Acrobaddict (10 page)

11

TEETH

O
NE OF THE MOST COMMON DREAMS IS LOSING ONE’S TEETH, WHICH REPRESENTS EMBARRASSMENT, FEAR, SHAME, ABANDONMENT, AND FEELINGS OF POWERLESSNESS.
A
PARALLEL WAKING EXPERIENCE CAN BE FOUND IN THE PHRASE
losing face
.

I hated everything about alcohol—the smell, the way it changed people, and how insidiously it crept into my life. I had watched as it slowly destroyed the relationships in my family, like a cancer carving its way through our bodies.

My brother drank a lot, and would come into our room reeking of beer. I never understood how people smelled like alcohol; if I drank a gallon of milk, did I smell like a cow? He came into the room with bright, demonic eyes, excited, dizzy, energetic, and drunk. His drinking worried me, and I feared something terrible would happen. One night that fear turned into reality when he got into an awful accident. He wrapped his car around a tree so badly that its metal frame twisted around his body, locking him into a steel grave. He was rescued by the Jaws of Life and brought to the intensive care unit. When I heard the news, I was filled with fear. Was he going to be all right? Was he going to die? After a long time in the hospital and a few surgeries, he recovered, but the accident didn’t change his behavior. Like many of us, he continued to believe he was immortal.

My mom also drank a lot, but it affected her differently than my brother. She didn’t get the same energy as him, and seemed to be sliding down a hole, taking all light down with her into Hades’ lair
of endless repetition. Her life cycled around finishing the drink and filling it back up for that defined “fulfillment.”

I hated alcohol.

I was determined never to drink, because I had seen and lived through the destruction it caused and, bottom line, it would ruin my gymnastics. I had seen older kids start drinking and watched how alcohol slowly destroyed the athlete they could have become. I was not going to let that happen to me. I was afraid of losing my physical control that I had worked so hard to achieve.

In my sophomore year, everyone in school started experimenting with alcohol and pot, including my closest friend Tara. She came over to my house on weekends with her friends to drink. I had the house to myself until two in the morning since my mom was always at work, so it became the “drinking house.” I had learned from my sisters to clean the house so it looked better than it did before Mom left, and she would never suspect a thing. Our family adage, “If no one saw it, then it didn’t occur,” was in full effect. I watched my friends get drunk, laugh, and dance, and then cleaned up after them.

After months of being the perfect human specimen, always on the outside of my friends’ world and always eating properly, working out, caring for everyone, and cleaning up after them, I decided to have a beer with them. I drank it as fast as I could because it tasted so awful. Everyone told me the first one always tasted bad, but the second one would taste better. I didn’t feel anything after the first beer, but as I drank the second one a small wave of calm and pleasure washed over me. I felt a little taller, and the rest of the second beer did indeed taste better. I felt myself gaining confidence that allowed me to drink even more. Small waves of pleasure intensified, and I felt the huge, hollow well of my soul slowly fill up with warmth and happiness.

Tara was thrilled that I finally drank with her, crossing into the enchanted place teenagers go, the place I had sworn against—the place I had denied myself through control and fear. I continued drinking and thought,
What took me so long?
If I had known it felt
that good, I would have started years ago. Each bitter gulp helped dissolve the tremendous burden of trying to be a perfect champion, draining my mind of its circling problems and presenting the answers in simple laughter. This was better than medicine, and provided exactly the effect I needed: a burst of light to penetrate my dark world. All this time spent alone in my head, cursing myself, hating myself, beating myself up, being ridiculed, and fighting for my breath to reach Olympia built up into this moment of relief—and in that moment, it was all sort of . . . funny. Finally, I didn’t care.

After my fourth beer, we went swimming in our kidney-shaped pool. The pool water glistened in the darkness, perfectly cool and numbing against our skin. We could not contain our laughter, and we didn’t dare; laughter would seek its revenge if we denied its release. The giant pine trees watched behind us, and I knew with every fiber of my being that
this
was the cure for what ailed me. The night belonged to us, as did almost every weekend that followed.

All I could think about during school was the weekend. I knew everything would be okay as soon as I could drink that second beer. It gave my mind and body a short vacation. My mother never suspected anything, and I never admitted to drinking. All the people I resented, the drunken slobs at the bar, and my father, well, I realized they were on to something. I still believed drinking was a weakness, so how weak did that make me? How could I be angry at my mother for something I was doing myself? I had discovered its wonder, realizing I needed it as much as she did. I never drank in front of my brother; that was a boundary I was unwilling to cross. He knew me as his little brother, and I didn’t want him to see me enjoying the family cure and curse.

Every weekend that I could drink, I drank, mostly with Tara. I drank a couple of times with some guys on the gymnastics team. I found out quickly that I was able to drink a large amount without experiencing any side effects in the morning. I was always the first one to crack open a beer and the last one to put it down, and never understood why my friends would stop, brush their teeth, and then get ready for bed. Why weren’t they drinking like me, until the sun rose?

That year I bought my first car, a gray Toyota Celica, from Trish. I loved it, and would follow my brother to parties with kids his age outside of our town. I had gymnastics practice on Saturday mornings, and when I drank on Friday nights my practices suffered because I finally started to experience side effects. I woke with my mouth dry as the desert, stomach wrenching, head spinning, and sweating from the alcohol. Sometimes I was still slightly drunk as I hopped into my little gray car and drove to practice, showing up late. My coach immediately knew what was going on, seeing how dramatically I had changed from the year before. I wore my carelessness as a new layer of flesh, proud of the trouble growing underneath.

My coach took me into his office, which was rare for him to do with any athlete. He told me how talented I was, and that if he had half the talent I did, he wouldn’t piss it away like I was doing. I stood there with my arrogance, confusion, fear, and anger, wanting to break down in tears and scream to him, “Save me. I’m in pain. I’m dying. I can’t breathe. I want to die. Please help me.” But I didn’t. I quietly swallowed his words and felt a deep shame. What would Dan think of me right now? It didn’t matter; Dan had left me here, and this was the result. I knew that I needed to slow down my drinking on the night before a practice, and I had to work harder to control the situation.

I was trying to balance a difficult schedule: going to school, gymnastics practice, working, and drinking with my friends. When I worked at my parents’ restaurant, I ran heavy racks of bar glasses through crowds of drunken people to make sure the turnover of drinks was fast enough for the bartenders to serve. I had to collect them and wash them quickly to maintain the cycle. It was hard work, and the money was good. Working there made me feel important and gave me a sense of satisfaction and belonging, all while allowing me to pay for my car.

When I wasn’t working, I partied every opportunity I had. My brother and I decided to have a huge keg party one summer. I had just finished reading
The Great Gatsby
and wanted it to have the
same opulent feel as the parties in the book. We bought giant tiki torches and dug small trenches around the pool, decorating the yard in a Hawaiian luau style. Our house was perfect for a party—a large, open backyard guarded by giant pine trees; a romantic, crystal-clear pool that reflected the moon; and a large basement room where I slept. We charged five dollars a cup to cover the costs of the decorations and beer.

On the night of the party everyone from school was there. I felt a deep sense of camaraderie that I had never felt before. I had been the loner, the hermit, and always compared myself to everyone else. I was convinced they all had better lives and felt sorry for me, but that night we were all friends, drinking over the moments that normally divided us. We celebrated youth together, under the same moon I had cursed and hated for never saving me in the past, and now I could declare to it, “I don’t need you anymore . . . you weren’t enough for me anyway.”

We made so much money from the party that we decided to have another one at the end of August. But when the time came, the weather was different, and the air was heavy as Death spread over the summer and the sun burned its rays across our dying grass. A large harvest moon rose over the horizon, turning peach, then purple, and finally black, surrounded by tiny twinkling stars. The crowds of kids came fast. Word had spread about our first party, and people came in from other towns. Parked cars lined our road, and people started jumping the fence instead of going through the gate where we were collecting money. So many people were coming so fast, rowdy and ready to party. I knew I couldn’t drink because the party was already out of control and I couldn’t stop it. The calm sea of people in our backyard had turned into a tsunami.

I stood there, puzzled, and watched my own party blast into chaos. My brother grabbed cue sticks from the pool table and stepped on them, snapping them in half to use as weapons, because it was obvious a fight was going to break out somewhere. It looked like he was going to stake a vampire. I knew the cops were coming because our
phone was ringing off the hook. We couldn’t control it as the smell of pot and cigarettes rose up in a cloud from our backyard. I went into my mother’s room and locked the door behind me to remove myself from the situation, and at that moment the cops arrived. Our whole town’s law enforcement was at our front door. Kids went running everywhere. I was glad the cops came, afraid the party would destroy everything we owned. The cops arrested several people who had pot on them. A few hours after everyone left, Michael and I took the remaining kegs and drank them as fast as we could.

The next morning the entire backyard was trashed, with vomit in the bushes and empty beer cups everywhere. My mom was so proud of her beautiful backyard, and we had trashed it. She was very upset with me. I had no smart-ass comeback for what had happened. I felt guilt coupled with a teenage hangover, and knew I needed to clean up my act. My summer of drinking was interfering with my gymnastics, so I decided to cool out for a bit. I was going to drink less and calm down for my junior year.

On my last drinking night before the new school year began, I decided to smoke pot. I had watched my friends smoke, and they always laughed at the most ridiculous things. Since I believe laughter is a great and powerful natural medicine, I thought smoking pot would be a good idea. My friends told me the high from pot was more mellow than drinking, and I wouldn’t have a hangover the next day. That sounded like exactly what I needed.

I took my first puff from a loosely rolled joint. The smoke stung my throat, and I instantly coughed like a rookie. It tasted good on my lips and smelled natural and damp. I took another puff and held it in my lungs the same way I did with my asthma inhaler, holding the air deep down so my body would absorb the medication, and then I exhaled the thick smoke like a proud dragon. For the first time, I understood what the word
high
meant—I was somewhere in the air with my feet on the ground. Perceptions of my surroundings changed slightly, and I started to feel like a character in one of my own stories. Unlike alcohol, which revved me up, pot brought a quiet sense of peace and restfulness, and made me want more.