Bad Daughter, Part Four, the Second Half

Start with part one here.

Somewhere in the Valley, Still July 17^th, 1989, Later That Day

This is exactly what will happen at your first meeting sober:

A smiling cult lady will greet you at the door. HI THERE! she will scream. WELCOME! She is all teeth. In the animal kingdom this kind of thing could easily be misinterpreted as aggression and that is how people get mauled to death.

Think, good lord, this is not really happening.

Oh, but it is, you hungover mess. You pushed things too far. It’s a miracle your organs haven’t turned to mush.

Blame everyone else. Blame your parents. When you leave the house, very loudly tell them, HEY YOU GUYS, I’M GOING TO THE MEETING NOW LIKE I SAID I WOULD. Say it dramatically, like someone on Dynasty would say it. Say it like it’s the biggest freaking deal in the world.

The meeting tonight is in the Valley because nobody knows you in the Valley. Look around, find an empty seat on one of the uncomfortable metal folding chairs. Sit, act sullen. The Lita Ford-looking chick next to you will introduce herself with a name you will immediately forget and excitedly ask if you are new. Respond by giving what’s-her-face a half-assed smile and lie. I’m not sure yet, you will say nonchalantly, as if the matter requires barely any commitment. I may get sober today, I may not. I’m not sure yet.

Fail to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation.

Lita Ford will nod. But not like yeah, word, I totally get it. You’re probably not even an alcoholic. Run far, far away from this place and forget you were ever here. She knows you belong there. You know you belong there. Lita Ford nods because it is kind.

Others will swarm you, electrified by your newness. They will appear happy, ecstatic even. Get the vibe you are sixteen years old at your first rave. Maybe you could fashion a necklace out of newcomer chips, paint them in fantastic glow-in-the-dark colors and go clubbing afterwards, where you can secretly guzzle vodka cranberries all night and smoke a million cigarettes. Take the happy people with you. Decide they are kidding themselves and that nobody actually wants to be sober. Base this on every Charles Bukowski book you’ve ever read. Wonder if anyone there has even heard of Charles Bukowski. Remember how much you hate raves.

Consider bolting, but don’t. In truth, there’s nowhere to go.

(This is not a metaphor. You don’t know shit about the Valley.)

A thousand people will give you a thousand numbers, saying if you need to talk. How nice, you already have a posse. Notice how social they are considering nobody’s drunk. Ask yourself how many of them might be talked into going and actually getting drunk. (Answer: Four.) Be gracious. Listen to their language, new and strange and peppered with aphorisms. One day at a time. Easy does it. The only thing you have to change is everything. It will take time for these words to sink in. Years. By then you will be a totally different person, not this clown car of insecurities, all of them waiting for the moment when they can hit the ground and tumble free.

In the meantime, go get yourself a Styrofoam cup of shitty coffee. It will taste super gross. But also kind of amazing.

Fact: Nobody likes change. They say it can happen in an instant, but you are not a glass of Tang and instant sounds way too fast. You haven’t even changed out of last night’s outfit. Keep things slow, like a slug. Slow and steady wins the race.

Thirty meetings in thirty days, that is what they will suggest. It will sound like an awful lot of hoop-jumping just to avoid rehab, but in defense of meetings all you really have to do is sit there.

This shouldn’t be a problem. You are already profoundly good at it.

You earned that seat. It won’t be long now before you understand what that means, and how lucky you are to have found it.

**

In the years to come, you will think a lot about this night.

You will think about the people you met, including Mike or Matt or whatever the fuck his name is, who, when you tell him you are on day one, will say Oh, I can tell. Blow smoke in his face. I bet you can, fucker.

You will think about the speaker, Karen. She is small and blond and easy to laugh, nothing like what you figured an alcoholic would look like. Ten years later you will run into her at a different meeting, where you will smother her with gratitude for being part of your story.

You will think about driving home, wondering if you will miss the chaos.

You will think about the friends you will make, the ones who will gladly walk through fire with you and for you. Like, searing, flesh melting, hot-as-a-thousand-suns fire. They are your soul mates.

You will think about the times you almost caved.

You will think about the times people you loved ended up caving.

You will think about your husband, who has never seen you drink in the twenty-three years you have known him, unless you count the time at work when you accidentally took a shot of Patrón because you thought it was Red Bull.  (Which got spit out, by the way.)

Finally, you will think about your parents.

You will say sorry. Many times. It will never feel like enough, ever.

They will tell you they wish they could have done more. Your heart will feel like someone stabbed it.

One day your mother will sit you down and say, ya know, my father had a bit of a drinking problem. And so did your dad’s father. Uh, no, you did not know that, is there any reason why this wasn’t mentioned sooner?

Because it’s unpleasant, Anne, that’s why.

You will go to meetings. Tons of them. It will be the first time in your life you will do something good for yourself without being forced.

Start getting up at six. Run. Stop eating. Run more. Be slightly anorexic. Lose a bunch of weight, look kind of deathly. In three or four months you will realize you’re being really stupid and start eating again.

Turn one year sober. Your parents will send flowers to the restaurant where you work. A note will read, So proud of you!

God damn, they were cute.

One year will turn into two, two into three, and so on. Like, who are you.

This was not the plan.

You actually had no plan.

The point is, you will stay sober. Through everything.

One day you will borrow your dad’s car, a gold 1980 280ZX with t-tops. You insanely love this car. Have lunch with your dad, just the two of you. Declare, thanks, best dad ever! as you pull away. The next day, a Friday, he will be on his way to work at the Santa Monica Courthouse and die of a heart attack. You are thirty years old.

Fifteen years later, after a number of strokes, your mother will pass. Her ashes will go in the ocean, same as your dad.

This is how you will learn about regret. Or the lack of. Simply put, you will learn to be good to the people you love while they are still alive.

You will have eight years sober when your dad passes away. That is a lot of time for sorrys.

You will mean every single one of them.

You will have longer with your mom, who will eventually get sick of hearing how sorry you are and tell you to get on with your life already.

Still, you will have regrets. Too many to name.

You will want to stay a slightly removed from your story.

You will want others to stay slightly removed from your story.

You will write a series of essays in second person. That should do it.

After thirty-six years, it will be the closest you will come to making sense of it all.

**

A black and white photo sits on your bookshelf.

It’s 1959. Your dad is in a tuxedo, your mom, head to toe white lace and a veil. They are at their wedding reception, clinking glasses. A toast to the future.

Everyone says you look like your mom.

It’s not too late. It’s never too late. Take the photo down, gaze at their gorgeousness and say sorry for the millionth time. Say it good, not in some kind of Dracula whisper, even though they probably aren’t listening.

They’re in their own little world, looking giddy, like children. And beautiful, like movie stars ♥

This is the second half of the fourth of four parts. Start with part one here.