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control_issuesRoman said that downtime was the hardest, and he wasn’t wrong. But this isn’t much better, Dani thinks, sitting in a broken plastic chair in the back of a church basement.
She’s not like these people. That’s what she tells herself before, during, and after meetings. It’s not a form of denial—it’s a fact. She doesn’t need to drink to get through the day. That statement alone assumes that she can get through the day, which is a pretty lofty assumption.
She doesn’t drink because her husband’s (doesn’t have one of those, doesn’t want one of those) forgotten an anniversary (same). She doesn’t drink because the babysitter’s called out sick.
A doctor at the clinic once told Dani the odds of carrying a kid to term, after all of the shit she’d done to her body. They weren’t good. Dani’d faked a few tears for the doctor’s benefit. Or hers. She’s never been sure.
She doesn’t drink because of her job, like the woman with the gold earrings standing up at the podium (alter, why not, they’re in a church) now. Work’s what got her clean (clean’s a funny term to use for an addict. When you say it, it’s supposed to mean the stuff is out of your system and always will be, which is inherently a lie.
It’s a word that only addicts use. Part of the vernacular. Saying you’re clean implies that you’ve previously been dirty, and that’s all that people see. The implication).
Even this meeting is required by her employer.
“It wasn’t drinking,” she’d pointed out, while Karen printed out directions to the church.
Karen didn’t look up. Just kept her eyes on the computer screen. “It was a lot of things, Dani.”
It was a lot of things, which makes Dani think she’s not like these people. They seem pathetic to her, in a way that makes her equally pathetic for imagining some kind of junkie hierarchy. Okay, you drink too much. What about coke? What about heroine? What about you don’t know what the hell it is, but he says to trust him, so you do?
So Dani comes to the meetings, hoping no one notices her. Slips out after twenty minutes. And for the first few weeks, it’s worked pretty good. But this week, Dani fucks up. Times things wrong. Gold Earrings has taken her seat, and everyone’s clapping, so Dani stands up to go.
“Dani,” her employer-solicited sponsor says, standing at the snack table. “Good to see you volunteering.”
Shit. Dani looks at the guy, and he already gets that she didn’t want to speak up. She can feel the eyes on the room. Face red, the guy starts to stammer out an apology, draw the attention away from her.
Dani presses the call button on her cell phone, doing the job for him. The phone lights up, and Dani barely glances at it before she’s out the door, mumbling an explanation slash apology. “Work,” she says, walking just a little too quickly out of the basement.
As she leaves the church, she sees her reflection in the building’s simple glass door. It’s walking towards her. The faster Dani moves, the closer it comes.
She puts on her sunglasses. She looks down as she exits the building.
She’s not like these people. That’s what she tells herself before, during, and after meetings. It’s not a form of denial—it’s a fact. She doesn’t need to drink to get through the day. That statement alone assumes that she can get through the day, which is a pretty lofty assumption.
She doesn’t drink because her husband’s (doesn’t have one of those, doesn’t want one of those) forgotten an anniversary (same). She doesn’t drink because the babysitter’s called out sick.
A doctor at the clinic once told Dani the odds of carrying a kid to term, after all of the shit she’d done to her body. They weren’t good. Dani’d faked a few tears for the doctor’s benefit. Or hers. She’s never been sure.
She doesn’t drink because of her job, like the woman with the gold earrings standing up at the podium (alter, why not, they’re in a church) now. Work’s what got her clean (clean’s a funny term to use for an addict. When you say it, it’s supposed to mean the stuff is out of your system and always will be, which is inherently a lie.
It’s a word that only addicts use. Part of the vernacular. Saying you’re clean implies that you’ve previously been dirty, and that’s all that people see. The implication).
Even this meeting is required by her employer.
“It wasn’t drinking,” she’d pointed out, while Karen printed out directions to the church.
Karen didn’t look up. Just kept her eyes on the computer screen. “It was a lot of things, Dani.”
It was a lot of things, which makes Dani think she’s not like these people. They seem pathetic to her, in a way that makes her equally pathetic for imagining some kind of junkie hierarchy. Okay, you drink too much. What about coke? What about heroine? What about you don’t know what the hell it is, but he says to trust him, so you do?
So Dani comes to the meetings, hoping no one notices her. Slips out after twenty minutes. And for the first few weeks, it’s worked pretty good. But this week, Dani fucks up. Times things wrong. Gold Earrings has taken her seat, and everyone’s clapping, so Dani stands up to go.
“Dani,” her employer-solicited sponsor says, standing at the snack table. “Good to see you volunteering.”
Shit. Dani looks at the guy, and he already gets that she didn’t want to speak up. She can feel the eyes on the room. Face red, the guy starts to stammer out an apology, draw the attention away from her.
Dani presses the call button on her cell phone, doing the job for him. The phone lights up, and Dani barely glances at it before she’s out the door, mumbling an explanation slash apology. “Work,” she says, walking just a little too quickly out of the basement.
As she leaves the church, she sees her reflection in the building’s simple glass door. It’s walking towards her. The faster Dani moves, the closer it comes.
She puts on her sunglasses. She looks down as she exits the building.
