Vienna, you're right

I slipped.

OK. That’s not really true. The truth is that I threw myself down the stairs.

It was Friday and my mother left. It was actually a very, very nice morning. I cleaned the apartment until it sparkled, did all my laundry, got dressed, packed, and then jumped into a cab to head to Vienna, Austria. I thought, Hey, I’m single, in Europe, the world is now open and inviting. No one is breathing down my neck with criticisms anymore. Why not try to have some fun. And Vienna seemed the perfect place to do that.

Nine years ago, I lived in Vienna as a nanny. It was an incredibly important and transformative time in my life. I had been in college for one year, but I felt completely tied down and unimpressed by everything around me. I was stuck in a high school relationship. I felt torn about the direction I was headed in. I felt like I wasn’t growing and I didn’t know why. I’d picked The Classics – as in Greek and Latin – for my major, but it didn’t seem to fit. Then, one day, during the summer of 1999, my father said he knew someone through work who was looking for a live-in au pair in Vienna. And they were interested in hiring me. I said sure. And two weeks later, I filed for a leave of absence from school and headed toward a country I’d never seen.

I remember I felt like I was dreaming once I’d arrived. Everything in Vienna is so regal and palatial. And so, just, European. Everything is elegant and proper and sophisticated. Turning on lights felt new and amazing, even. I was immediately in love. I stayed there for a year. And I had the time of my life. I did all the things a good American girl should do when eighteen, single, and in Europe for the first time. I got my haircut. I started smoking. I flirted with men. And, I learned how to drink.

It was in Vienna where I first learned exactly what kind of a tolerance I had for alcohol. And it impressed me. So I did it as often as possible with as many people as possible. I drank people under the table – tequila shots, red bulls with vodka, beer, cider, schnapps. You name it, I drank it. And more. And then I got up on bars and danced. And I threw beers in peoples faces. And I didn’t care.

Now, a decade later, drinking doesn’t work for me anymore. It turned into something else. I’d say the party stopped eight years ago. Booze became my medicine – the only way I knew how to cope with the world. If I was stressed out, I drank. If I was sad, I drank. If I was happy, I drank. If I was giddy, I drank. I drank over everything and anything. And I drank long and hard until the panic attacks and dread and depression settled in. And I kept drinking despite the fact that it brought me no pleasure, because I was really hoping it would change and become wonderful again. But it never did. And then I kept drinking because I really didn’t know what else to do. But finally, in April 2008, I stopped. And it was the best thing I ever did. I learned how to cope with the world, finally. I grew up a lot. I stopped blaming everything on everyone else and began owning up to my mistakes. And I found life to be wonderful again.

I also thought it would save my marriage. Patrick and I were very heavy drinkers together. In fact, it was almost the only thing we did together by a certain point. We drank in bars, at home, on airplanes, in hotels. That’s what we did. And I was very scared that if I gave it up, he would not love me. But as I drank more and more, I noticed that that was happening anyway. So, I thought, I’ll stop, and maybe he’ll stop hating me. And I figured that if I stopped, at least, there would be a chance. Now I see how crazy that thinking was. Sort of.

When Vera heard the news that my husband had told me he wanted a divorce over the phone, while I was overseas alone, she immediately emailed me and invited me to stay with her in Vienna for a weekend. I had met Vera during my time as a nanny. The woman I worked for had arranged the meeting. I remember that Vera came to pick me up. When I opened the door my mouth dropped. She was stunning. Like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, but prettier and oh-so Viennese. She took me for a drink and we hit it off immediately. She was often my partner in crime, amused by the insanity I’d create wherever I went.

I hadn’t seen Vera for nine years – not since I left Vienna. I often wanted to come back, but it was always impossible. So when I got her sudden invite, I thought, why not. I’d love to see Vera. I’d love to go to Vienna again, especially right now. And I was also terrified of being alone. Alone, my thoughts get dark and scary and I fear that I will lose my mind. I also thought that Vienna proved to be my medicine once, so maybe it would work again.

As soon as I arrived in Vienna, it was all so surreally familiar. And then I saw her – Vera. Standing there, superbly dressed in a sort of denim mini dress and leggings with rhinestone-studded sandals, elegant and tall and thin, leaning against her 1988 white Ferrari. And I knew I had made the right decision.

We jumped in her car and drove into the city. She told me all about her heart break over the past nine years. And I thought – if this girl can get so hurt by someone, then we all can. Vera is not only one of the most beautiful women I have ever met, but one of the strongest, smartest, and most independent, too. “This weekend, only girls,” she promised. “And lots of them. And lots of stories, too.”

Immediately, we arrived at the Naschtmarkt. Nashtmarkt is one of the greatest places on earth. Nine years ago, it was Vera who brought me to this spot – a sort of flea market and farmer’s market with outdoor cafes and kebab stands for blocks and blocks and blocks. I could not believe that I was back. It had changed so much – it was sort of a more yuppie affair than it was almost a decade ago, when Turks dominated the scene and the scent of fish and spices wafted through the air. Now, it was the cool set all around, lounging with their mélanges (Viennese cappuccinos) in their designer sunglasses.

We grabbed a table and immediately ordered two coffees. I was giddy and feeling really good. In fact, I wasn’t in any pain at all, which sort of freaked me out, but I went with it. A few minutes later, two of Vera’s friends arrived. One of them had also experienced a very rough split three months ago and was still hurting. Her boyfriend of three years, a photographer, had left on a two-week job assignment. Everything seemed fine when he left. But four days after he was gone, he called to say that he’d fallen in love with someone else and it was over. She was devastated. She couldn’t sleep or eat. “It was like in the beginning,” she said. “Like when you first fall in love. And I had so much energy, because I was pouring all of my energy into him, you know?”

I knew exactly what she meant. For nine years, I poured myself into my relationship with Patrick a million different ways, trying to get it right, but always getting it wrong. It was never really about what I wanted, but what I might want that would suit Pat and keep him in my life. And it was always exhausting. I was like the elastic in his waistband, and I was now stretched so thin, I thought I might snap.

We continued talking, when a round of wine spritzers found our table. One landed in front of me. I stared at it for a minute. Then I stared at the sky and took a sip.

Now, I need to rewind for a moment. This was not a split second decision I was making. It wasn’t like I was suddenly hypnotized or there was some crazy magnetic pull drawing me to the glass. For months, I’d been tormented. Patrick and I had been having really bad fights every few months because of his drinking. It wasn’t that I ever wanted him to stop drinking. I just wanted him to stop coming home at five in the morning or getting drunk by himself on our coach, in our TV room, or on our vacations together. And he wanted to show me what it was like, I guess. He didn’t want to let go of his anger towards me for “all that I had put him through” over the years. Even when our therapist said that he couldn’t separate my behavior from my disease, he didn’t want to listen. Instead, he wanted to get even. And he did, which I guess was his right.

And while I would continue to stand my ground – remain firm that I was only willing to live in the present and that if he wanted to live in the past, he could do it alone – inside I was terrified of losing him. I knew it was ridiculous for me to start drinking again just to save our relationship, because I didn’t want that for myself. But, this little voice inside of me started saying, “hey, Denise, maybe you aren’t an alcoholic. Maybe you were just going through a rough time. You will be able to party with Pat again. Promise. Just hold tight for now.” And Pat sorta helped me feed that voice, not because he is bad or uncaring, but because he didn’t understand how my disease really worked. He didn’t want to. He wanted to be mad at me. And that was his right.

But this is how it works: I am allergic to alcohol. When I put it in my body, I break out into a rash of insanity and say and do horrible things that I have no control over. I lose complete control. The alcohol takes over. Once I take that first sip, Denise can no longer decide how much she is going to drink. If she is going to go home, or sleep on the street. Get into a fight. Go to work. Pay her bills. Die. Get pregnant. Whatever. I am erased from the equation in a sense. And part of my disease is also that I am in great denial about having this disease at all. It is insanity. That is all I can say. And I hate it.

However, for the last year and four months, I have replaced alcohol with meetings and steps and it has been wonderful. I’ve met wonderful people and have learned how to live life without booze. And it is so, so, so much better. Still, I silently fed this little voice telling me that there was nothing wrong with me, because I really didn’t want there to be anything wrong with me. Because I felt left out. I felt like I made people uncomfortable. And I felt like I was damaged.

And then, when Pat called on Tuesday, August 4, the voice started getting louder. The denial got worse. I called people to tell on myself. I said, “I really want to drink” or “It’s like I’m planning on drinking.” And they said, “Don’t drink.” “Go to a meeting” “He’s not worth it.” But I didn’t listen.

Instead, on Friday, while sitting under the sun in Naschtmarkt, I drank. And I hoped that I could prove to myself that I was normal. But I discovered the opposite.

It was very strange, because there were no fireworks. There was no relief or excitement or fear. Or even hesitation, really. It was like I had picked up from where I had left off on April 6, 2008. It tasted like it tasted. It felt like it felt – which was empty and addictive and sweaty.

I had two spritzers at Naschtmarkt when it was time to go. I was very disappointed. Because I really wanted to keep drinking. Because that is how the disease works. So I was thrilled when Vera said we’d stop for one more with her boyfriend. There, I had some wine and a beer. Then we left for Vera’s, where I encouraged her to open a bottle of wine, just as I used to do with Julie or Jen. Or anyone who would open up their wine bottles for me. It was all so predictable and sad. I was up to my old deceitful tricks.

She agreed. She had one glass and we chatted before she went to bed. Then, I really went to work. I finished her bottle of wine, as I always did. Then I got on the phone and drunk dialed. I sobbed into the phone. I said things I don’t remember. And then I felt pathetic and so I went to sleep.

In the morning I woke up to that familiar dread. What did I do?!? Who did I call!!!! Oh shit. I looked at my phone and scanned the numbers. I now owed amends to Pete, Joe, Erin, Grandma, Liz, Patrick, Dad, and possibly others (there were some really weird looking numbers in my phone!?!).

In fact, it was the most predictable drunk ever. So unrewarding. So not worth it. But such a great reminder of why I don’t do that anymore. It is pathetic. And disgusting. And I hate who I become. I hate the self-pity and victimization bullshit. I hate the hopelessness and despair. I hate the attention seeking behavior. I even hate the way it tastes, to be honest. And I refuse to ever become that again. And now I know. It is definite. Denise is an alcoholic. And that’s just the way it is. And it’s ok. Alcohol is not my thing. Now, cigarettes and coffee are my thing. Writing is my thing. Flea markets and used vinyl and thrift stores and books and tarot cards and parks with peacocks and good friends and laughter and vampire films and Beat Happening and Judaism and art and people and family and Europe and Warsaw and Jerzy and Hala and my mom and my Grandma and Erin and Liz and Vera and pumpkin seed oil and dark chocolate and 90s hip hop and old ratty t-shirts and myself – these are my things. And they are so much better.

And so, in a way, I am sort of glad that I did what I did. I don’t care that I am now on Day 2 of my “new” sobriety. In a way, my “slip” or my “relapse” reminded me of who I really am and that I can’t run from it. That no amount of booze will ever make this better or make me better. That I’m fucking fine just as I am. And sure, I’m a crazy fucking alcoholic, but everyone’s got something right? And if that’s as bad as it gets for me, I’m totally fine with that. Because, in many ways, it is my disease that has taught me how to live and love life. And for that, I am grateful.

On Saturday, Vera and I and one of her friends jumped into her totally awesome ‘88 Ferrari (the "white shark" she calls it) and headed to a swimming pool tucked within the hills of Vienna. I ate a huge salami sandwich and drank coffee and swam and napped in the sun. Then we went to a wonderful concert in an old factory once inhabited by squatters, where we watched Nouvelles Vagues, a French band, do covers of “Too Drunk to Fuck” And “Love Will Tear Us Apart” and I sat in the grass, talking with Vera’s sister, Lara, and I started to feel better again. We laughed and told jokes and I figured, “fuck all this noise. I’m just gonna do what I want.” And we went and sat by the Danube and watched the stars sparkle in the water. And I watched Vera and her friends have a few drinks, because they can. And I sipped on my soda water, because that’s now my thing. And it all felt amazing and new and good and confident.

Now, I am back in Warsaw with my new life lesson and Liz, who has blessed me by coming to keep me company while I am in Warsaw, so that I will stay here and finish my book and do what I came to do in spite of all this bullshit. I, in many ways, feel stronger than ever. I’m excited to go to my meeting tonight to seek out other alcoholics who are happy in sobriety. And I’m excited to untangle myself from Patrick. And to be over this pain. Because I am tired of beating myself up. Because – just in case you didn’t know – I’m pretty fucking awesome, in a crazy, spastic, jodhpur-wearing, geeky kind of way. So, there.

PS. I’m trying to upload videos as fast as I can, but it takes forever! My trip to the Ghetto, the Cemetery, the parks, and Vienna will all be up soon! Love, Denise