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.
Create successful ePaper yourself
Turn your PDF publications into a flip-book with our unique Google optimized e-Paper software.
But after two beers, I didn’t like our arrangement anymore. And I shot him a look like “If you take<br />
this fourth drink out of my hands, I will cut you.”<br />
I woke up <strong>to</strong> his back a lot of mornings. I started hanging out more with <strong>the</strong> guys from work. They<br />
still laughed when I knocked over my martini.<br />
If I had <strong>to</strong> guess <strong>the</strong> moment Lindsay knew we were in trouble, I would point <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> night I was so<br />
wasted I couldn’t climb our back staircase, so he convinced me I was a kitty cat. I was in a blackout,<br />
and I crawled up <strong>the</strong> rickety steps on my hands and knees, meowing at <strong>the</strong> moon and trying <strong>to</strong> swish<br />
my nonexistent tail. But <strong>to</strong> Lindsay, this behavior was no longer cute, or funny, or endearing. It was<br />
pa<strong>the</strong>tic.<br />
I went <strong>to</strong> an alcohol <strong>the</strong>rapist, my big display of I-mean-it-this-time. She had an office in <strong>the</strong><br />
Dallas suburbs, in a home with <strong>to</strong>o many cuckoo clocks.<br />
“Men leave women who drink <strong>to</strong>o much,” she <strong>to</strong>ld me, as I tugged at <strong>the</strong> fraying ends on her couch.<br />
“He will leave you.” I thought: How is that fair? Women stay with men who drink <strong>to</strong>o much all <strong>the</strong><br />
time. I thought: But if I s<strong>to</strong>p drinking, what would we do <strong>to</strong>ge<strong>the</strong>r? I thought: What <strong>the</strong> fuck does this<br />
woman know?<br />
A few months later, Lindsay turned <strong>to</strong> me after dinner in a shitty Greek restaurant, and he said, “I<br />
can’t do this anymore.” And I knew he did not mean <strong>the</strong> dinner in <strong>the</strong> shitty Greek restaurant.<br />
I wasn’t devastated; I was furious. In our time <strong>to</strong>ge<strong>the</strong>r, his s<strong>to</strong>ck only climbed. He was betterlooking,<br />
dressed less like a business nerd and more like <strong>the</strong> East Dallas musicians I had introduced<br />
him <strong>to</strong>. Meanwhile, I felt like <strong>the</strong> fat drunk he was ditching on <strong>the</strong> side of <strong>the</strong> road. But underneath my<br />
wounded pride, I knew our split was right. I’d spent two and a half years unsure of my love for him<br />
and hating myself more and more. What I had required was unfair. I wanted him <strong>to</strong> love me enough for<br />
both of us.<br />
I needed <strong>to</strong> change. I needed <strong>to</strong> turn my life in<strong>to</strong> something I didn’t need <strong>to</strong> drink <strong>to</strong> <strong>to</strong>lerate. The<br />
day after Lindsay broke up with me, I made a decision.<br />
“I’m taking your cat,” I <strong>to</strong>ld him, “and I’m moving <strong>to</strong> New York.”