Girl Walks Out of a Bar (29 page)

I awoke feeling the simple tiredness of having gone to bed late. That was all, just a little Sunday morning laziness. I thought,
I'll spend a couple of hours drinking coffee and reading the paper in my pajamas
. I couldn't help smiling as I padded into the kitchen and poured water into the back of the coffeemaker
that I no longer neglected. I looked forward to talking through the party post-game with my friends hours later after they'd already been up once for Advil and water and had thrown themselves back onto the mercy of their mattresses.

Curled on my couch with a big cup of expensive coffee warming my hands, I looked around my bright living room, so pleasant when the curtains were pulled wide, and thought about the night before. Things had changed and forever. From now on, the memories I created with my friends would simply not look like the memories we had built up to now. From my sober station the night before, I had watched as the personalities expanded and volume boomed with every refilled glass. And for every single second of the party, I was completely aware that I was the sober one, the one who wasn't like everybody else.

Sitting there in the morning sunshine, I felt content and even a little bit proud. But it wasn't until many years later when I realized that my choice on the night of Jerry's fortieth birthday was the most extraordinary accomplishment of my life.

Epilogue

It's been twelve years since I got sober . . .

I've apologized to people I hurt when I was drinking and using drugs. They haven't all forgiven me.

I hold a job I would have lost in a week if I were drinking. Twice during presentations I've suffered anxiety attacks so vicious that I've had to halt the meeting and lower my head into deep breaths as partners handed me glasses of water.

I married a wonderful man in the Santa Fe home that we bought together. I wore pale blue because white would have felt ridiculous.

I held my father's hand and gave him morphine as he lay dying. Then I pulled myself together and delivered a eulogy that I hope was worthy of him.

I've watched friends I met in recovery jam onstage with rock gods and act in the hottest HBO television shows. I've built friendships with people who came to a 12-step meeting one day and relapsed the next.

I buried a best friend. I still can't accept his death.

I regularly call sober friends from 12-step programs who help me stay clean. In turn, I help incredible people to stand up straight, salvage their careers, save their marriages, and anchor their families.

I now have a niece and a nephew, and I made it to the hospital the day Ben was born. I'm the aunt who shows up for sleepovers.

On many mornings, I haven't wanted to get out of bed. On most mornings, I've gotten out of bed.

On more than 4,000 mornings, I have awakened and made a decision:

“Just for today, I will not drink.”

About the Author

Credit:
Photo by Rod Goodman

Lisa Smith
is a writer and a lawyer in New York City. Sober for more than ten years, she is passionate about breaking the stigma of drug and alcohol addiction, particularly for professional women.

Lisa's writing has been published in
The Washington Post, Chicago Tribune
, AfterPartyMagazine, and
Addiction.com
. She is on the Board of Directors of the NY Writers Coalition and The Writers Room in Greenwich Village.

Prior to working for more than fifteen years in legal marketing, she practiced corporate finance law at a leading international law firm.

After attending Northwestern University, Lisa received a JD from Rutgers School of Law, where she served on the editorial board of the
Rutgers Law Review.