look like, the hospital has done an excellent job of appropriating. Although I am thrilled to be in the movies. This is a movie.
Besides the circle, there’s nothing to look at much. There are no paintings or photographs in this room, just us and the chairs and some tables pushed against the walls. The windows face a wall of another building.
In the beginning, everyone is silent. We look around, all of us, and smile quickly and politely at each other if we catch each other’s eyes. Most of the eyes in here are accustomed to avoiding, so the awkward smiling occurs only a few times, at least in my case.
Eventually one of the Lisas bursts out that she doesn’t even drink anymore so this program doesn’t apply to her. Ever since her daughter moved back home with her new baby, well, she has realized how much was at stake and stopped drinking entirely.
No more drinking for her! Ha ha ha. It doesn’t really apply at all, she repeats.
But I’m doing this—this program—because of the baby, she says. Because it’s … it wouldn’t be … it wouldn’t be fair to him, the baby. If I did. Drink. Yes.
Lisa won’t meet anyone’s eye; she’s playing with a loose thread coming out of her thick, wool skirt while she recites her affirmations.
Same with me, says the guy with the Einstein hairdo. Same with me. I don’t even drink anymore. He gives everyone a sad, wise smile.
Well, good for you. An actor type with giant white runners on his feet shouts enthusiastically. But it hasn’t been the case for me, certainly, he says. Good for you.
I went out last night, says the actor type. It was my last hurrah you could say. I understood that this is it for me. Or I don’t know. I’m in a relationship and my girlfriend—we’ve been together twelve years—gave me an ultimatum. I usually drink Jack. I had some last night—
The counsellor interrupts him to ask him how much.
He measures a depth with his hand. Almost an entire bottle from what I can tell. The counsellor, visibly satisfied, nods and writes something down.
I wonder if I should take Lisa’s approach when it comes to my turn and just make something up. Something about how I’m only here for the preventative measure or some other stupid crap. But I don’t even care enough to lie all the way through.
I have to watch what I say, however. I was read a statement about confidentiality when I dropped off my form. I remember the words
danger
and
authorities
. This is no good. I can’t talk about passing out with Frankie screaming and wet that one time, and my boyfriend finding me.
I just say that I drink because of the stress of childcare and my life, which is a failure.
I don’t really attribute my drinking to this. I could talk about the obscene appetite of my wanting, or about the guilt crushing my sobriety, or perhaps about subconsciously wanting to die, not being able to stop. Yet all of that is too abstract, too complicated to explain. I can’t explain it to
myself
. Why, Jowita? Why? I remember seeing a sticker once: The reason I swear so much is because fuck you.
But since I’ve been in this movie before, I know that you have to come up with some kind of explanation. Cause and effect. A formula thatgoes like this: Baby equals stress equals feeling of failure equals drinking.
So the childcare makes you stressed? the counsellor says.
You know, like that joke title for a children’s book?
Mommy Drinks Because You Cry
? That’s me, I say.
The counsellor doesn’t laugh. Nobody laughs. Lisa looks at me suspiciously.
The counsellor asks me where I drink. At home?
(I evaluate how I should answer. No. Not at home. Baby’s at home, can’t be drunk around the baby, can I?)
At a local bar.
How much do you drink?
A couple of pints.
How many?
Maybe two. Or three.
Two or three?
Three.
Four?
No, three.
The counsellor tries to do something with her mouth that looks … smilish. I want to punch her. But I
smilish
back at her and she moves on
Besides the circle, there’s nothing to look at much. There are no paintings or photographs in this room, just us and the chairs and some tables pushed against the walls. The windows face a wall of another building.
In the beginning, everyone is silent. We look around, all of us, and smile quickly and politely at each other if we catch each other’s eyes. Most of the eyes in here are accustomed to avoiding, so the awkward smiling occurs only a few times, at least in my case.
Eventually one of the Lisas bursts out that she doesn’t even drink anymore so this program doesn’t apply to her. Ever since her daughter moved back home with her new baby, well, she has realized how much was at stake and stopped drinking entirely.
No more drinking for her! Ha ha ha. It doesn’t really apply at all, she repeats.
But I’m doing this—this program—because of the baby, she says. Because it’s … it wouldn’t be … it wouldn’t be fair to him, the baby. If I did. Drink. Yes.
Lisa won’t meet anyone’s eye; she’s playing with a loose thread coming out of her thick, wool skirt while she recites her affirmations.
Same with me, says the guy with the Einstein hairdo. Same with me. I don’t even drink anymore. He gives everyone a sad, wise smile.
Well, good for you. An actor type with giant white runners on his feet shouts enthusiastically. But it hasn’t been the case for me, certainly, he says. Good for you.
I went out last night, says the actor type. It was my last hurrah you could say. I understood that this is it for me. Or I don’t know. I’m in a relationship and my girlfriend—we’ve been together twelve years—gave me an ultimatum. I usually drink Jack. I had some last night—
The counsellor interrupts him to ask him how much.
He measures a depth with his hand. Almost an entire bottle from what I can tell. The counsellor, visibly satisfied, nods and writes something down.
I wonder if I should take Lisa’s approach when it comes to my turn and just make something up. Something about how I’m only here for the preventative measure or some other stupid crap. But I don’t even care enough to lie all the way through.
I have to watch what I say, however. I was read a statement about confidentiality when I dropped off my form. I remember the words
danger
and
authorities
. This is no good. I can’t talk about passing out with Frankie screaming and wet that one time, and my boyfriend finding me.
I just say that I drink because of the stress of childcare and my life, which is a failure.
I don’t really attribute my drinking to this. I could talk about the obscene appetite of my wanting, or about the guilt crushing my sobriety, or perhaps about subconsciously wanting to die, not being able to stop. Yet all of that is too abstract, too complicated to explain. I can’t explain it to
myself
. Why, Jowita? Why? I remember seeing a sticker once: The reason I swear so much is because fuck you.
But since I’ve been in this movie before, I know that you have to come up with some kind of explanation. Cause and effect. A formula thatgoes like this: Baby equals stress equals feeling of failure equals drinking.
So the childcare makes you stressed? the counsellor says.
You know, like that joke title for a children’s book?
Mommy Drinks Because You Cry
? That’s me, I say.
The counsellor doesn’t laugh. Nobody laughs. Lisa looks at me suspiciously.
The counsellor asks me where I drink. At home?
(I evaluate how I should answer. No. Not at home. Baby’s at home, can’t be drunk around the baby, can I?)
At a local bar.
How much do you drink?
A couple of pints.
How many?
Maybe two. Or three.
Two or three?
Three.
Four?
No, three.
The counsellor tries to do something with her mouth that looks … smilish. I want to punch her. But I
smilish
back at her and she moves on
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