Hitting it Hard: the Traffic Circle

         I sit on the side of the road with a, half-empty, fifth of vodka and a pack of smokes--- waiting for the police. I’ve violated my parole, so I’m in trouble again. Alcohol courage induced, gave me the grit to call the cops and turned myself in, or tell them where to find me. As unbelievable as it may be, I’ve drank myself sober. It’s a phenomenon only the true diehard drunks get to experience. Now I don’t have the time to drink enough to numb-out, even worst; I have detox in jail. At the thought of detoxing in jail, I gulp some vodka and light a cigarette. The brownish-yellow lights from McDonalds add to my sense of doom. Behind me the bright white lights of Friendly’s restaurant appears to entice a group of people. They laugh and talk, walking along as if there is nothing wrong in the world. I’m so agitated at just the sound of them. I have a crushing need to scream, but it is caught in my throat, so I just mumble out loud, “Assholes liven in firkin ‘Leave it to Beaver’ land.” I take another drink, brooding over the American dream, “Why can people find happiness and I can’t?”

         The air in late July is humid as hell. It acts like glue for all the dust and road dirt clinging to my arms and legs. Sweat tangles my hair at the nap of neck, soon it will be one nasty knot. After days of drinking, living outside, not showering, and no change of clothes, I’m filthy. My legs hurt from the swelling in my ankles. I must have walked a hundred miles in the last four days. Ugly burses circle around my left ankle, some of it looks yellow, but it’s hard to tell with the dirt and bad light. For some unknown reason my sandal is torn revealing a swollen, cut up, little toe. It’s grotesque. I pour a little vodka on it thinking it will act like an antiseptic. It burns like hell as I wipe it off with a napkin from McDonalds. On further inspection there are scraps all over my legs and arms. Most of it I haven’t a clue where it came from. The billion bug bites all over me itch like hell. One thing for sure, I reek of vodka. Jesus I’m a mess.

         My attention is caught by a noise up the street. It’s a dead-end street all dark and scary looking, but nothings there. Jill, my oldest sister, used to live at the very end of the street. We partied a bit together back then. She lived in a little house with her two sons and this guy named Don, whom she met when he was her mailman. We all knew that Jill was ‘doing it’ with the mailman! We had some good laughs over that. People used to commit on was much we looked alike, back then, in features at least.Yet, Jill was medium height, fair, blondish, blue eyes and large chested. On the other side of the spectrum; I was tall, dark, brown eyes, brunette, and flat chested. Even with our striking differences, people new by looking at us we were sisters.

         Now we are estranged from each other. She grew into an urban wino with money, her husband’s money, and here I sit on this filthy curb, with a pint, waiting for the  police. Honestly, I’d rather have it this way than being stuck in the paralysis of the semi-middle-class delusion. At least this is real. All my delusions can be confirmed by the testimony of everyone who knows me. Actually, now that I think about it, Jill and the rest of our clan were the people who first got me drunk. I was twelve, drinking age in my family! “YEEHAW!” I hear my voice and drink a toast to it.  Oh yes, my family, we are all a bunch of drunks and pot heads. Born and raised in the foothills of Western Massachusetts; God’s Country. Father was a drunk and mother was just plan crazy. We were poorly treated, poorly fed, poorly clothed, poorly educated, and poorly thought of. To add insult to injury they used to call me Charlie, short for Charlotte. I don’t know what I did to my mother for her to name me, Charlotte Christine, but she did. At least now I can use the name Chris. But John, ‘my love’, calls me Chrysie. Some dimwits still call me Charlie, or CC. But Mom is my favorite name of all. I push the thought of my boys out of my head with a long swig off my bottle. My body reacts with a sharp shiver; I could drink fucking Martin Sean under the table, I gloat. Yep, I’m a class-act drinker, vodka straight-up, out of the bottle, with no chaser. I cough and take another hit. Yep, my sib’s put the gun in my hand and I’ve been pulling the trigger ever since.  “Well that was long ago,” I mutter. My attention shifts back to the traffic circle. No cops. Knowing them they won’t show. No fun arresting someone who’s not going to fight back.

             With a sad heart, I look over to the McDonald’s parking lot where John’s passed out in his car. I feel so forlorn. My God I’m so scared I will never see him again. We have such a deep connection to each other. I can’t imagine life without him, but then again, I can’t even imagine life. John and I are like salt and pepper, we are nothing alike, but we go well together. We met in a halfway house a couple years ago. I fell in love with him at first sight. Well, actually we met at a twelve step meeting; he was sitting in the corner all alone. He was dressed nice, was clean shaven, and had a baseball cap on. He looked mature and handsome. I didn’t know at the time we were both at the recovery house. When I discovered him a few days later at the house, there was no turning back. John’s ego was stuffy, as was mine, so from the start, our flirting consisted of trying to outsmart each other. About what I can’t remember, actually reflecting on it now, I can see we were both dumb as shit. Two drunks, who have lost everything, living in a halfway house, trying to act smart… two dumbasses is what we were. Now, I long for a time when I believed life would move forward. But it’s not going to be reconciled. It’s all over. Once again I wash away all feelings with another drink.

It’s too painful to think, so I let my mind drift back to meeting John. I remember being in the kitchen at the house one morning, only three days after we had first made love.  John said, “You know I love you,” he put his arms around me. “No you don’t, you silly-goose.” I laughed into his shoulder. “Silly-goose? Great now I’m a silly-goose. That’s not very nice you know,” he squeezed me.  It’s still fun to call him silly-goose at times. I light up a cigarette, blow the smoke up into the muggy air, and closed my eye. No tears will come, so I sit trying to remember how new love felt. 

         John and I believed that our love championed all things. Unfortunately, it’s a sacred rule at the halfway houses that you never get in a relationship with someone else in the house, or in the first year of sobriety, for that matter. But like most alcoholics John and I felt we were exempt from rules. We really thought we were a smart pair! We did stay sober together for two months after they kicked us out onto the street. Homeless, with no one willing to help us, we fell back into destructive behavior.  We had a heated romance though, the beginning of love, the risk of giving oneself to another. It had been ten years since I had man in my life and John swept me off my feet. I don’t think we knew at the time, but we could drink as passionately as we could love.          

          I stirred around trying to stop my butt from hurting. Yes, it has been a drunken, scary, stupid couple of years since then, but nothing comes close to how I feel now. I’m not a thief, a fighter, a dealer, or a killer…I’m just a crazy-ass alcoholic.  Twenty-two years ago I got two DUIs in the state of New York. After that I got sober for fifteen year. I relapsed when I was 47 and my kids were pretty much grown. I picked up another DUI in Massachusetts when I was 50. The court threw the book at me and convicted me on three DUIs, counting the two from decades ago! They sent me to jail! I lost everything, my boys, job, home, car, and my freedom. My sense stability and personal control were lost completely. I have been fighting to stay sober ever since. I’ve violated probation, and now parole, because I just can’t stop drinking. It is such an elusive, mind boggling, degrading, sickening problem! But here I sit again!

             The bottle feels grimy in my hand as I take another drink. I can’t feel my heart. What used to be my guild to determine good from bad, love from sorrow, joy from fear, is gone. All feelings are gone! My whole life is lost in the storm of alcoholism, despair, and confusion. My family, more importantly my children, just don’t understand. They have seen me quit time and again, only to be dismayed finding me drinking again. I have quit for a year and then picked up. I try to explain my addiction to Brian and Trevor, but I get too overwhelmed with guilt and shame. I push the thought of them away. Shaking my head I realize that I’m getting wrecked again. “Thank God for small favors,” I rub my face vigorously.

         Shit ya, I can recover from the physical withdraw of alcohol, I‘ve done that a number of times. It’s the mental and psychological damage that accumulates, drags me down, and keeps me going back out. Even my ability to have normal maternal feelings and thoughts is eroded. Intellectually I know my problem, yet I have no internal resources to change.  I can’t provoke the energy to change. Even sober I have no normal responses to stress, anger, fear, people, places, or responsibility. Not even sleeping, eating, or showering is manageable. For me being sober is extremely perplexing. I am completely desensitized, so it seems impossible for me to connect with people and feelings. Sham scrambles all my thinking.  It’s like drinking allows me not to experience the devastation of drinking itself. The path back to sobriety seems impossible, too arduous to fathom at the least. It’s frustrating that people (society in general) think this is the life I choose. Who would choose to experience this loss of self? How do you explain alcoholism?

         I would rather go to jail then to do this again! I stand up to shake the cramps out of my legs. In jail I’m no one, I have no control, and no one wants me to think, change, or feel. “No one will give a shit about me, and I won’t give a shit about them. Just leave me the fuck alone,” I grumble and half gesture up to the night ski. I look at the traffic circle and still no cops! I probably have about a pint left and if I drink it before they come… I’m out of here. God I wish I could cry! I wish I could feel. My boys, I miss them so much.