Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [83]
Had I placed a personal ad to meet Foster, this is how it might have read:
Handsome and naturally masculine recovering alcoholic with 5 months sobriety and thinning hair. Sexually inhibited, gym-body, chain-smoker. Enjoys reading, photography and listening. Seeks substance abuser with criminal record, current abusive boyfriend, and untreated medical conditions for permanent relationship. I’m very sincere, honest, fun to be with, affectionate and have a large disposable income. You needn’t have phone service or a steady job. Hairy arms a big plus. I like to try and fix things.
“Foster is consuming you. He’s become your drug. You never see Pighead anymore,” he says. “Pighead is your closest friend, yet you never see him. Or call him. It’s just work. And Foster.”
I take two Advil. Not because I have a headache, but because they’re the only thing left that I can take.
I’m sitting in Wendy’s office, confessing. Hayden guilt-tripped me with slogans from rehab: secrets make you sick, your addict will do anything to get a drink, get your will out of your way. Shame oozes out of me as I tell Wendy about eating fish and chips in a cemetery with Foster. About the kiss on the beach. I even tell her about his clocks. “My relationship with Foster has progressed. Well, maybe progressed isn’t the right word,” I tell her. “It’s metastasized. I went over to his apartment to tell him that this just wasn’t working. And something happened and we ended up in bed. Or, on the floor, actually, right in front of the door. But that’s how close I was to leaving.”
Wendy nods, the kind, compassionate therapist. Then she says, “I’d like you to read something.” She reaches behind her, scanning the bookcase with her fingers. From in between a couple of books, she pulls out this thin booklet and hands it to me. I read the title: The Codependent Woman’s Survival Guide. I read the title again. It still says the same thing. “Don’t pay any attention to the title,” she says. “It’s not just for women.”
No, of course not, I think. That’s why they put the pink type on a baby-blue background. So guys will see the blue and think, hey—that’s for us too! I feel like she’s handed me a tampon. I drop the booklet on the floor. “I don’t think it’s just my shallowness,” I tell Wendy. “I think part of the reason I’m attracted to Foster is because he’s such a mess. I mean, the people I have loved in my life have never been easy to love. I’m not used to normal. I’m used to disaster. I don’t know, as messed up as he is, he’s also sort of exciting, sort of a challenge. I’m accustomed to working for love.”
Wendy licks her lips and gives me a large, enthusiastic nod.
“What, am I onto something here?” I say.
“Yes, I think you are.”
I decide to run with it. “Well, the thing is, part of me believes that love is more valuable when you have to work for it. Like taking a clunker of an old car and really fixing it up so it’s a restored classic. As opposed to just running out and buying a new Lexus.”
“Question?” she says, crossing her legs. “Which car would you depend on to get you to work day in and day out? The clunker or the new Lexus?”
This is so pathetic. Like looking in the mirror and noticing that your mole has changed colors. I can’t believe I need to ask someone with a doctorate in psychology whether or not my attraction to this man is unhealthy. Like Wendy’s going to say, “Well, as long as you realize it, I don’t see why you can’t just go ahead and date him. As a matter of fact, I know this great Thai place . . .”
What I really want is to sit next to someone under an L.L. Bean blanket on the beach in the fall and drink coffee from the same mug. I don’t want some rusty ’73 Ford Pinto with a factory-defective gas tank that causes it to explode when it’s rear-ended in the parking lot of the supermarket. So why do I keep looking for Pintos?
I’m standing here looking around my apartment realizing that I bought all of my furniture while either hungover or drunk. Tables that are too low. Surfaces that need to