Chapter 37: Just as the Sun Rises and Sets

Relapsing was a terrible feeling but by now I had learned to forgive myself, where for years I had beaten myself up. Maybe I was simply destined to be a high-functioning drug addict, on and off, in perpetuity? Maybe, just as the sun rises and sets, I would relapse every single fucking time? It dawned on me that maybe this was just going to be my fucking life, where I stumble, pull myself up, and stumble again. But I knew someone or something out there was looking out for me, and I had found gratitude for the good days; in these moments of clarity, I realized that I had been in so many dangerous situations and had basically emerged fucking unscathed.

And with each relapse I grew stronger, more resilient. Every time that shit took me down, I never stopped going, never stopped trying, never stopped pushing; and when hope shined down from above, piercing through the clouds, I hopped on and rode it up into sky and back to a safe place, a sober place. And from day 1 began pulling myself out of the hole I had dug on my way down. From the first day after the day I do my last bump, and guzzle my last beer, things get better. With each passing day, with each passing month, it gains more and more traction; and as the world unfolds and my brain wakes up, I can see the many awesome possibilities afforded by this life, and I know that they are within my grasp, and the path to get there lights up before me and the fog is lifted. It was a beautiful miracle, and it provided a frame of reference for me every time I fucked up and had to claw my back: I knew things would get better if I did. It was just a fact.

Maybe it was OK to stumble, I surmised; because I came to understand that every day sober was a fucking blessing, and that every day not-so-sober could, in fact—in a twisted and dangerous, unfortunate way—serve as an opportunity to explore certain proclivities that I had neglected for years. And I began to paint, to write – to do those things that came easy to me way back in the day, before the gate slammed shut on the prison of my youth and I discovered refuge in vomiting and cocaine.

It was in my late 30s and in a coke-stupor that I finally discerned that the ticket out of Hell was honesty; that, by being open and direct about my battles – with a very select audience, anyway – it took power away from my demons, and gave me a fighting chance. I had issues with AA but had by then discovered its therapeutic value, and even though my attendance was sporadic and ill-committed, I did hear something, the one thing that truly resonated with me and would inform my thoughts and behaviors from there on out: You’re only as sick as your secrets. I’m sure this meant different things to different people, but to me it meant that being forthcoming about my drug addiction, at least, was possibly my only salvation, since addiction thrived in secrecy and to shine a light on it frightened it and sapped its strength. And from this sprung the seed of an idea, and I began writing.

I had always wanted to be a writer but couldn’t figure out exactly what it was that I was supposed to write, until the seed burst through from the earth and the idea bloomed, and I realized I had to tell my story. And the more I thought about it, the more came to understand that it was, in fact, my responsibility.

The process of writing this book wasn’t in any way “cathartic,” as there was nothing cathartic about reliving my past traumas; it was, instead, a vehicle for processing these experiences and finding the vocabulary to share them. With each relapse, with each chapter I wrote, there was something to be gained. I made sure of it.

Writing this book was motivated in some ways by a duty to share my strife, as if mine were a cautionary tale. Perhaps more than that, though, it was driven by an urgency I felt to inform the misinformed, by providing insight into the root of my behavior, such that the reader walks away from the book with a new and profound understanding of these things, and their judgment toward the afflicted is dispelled. I wanted to inspire a more compassionate and open-minded sort of ethos among those on the outside, so that the insiders would feel safer to come forward and ask for help, or even just tell their own stories. I was, furthermore, driven to empower my readers—especially women—to explore their own etiologies; I hoped my book would reflect the same or similar traumas that had led them to a place of struggling, whether it be with food, or drugs, or booze, or sex – or all of the above – and help them find the courage the shine a light on their own demons.

And with that, I learned that I had a fucking purpose.

Through writing, I learned how to say what I couldn’t say all those years ago, at Shawna’s cruel revocation of my status as a “feminist”: Eating disorders are not about vanity. I had always suspected as much; but it was only through writing this book that I came to understand how far from accurate that idea really was. I had always had an indulgent relationship with food and probably always sought its comfort; but when the 16 years of living in that house caught up with me, I turned to it with newfound ardor. I was desperate for anything to assuage my distress, and food was the cheapest, easiest, most accessible drug available to me.

And it was through painting that I slowly learned how to accept my identity as woman. As a young woman coming of age in a hostile home soured by the brutal and explicit wrath of misogyny, it wasn’t long before the hatred that colored my young world came to inform my own perception of women, and, by extension, my perception of myself. I developed a disgust for what was uniquely “feminine” and launched a crusade to reject those characteristics in myself.

The painful culmination of my shame and distress in a gender identity crisis endured the decades, and in fact still permeates my thinking today. But through painting nudes I discovered a way to try to come to terms with my identity as a woman; through intentional celebration of the female form, I found a means to work toward self-acceptance. My work was an exploration of femininity—but, more importantly, it was an exploration of what that word meant to me.

The women in my paintings were created somewhat abstractly, and without any distinguishing features—or faces. This way, I could see myself in them; on some level, I was in fact painting myself. By rendering the figures visually appealing, I slowly began to reconcile my self-perception with what is naturally beautiful about women—in the hope that I would one day discover what was beautiful about myself.

As an adult I got most of my information from TV. I knew the top-rated 90s and early 2000s sitcoms backwards and forwards and had a discernible knack for peeling back the fluff and extracting tidbits of value. And from TV I learned that there was a conception of women, where they start as little girls who like to dream about getting married one day, and they fashion veils out of tablecloths or t-shirts and stage play-weddings. Maybe they mock-marry their brother, or the family dog carries the rings; maybe they bake wedding cakes in their Easy-Bake Ovens and carry a bouquet of flowers they swiped from mom’s kitchen vase.

And everyone thinks it’s cute—except me.

“Wife” is one of a handful of key gender-specific roles I’ve never bought into; but it was the word “mother” that really made me fucking ill. As far as I was concerned, “biological clock” was just a patriarchal construct designed to keep women barefoot and pregnant—and out of the workforce, and immobilized, and quiet.

I cherished my independence, even if meant I was lonely; but I would rather be alone than be fucking mistreated. History had proven that I did not attract the right kind of men, and I suspected this would continue until I had sufficiently repaired my self-esteem; and I dedicated my 40s to doing just this, and began a race against time to discover self-possession.

As much as I loved the idea of being in a “healthy” relationship—whatever the fuck that meant—I had no conception of what that would look like in practice. From TV I gleaned there was hope—that a mutually loving and supportive relationship was possible. But I didn’t need a man; by route of my wheelings and dealings, both illicit and professional, I had achieved self-sufficiency and long-sought independence.

At the same time, I ascertained that “woman” could mean whatever I wanted it to mean—at least in fucking Brooklyn. It didn’t have to mean “wife,” it didn’t have to mean “mother,” it didn’t have to mean “weak”; the definition, for me, continues to evolve, but it was a far cry from what I thought it meant during my formative years. Even as I was weighed down by my own self-destructive behaviors, I was, at the end of the day, entirely self-reliant, and would never need anyone to complete me.

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