just fall asleep hidden in my little corner there.
But when the morning comes, well, somehow everything is okay again. Sue Ellen doesn’t apologize, exactly, but she carries on softly with me—kissing my forehead and pressing her body against mine.
That particular morning we actually smoked a joint and made love. After that it was like none of it had ever happened.
“Honestly, Nic, I guess I thought you were gonna maybe turn into a werewolf or something if you smoked pot or drank again,” she told me, laughing sweetly. “I mean, can you blame me? That’s what all the counselors made it seem like. But you’re not a werewolf, are you?”
I assure her I’m not, even if I don’t believe it completely.
She tells me she loves me.
And so, just like that, it’s all resolved. She gives me some money to go to the grocery store, and when she gets home from class that night, I’ve made a nice dinner for us both and we split a bottle of red wine. I make sure not to have more than a glass and a half. I remember someone telling me once that you can always recognize an alcoholic ’cause the person can’t ever leave any liquor in the glass. So I definitely leave my last glass about a quarter full. And, yeah, it is somewhat of a conscious effort, but not too bad. I mean, I’d say I feel almost like a normal person. At least, that’s what I’m trying for.
The only time it’s been a real problem so far is at work. I’m just so goddamn miserable there, you know? It’s like I can’t get through even a couple of hours without going outside to take a quick hit or drink down a shot of cheap vodka I’ve got stashed in my bag. I mean, that’s the only way it’s even remotely tolerable. ’Cause, I don’t know, way more than the work itself, it’s having to be around the other employees that fills me with so much anxiety. Every day before work I feel, like, physically sick—my stomach all cramped up and nauseous, like it used to get in the mornings before school. There’s just this pressure I feel to be, well, “on,” you know? Like it’s just so much effort. And then when I am there and “on,” I have this sick compulsion to play this stupid game humans always play when they’re hanging out together—this game where one person tells a story about how great he is, and then the next person somehow finds a connected story that tells how equally great, or greater, she is. The game goes on and on like that the full eight-hour workday. And as much as I try to just be like everyone else, I always end up leaving feeling hollowed out, fucking gutted—like I need a drink—like I must be some entirely different species from the rest of humanity. I swear, sometimes I really do wonder if I’d be better suited as a hermit living off in a cabin somewhere—away from all people and pressures and judgments and responsibilities. Hell, it sounds pretty nice. But then again, I’d be stuck with myself—the last person I wanna have to spend a lot of time with.
Anyway, the truth is, I am fucking trying. I mean, I haven’t quit work yet, and I’ve been making some kinda effort to make friends and whatever. Tonight I’m actually going with Sue Ellen to a work party at her boss’s house. And, man, I couldn’t even begin to tell you the last time I went to any kinda party anywhere—especially a party where I could just drink like a normal person. That definitely makes everything a whole lot easier. Plus, I feel energized like I never do when I’m sober. I guess it’s kinda abnormal that both drinking and smoking pot speed me up like a mild amphetamine. Most people say that shit makes them lethargic, but for me it’s the total opposite. And it’s such a relief ’cause, I swear, being sober—it’s like I’m just constantly tired. If I let myself, I could sleep all day and night, always. I’m never not tired. It’s such a pain in the ass—and I feel like a pussy admitting it. But, yeah, alcohol
