Day -9 | Still Getting Hammered Every Night | Period Is a No-Show
I pee on the stick.
I’m not sure I’ve ever peed on a stick.
It’s freezing as I sit here in Ted and Sue’s bathroom; Ted’s leafed-through magazines with his filthy fingerprints stacked on the radiator besides me.
I’m gripping the application so tight it’s gonna snap in two.
A change-of-life baby?
My phone rings.
It’s the social worker from my Size-4 doc’s office; she advises I get a bed at Faulkner—3-5 days of detox.
[Me? Faulkner? The MBA, the former seducer of mega net worth guys, the cowgirl, the lover of drink after putting in a hard day—or not?]
My mother will kill me.
This must mean I have a problem. A big one.
I clear the endeavor with Husband. Don’t mention the peeing on the stick thing. He’s sort of funny about it [self-realization?], but supportive. I figure I’ll keep detox from [the whole world and] Ted and Sue. Be easy, I escape for days at a time from this place. I’m suffocating here. Always red in the face [or feel that way]. Can’t goddamn wait for 7:00 to roll around so I can get my hands on that bottle.
The drink makes it bearable.
How can I go without it?
I call Faulkner.
Voicemail picks up.
I leave a message.