Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [106]
I realize that if I leave the house without showering or even brushing my hair, I can make the Pledges afternoon meeting. I probably look like death but since going to a meeting can help me escape that, at least for the time being, I allow necessity to trump vanity. Making progress already, I think as I slide a bra on under the wife beater I slept in and step out the door.
“My name is Amelia and I’m an alcoholic,” I say, expecting the people in the room to all swivel their heads in unison over the fact that I’ve finally surrendered to using the word “alcoholic” over “addict,” but everyone just does the smiley Hi-Amelia thing.
“I relapsed last night,” I say, and I see the whisperings that start up whenever anyone mentions the word “relapse.” When Vera drank, I remember leaning over to Justin and saying, “I could see this one coming from a mile away,” so I feel like I deserve whatever it is anyone’s saying. I realize my heart is beating incredibly fast, which seems strange to me, since I’ve shared a lot in this room and haven’t felt nervous talking in front of the group since my first day of rehab. “I didn’t really believe you guys when you said that being an alcoholic and a drug addict were the same thing,” I say and I notice a couple of people nodding with compassion. “So last night, after being blown off by the guy I like, I decided to go have a glass of wine with the guy I don’t like.” Several people laugh and, while I’m surprised that anyone could find humor in my fuck-up, at the same time it makes me feel like I belong. I’ve definitely shared things here that I’ve known were funny, and felt completely validated by the laughter it’s gotten, but I haven’t ever really talked about anything sad or wrong or that makes me feel bad. In fact, I’ve heard people laughing at other people’s hardships around here and wondered how things like having been suicidal or institutionalized could be so uproarious to other people—let alone to the person sharing, who always seems to join in the hilarity. But somehow, now that I’m the one talking, it makes sense: what I’m saying is illogical and basically crazy. And for some reason, in this room filled with people bobbing their heads and laughing, that seems okay. “Three and a half hits of E later, I realized I’d made a horrible mistake,” I finish and most of the room guffaws. I break into a smile—I can’t help it. “So I guess…I don’t know…I guess that’s it. I don’t know. And you guys seem to.” Everyone claps.
As the sharing in the room continues, people pat me on the back and women start writing down their numbers and passing them to me on pieces of scrap paper. As I tuck the phone numbers into my purse, I realize that I’d completely stopped reaching out to people here. When I was in rehab, I bonded like crazy with Justin and Robin and Vera and Peter and Joel and everyone else. But these days, with Justin and Robin both long gone, Vera always relapsing, and Peter and Joel only hitting the meetings every now and then, I’ve stopped. I now see that from the day I moved out of Pledges, I’ve essentially been acting like I was cured. Rachel always told me not to show up at meetings right when they started or leave right when they ended but I hadn’t really listened. Looking around the room, I realize that I don’t really know any of the other alumni sitting there—some of their faces are familiar and I know a few of their names, but I’ve tended more to look at them as audience members during my funny or profound shares than people I might befriend.
When the meeting ends, I decide to stand in line to thank the main speaker, something Rachel has always suggested but I’ve never done. It always seems so much like waiting in a receiving line at a wedding, where you’re only going to be able to say something the person before you already did. I’m probably just thinking about myself too much floats through my head as I wait in line.
I tell the woman—who looks like your average Valley housewife but had shared about her heroin addiction, multiple marriages, and former life in porn—how