The Blackout Journal

Him and I go way back. I'm guessing eight or nine years. It's just a guess because some of those years are a little undefined. Like red lipstick on the mouth of a woman who has smoked cigarettes all her life, the years feather and bleed.

And he's probably my best friend. The last time I saw him, he was standing on the beach while I waded thigh deep into the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean, scattering the remains of my husband. Because he lives about 250 miles away, our visits have to be planned. We make the plans all the time and inevitably cancel them. I have three kids. He has three jobs. It's just easier to think about taking a trip than actually taking the trip.

We hadn't spoken in a couple of weeks so I was happy to get his call last night. And then he told me about his latest project. He is writing a Blackout Journal.

Blackout Journal.

It's like a food journal if you were trying to lose weight, except it's a journal to catalogue his actions and thoughts before alcohol erases it from his memory.

7:30 PM - Half pint of Jim Beam gone.

He's had some trouble in the past when it comes to moderation. He's sort of an all or nothing kind of guy. Ain't no half-steppin'. His obsessions have consequences. Like the time he called me and told me there was a goose lose in his apartment.

8:04 PM - Kicking ass in the Texas Hold'em Championship. Fuck yes! Plus two beers!!

It's compromised his choice in women as well. Like the girlfriend who sat in his bed all day, nesting. Just sitting. On his bed. All day. We called her Gurpy Bird. Or the girlfriend who sprayed bear stopper in my house while I was pregnant causing a total evacuation of the premises.

8:33 PM - Called G. Jim almost gone.

8:46 PM - G tells funny story about her vibrratur. Viberatur. Vibra. Buzzing thing.

8:51 PM - Beer. G not happy.

He can be poetic and artistic. He's a great cook. Political. Hard working. Likes punk and Gang Starr. Previously obsessed with palindromes ("Rats live on no evil star"). He's the kind of guy you want on your side in a fist fight and in a debate. His IQ is 143.

9:03 PM - Jim Beam numero dos. Remind G that my IQ is two points higher.

9:15 PM - Call 2morrow. Fading.

9:16 PM - Love

A Not-So-Funny Post About Addiction

It's about 9 o'clock in the morning and my semi-collective family (Johnny Boy, my mom, The Boy and I) are making our way over the hill and through the woods to Miss Led's house we go.

Miss Led is my little sister.

Miss Led has two daughters.

Miss Led currently lives in a residential rehab for women.

Alright, I'll just say it. Addiction is not uncommon in my family. It's actually quite the norm. Think steak and potatoes (or orange juice and vodka); it's like it was just meant to be. What's abnormal, is somebody in my family getting help. And she is.

So we are making this three hour drive to celebrate Christmas a week early. The car is packed with gifts for her daughters and things to make her life in the Anti-Shangri-La more comfortable (and therefore maybe less likely for her to leave?). Pillows, cigarettes, tampax, string cheese and a huge bowl of homemade spicy peanut chicken with a bag of lettuce cups to wrap it in. Because I know that if I were in rehab, I would want spicy peanut chicken wraps. Who wouldn't? I might also want a powerful sedative.

But enough about chicken, let's get back to the meat and potatoes. The undeniable truth is that addiction has infected every branch of this family tree. It's our root disease. It's made grandchildren steal from grandparents, fathers smoke crack with daughters and mothers pass out at the kitchen table while their jeans darken with the release of urine that their broken bodies can no longer hold. Our boys have gone to prison. Our girls have abused themselves.

If you follow the word of Miss Spoken, you might be under the impression that I'm a genius. That I would naturally be immune to this bacteria. But for the record, I am not the better sister wagging a finger at the poor choices the younger sister has made and tsk-tsking her behavior. Instead, I feel nothing but empathy, a sort of soul-symphony.

Trauma. Abuse. Neglect. Exploitation. All of these things pretend to be buried when you're high so you stay high. But the addict knows that in reality, drugs are just a lay-away plan. Recovery means cashing out and getting it all back with interest. Which is why I love my sister even more for taking these initial steps and doing the work that will give her back her identity, her confidence, her children and ultimately her life.

Two months down and many more to go before I can stop holding my breath for her. Until then, I'll keep her supplied with meat that doesn't need to be refrigerated, canned white potatoes and whatever my heart can afford.