Some People Do

2: Daily Grind

SOOKIE

I work from home as a graphic artist and web designer. After I finished treatment, I started taking online courses and doing freelance work since I've always had an eye for that sort of thing. My niche on the artistic side is book covers. I'm really good at those, at least in my opinion. I've started working with a local photographer named Maria-Starr. Kennedy introduced us. Kennedy is my sponsor. It turns out that before Kennedy got into the program herself she worked as a model. Maria photographed her on a regular basis and they stayed in touch even after Kennedy quit modeling. My sponsor has opened all sorts of doors for me.

Having someone be in my corner, being genuinely interested in seeing me blossom into the person I've always wanted to be has been incredible for me. I can't say that Kennedy's support for me is unconditional, because it's not. There's accountability for my actions. If I slip I won't be the first addict to do so. It happens all the time. I'm human, so I do the best I can to keep out of situations that might tempt me into falling back into old habits and patterns. That means I try not to associate with the people I did back when I was drinking.

I'm not a person who can have just one drink and be fine the way millions of other people can. Maybe someday I'll reach the point where I can have a celebratory glass of champagne at a wedding or a lone glass of wine during a dinner party, but I'm not there yet and I know it. I see no point in tempting the fates and setting myself back. I've worked too hard for that.

Yet when I leave Eric's house, I find myself sitting outside of a bar in downtown Portland about three blocks away from my apartment. Aurelia's engine is still running, purring and making the seat vibrate a little in a way that still excites me. I got this car from a sugar daddy I picked up after I left Eric. My father had one like it when I was a kid, except his was all black. He and my mother died in it when I was seven. A flash flood came along in rural Louisiana and swept the car off a bridge. The engine had stalled and Dad didn't realize just how bad the storm really was. Heavy rain, sure, but bad enough to sweep a '71 Chevy off a bridge? He and Mom never had a chance. Their bodies were never found but the car was once the water receded.

I pick up my phone and dial Kennedy's number, hoping she'll have some words of wisdom for me other than telling me to go to a meeting. It's probably what I should do, but I don't particularly want to go be in a room full of other people with sob stories to tell. I'm just not in the mood after the encounter I've just had.

"Hello," she answers in the same even tone she always does.

"I'm sitting outside a bar. I can hear Smirnoff calling my name," I say quietly.

There's a pause and then the shuffling of paper on the other end of the line.

"St. Anne's has a meeting in twelve minutes. You should go," she says. I hate St. Anne's meetings. They're a little too Good Book focused for my taste, and I'm a girl who goes to church most Sundays.

"I hate St. Anne's."

"I know, but don't you hate being drunk more?"

I sigh, knowing she's right. I can't expect her to drop everything to come and rescue me in a moment of weakness.

"Go to the meeting. If you still want to talk afterward, I'll meet you at the Daily Grind at nine," she offers.

It's a compromise I can make so I said, "Fine, I'll go. I won't like it."

"You won't be hungover tomorrow," she says as if that's reason enough to go.

"And I won't hate myself. Well, not as much anyway."

That gets me a snicker from her.

"I need a proof of life photo when you get to St. Anne's if you expect me to meet you," she says.