It was in this moment that I started to understand that my addiction was a fatally progressive disease. It’s not something that gets better with time. It’s not something that I can beat. This would be something that I would have to tackle every single morning when I opened my eyes, and every night when I went to sleep.
Well, there goes my dating life! There was no way I was going out for a while. I just . . . I couldn’t risk it. But whatever. I didn’t need a guy anyway! Dating was fun, but ultimately I was enjoying being single. I went back into my antisocial cave, trying to gain back my confidence and consecutive days sober.
I slowly worked my way back up one day at a time. It was like training for the Olympics. I was exhausted, but I was doing it. The longer I went, the stronger I got. I dove into my work, and I barely even noticed the fact that I was . . . literally talking to no one. My friends had stopped trying to get me to come out with them. I was on their “do not call” list.
The only person who still bothered to try was my sister Colleen. She really made it her mission to incorporate me back into her life. All my other friends were afraid to push me out into the world, but Colleen knew that if I was going to ever lead a normal life as a sober person, I couldn’t stay isolated all the time.
“Just go on a fucking date! Go!” she’d push me.
Fine. There was this entertainment lawyer named Ben who asked me out a few weeks ago. I could call him up and set up a date. So I did—I started seeing him. It was nice. He was busy with work and so was I. It was the perfect dating scenario for two people who put work before anything else. Canceling at the last minute was no problem. Awesome! Canceling at the last minute is my favorite thing to do. The only bad thing was that he didn’t really understand my sobriety. He would say things like, “You can’t just have ONE glass of wine with dinner? You can’t just have ONE drink?”
Nope, I can’t.
I didn’t mind that he didn’t completely understand me. I kind of thought no one ever would. Sobriety was something I did on my own. Ben and I saw each other pretty consistently—as consistently as two people in LA working in the industry can, but we weren’t exclusive by any means.
I worked my way up to fifty-nine days sober again, seeing the lawyer on and off. And then Colleen called me. “Laura. Stop being such a bummer.”
“I’m not a bummer! But I can’t talk long, I’m going to bed soon.”
“It’s seven thirty.”
“Your point?” There was a long pause. I could feel her judgment. “I need my ten hours!”
“Come out to my party tonight. Please. This isn’t a request, it’s a friendly demand. You’re coming.”
Colleen had found this group of friends in Los Angeles who were all British. She is a total anglophile. After two weeks of hanging out with them, she started speaking in a British accent, “Laura, would you like a spot of tea?” To which I would reply, “Colleen, you’re from Chicago.”
“Okay fine, I’ll go. Let me see if Ben can come.”
Ben was in. We planned to meet about an hour later to go to the party together. But five minutes before I was supposed to leave, Ben called me to say that he got busy with work and had to stay late tonight. This was . . . perfect! I called Colleen back. “Ben canceled, so I can’t go tonight. Sorry!”
“Laura. You are your own fucking person and you can go out tonight by yourself.”
“But—”
“YOU’RE AN ADULT.”
Fine. I looked at Jack, who was currently passed out on the couch. He had one hand in a bag of Cheetos and the other down his pants, with a bong next to him. He was a messy gay stoner, but goddamn it, he was MY messy gay stoner. In a last-ditch effort, I pulled the pillow out from under his head to wake him up and took his bag of Cheetos away to use as leverage.
“Come with me to a party or the Cheetos go in the trash.”
“Bitch, I’m sleeping!” He snatched the bag back, put a Cheeto in his mouth, and dozed off.
I guessed I was going alone. I made a mental plan to stay for an hour and then go straight home before I ruined everything.
I arrived at the party. It had a theme: “Dress the Way Your Parents Did When You Were Born.” You might think this theme is oddly specific, but the last party was themed: “Wear an Outfit to Symbolize the Last Text You Sent”; and the one before that was “The Battle of 1812.” I wanted to wear a hospital gown with my ass just completely out, because that’s what my mom was wearing when I popped out . . . but I felt like the person with her ass out at the party can’t also be the first person to leave. I was born in ’86, so I found a pink-and-black-striped minidress, teased my hair, and slid on a bunch of bracelets. I called this look: “Phoned-In Eighties.”
I parked my car outside her house and felt . . . stupid. I hate costume parties. Why would someone create an event where it’s mandatory that you look dumb? I was wearing a stupid dress and I was going to go to this stupid party and drink stupid water because that’s all I’m allowed to do.
I walked into the garden area and I remember seeing this man standing with a group of friends. He was wearing this really beautiful vintage suit and laughing at something someone said. Like really, truly laughing. I remember thinking he had a great smile. I wanted to know what he was laughing about. I bet I could make him laugh. Then I saw he was holding a bottle of water. Hmmm, I do need water. And I wanted to talk to him. I decided I’d ask him where he got that water. Smooth, right?
I used to go up to guys all the time in clubs. It’s easy to talk to people! But, I had always been drunk before in these situations. This time I had no false confidence, no liquid courage. What was I going to say? Okay, Laura, just say words.
I had been standing in front of him and his group of friends, uncomfortably, for ten seconds already.
Awkwardly, I interrupted his conversation. “Where did you get your water?” He cocked his head to the side, smiling. He looked confused by the question, so naturally I continued: “BECAUSE I just love water. It’s really important to stay hydrated, so I was just wondering where the water might be because water is my favorite beverage and I love it.”
He raised an eyebrow and said, “Obviously you don’t love water or else you would have brought some yourself.”
“Are you accusing me of not loving water? I just wanted to sample the specific water at this house. I probably like water more than you.”
“I’m just saying, if you loved it as much as you say you did, you would have brought it like I’ve brought mine,” he said, grinning triumphantly. How did he get the upper hand here?
“All right. Whatever. I’m going to go find some water.” I turned around and walked into the house. Real smooth, Laura. Man, I needed a drink. Of water.
I found my dumb water and sat down to socialize with all the party people. It was fun at first. But . . . then an hour or two passed and everyone had gotten progressively more drunk and high . . . this was my limit. I was a little annoyed, I’ll admit. It was hard being the only sober person at a party. I didn’t want to be a buzzkill, so I needed to get out of there.
I said my good-byes, and then figured I would find the water guy to say good-bye and catch him up on the fact that I found water immediately.