Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget - Sarah Hepola
I’m in Paris on a magazine assignment, which is exactly as great as it sounds. I eat dinner at a restaurant so fancy I have to keep resisting the urge to drop my fork just to see how fast someone will pick it up. I’m drinking cognac—the booze of kings and rap stars—and I love how the snifter sinks between the crooks of my fingers, amber liquid sloshing up the sides as I move it in a figure eight. Like swirling the ocean in the palm of my hand.
I’m in Paris on a magazine assignment, which is exactly as great as it sounds. I eat dinner at a
restaurant so fancy I have to keep resisting the urge to drop my fork just to see how fast someone will
pick it up. I’m drinking cognac—the booze of kings and rap stars—and I love how the snifter sinks
between the crooks of my fingers, amber liquid sloshing up the sides as I move it in a figure eight.
Like swirling the ocean in the palm of my hand.
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<strong>the</strong> tastes of a frat boy, or a grumpy <strong>to</strong>ddler. No <strong>to</strong> vegetables. Yes <strong>to</strong> ranch dressing. I actually<br />
described <strong>the</strong> food I liked as “nothing healthy.”<br />
My bro<strong>the</strong>r is defiant like this, <strong>to</strong>o, which suggests ei<strong>the</strong>r a genetic predisposition <strong>to</strong> Ultimate<br />
Cheeseburgers or a rebellion against <strong>the</strong> bean sprouts and barley of our food co-op childhood. Kids<br />
often dive in<strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> indulgences <strong>the</strong>ir parents place off-limits: television, sugar, sex. And I became an<br />
adult who actually enjoyed carpet bombing her gut with processed meats. “The next time you eat a<br />
fast-food burger, I want you <strong>to</strong> really think about it,” a friend once said. So I did. And I thought: This<br />
is great!<br />
Of course, I had <strong>the</strong> added pressure of growing up female in <strong>the</strong> diet culture of <strong>the</strong> ’80s. After <strong>the</strong><br />
age of 12, food s<strong>to</strong>pped being sustenance and turned in<strong>to</strong> guilt, sin, reward, penance, entertainment,<br />
love. Cramming food in<strong>to</strong> my mouth brought a rush of rebellion, but I was never sure who I was<br />
fighting. My mo<strong>the</strong>r? The advertising industry? Jane Fonda? (Poor Jane Fonda. She was only trying <strong>to</strong><br />
help.) Whoever I intended <strong>to</strong> punish with that routine, <strong>the</strong> only one who got hurt in <strong>the</strong> end was me.<br />
Our bodies carry <strong>the</strong> evidence of our neglect. By <strong>the</strong> time I s<strong>to</strong>pped drinking, I was nearly 50<br />
pounds overweight. I had ulcers that felt like <strong>the</strong> lit end of a cigarette held up <strong>to</strong> my s<strong>to</strong>mach lining. I<br />
had a mysterious rash splashed over my arms and legs. I had two twisted knees that cried out when I<br />
descended stairs, a painful reminder I literally could not support my own weight.<br />
I never thought of myself as neglectful. I’d been a single woman living in New York City, after all.<br />
I <strong>to</strong>ok care of myself all <strong>the</strong> time. I opened tightly sealed jars by myself, banging a spoon against <strong>the</strong><br />
metal until it relented, and I installed shelves in my kitchen, using a power drill and <strong>to</strong>rpedo level <strong>to</strong><br />
hang <strong>the</strong>m properly. I couldn’t fob off <strong>the</strong> finances <strong>to</strong> my spreadsheet-oriented husband. My wife<br />
never did <strong>the</strong> laundry. (Actually, <strong>the</strong> women at <strong>the</strong> drop-off dry cleaner did my laundry, and I thank<br />
<strong>the</strong>m.) I carried <strong>the</strong> responsibility of rent and work demands on my own tensed shoulders, and <strong>the</strong><br />
way I eased those knots was <strong>to</strong> reward myself with a nice bottle of wine at <strong>the</strong> end of a long day.<br />
Maybe a six-pack as well. This was taking care of myself: a conscious decision not <strong>to</strong> shame myself<br />
for my own roaring appetites.<br />
Go <strong>to</strong> any spa, and you’ll see <strong>the</strong> same philosophy at play. It’s time <strong>to</strong> take care of you finally—<br />
here’s a glass of champagne. When it comes <strong>to</strong> selling <strong>the</strong> luxury experience, alcohol is more central<br />
than warm hand <strong>to</strong>wels and tinkling water sculptures. They serve booze at beauty salons, high-end<br />
s<strong>to</strong>res, resorts, upscale hotels. What’s <strong>the</strong> most famous perk of flying first class? Free drinks, of<br />
course. Alcohol is <strong>the</strong> ultimate in pampering.<br />
But “pampering myself” all <strong>the</strong> time led <strong>to</strong> a certain sloth. I let cat food tins languish in corners,<br />
and I let bills go unpaid. In Brooklyn, I was sleeping with a guy who used <strong>to</strong> come over at 3 am, and<br />
in between <strong>to</strong>kes on his one-hitter one night, he said, “Baby, you need a new couch.” I looked closer<br />
and was startled by what I saw: My velvety red fu<strong>to</strong>n had become filthy with splotches of soy sauce<br />
and red wine. There was a strange crust on one cushion that might have been cheese. It’s not a good<br />
sign when your s<strong>to</strong>ned fuck buddy is giving you decorating tips.<br />
People who don’t take care of <strong>the</strong>mselves will also struggle <strong>to</strong> take care of o<strong>the</strong>rs. One night, I<br />
came home so blind drunk I left <strong>the</strong> front door flapping open, and at some point, my cat walked out<br />
in<strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> night right before my eyes. My cat. The one I was beyond paranoid about keeping indoors.<br />
The one I loved with such ferocity I thought I might go insane if anything happened <strong>to</strong> him. The next<br />
morning, I was in a panic trying <strong>to</strong> find him, only <strong>to</strong> open <strong>the</strong> front door and see him sitting on <strong>the</strong><br />
s<strong>to</strong>op, looking up like: Where have you been?