Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [24]
I smile, say, “Thanks,” and walk to my room thinking, you are so wrong.
I’m standing in front of a white marker board, upstairs, writing down “to the best of your ability” a complete history of my drinking.
“I want you to go back as far as possible and list everything . . . alcohol, barbituates, tranquilizers, speed, everything . . . even prescription painkillers. And don’t minimize. List your age, the substance, the quantity consumed and the regularity.”
So far on the board, I have written:
Age 7: Given NyQuil for cold. Grandfather is NyQuil salesman so we have cases of it. Green is favorite color so sometimes sneak sips.
Age 12: First real drunk. One bottle of red wine. Threw up on friend’s sheepdog.
Ages 13–17: Smoke pot once a week. Drink alcohol maybe once a week.
18: Drink nightly, always to intoxication. Five drinks per night, + or −
19–20: Drink maybe ten drinks per night, with occasional binges. Coke once every six months.
21 to present: A liter of Dewar’s a night, often chased with cocktails. Cocaine once a month.
I stand back and look. A jumble of blue words, my messy writing, my magic marker confession up here for all to see. I’ve never actually quantified before.
People look at the board, then back at me.
Tracy, the leader of the CDH group, looks at me with eyes that seem to belong to someone three times her age. It’s something beyond wisdom, all the way to insanity and back. It’s like her eyes are scarred from all the things she’s seen. “When you look at what you’ve just written, what do you feel?” she asks.
I look at the board. Now that it’s up there, it does seem like I drink a lot. “I guess I drink a lot.” I feel ashamed, like I wear the same pair of underwear for days at a time.
Brian, from Group, says, “Given the quantity of alcohol you’ve consumed, it’s a wonder you’re alive at all.”
And what makes Mr. Valium such an expert? I wonder.
A lesbian wearing a blue MALL OF AMERICA sweatshirt tells me, “I am so happy that you’re here. You need to be here.”
A couple of other people agree. Glad you’re here. You need to be here. They may be right or they may be wrong. But the one thing that I know for sure is that this will make a great bar story.
“The amount of alcohol you consumed would be associated with late-stage alcoholism. You were very much in danger of alcoholic poisoning, an overdose. And I’m glad you’re here, too.” Tracy looks at me with genuine warmth and understanding. Something else, too. Something that makes me think we could have really partied together.
I figure I’ll up the ante. “Does Benadryl count?” A couple of people look at me. I shrug innocently like, Shucks, I don’t know these things.
“Benadryl? The antihistamine?” asks Tracy.
“Yes,” I say. “Does that count?”
“It depends,” she says, suspiciously.
“Oh. Well, the thing is, I can’t drink alcohol, not any alcohol, without having an allergic reaction. My face swells, my chest gets red, I get a metallic taste in my mouth and it’s hard to breathe. Even one drink will do it. But I found that if I take Benadryl before I drink, I’m okay.”
“How much Benadryl?” she asks.
Other people look at me, then at her, then back at me. This could be Wimbledon.
I suddenly realize that the amount is so staggeringly large that I am ashamed to admit it. “Ten pills a day. Usually. Sometimes fifteen.”
Her eyes widen in alarm. “And the recommended dosage? What is that?” But she’s not really asking me the dosage, she’s asking me if I recognize insane when I see it. I play along.
“Two.”
She looks at me. Actually, right through me to the back of the chair. She can see its upholstery despite the fact that my body is blocking the view. She says nothing. Because she knows she doesn’t need to say anything. She knows that I already know. All she does is close her eyes and give me a small smile. “Yep, I’m very glad you’re here.”
I sit quietly and a strange and unfamiliar feeling comes to me. It is almost a feeling