Drowning in Sorrows

I woke to the clammy press of the couch’s leather against my cheek, its bitter scent—sour milk, kitty litter, plastic—wrapping around me as my eyes shot open and waves of discomfort collided with the thick haze of last night’s drinking. My mind started racing as my eyes flew open and I instantly felt the nausea coupled with the disorientation. I could still taste the alcohol on my breath as it seeped out of my pores, leaving me cloudy and stuck between consciousness and the dream world.

“Where the fuck am I?”

I glanced around the living room. It was tidy and spotless, yet everything showed signs of age. My eyes rested on an overstuffed chair, above which hung an RC Gorman print: a woman absorbed in her flute, set against a backdrop of white and gentle blue. She seemed distant, lost in her melody, but peaceful. I closed my eyes, trying to steady my thoughts, caught somewhere between reality and the pull of a dream.

The woman stirred. The music carried the very spirit of rosemary as she stepped gracefully from the painting and approached me—her presence maternal, gentle, and reassuring. The notes of the flute flowed with such warmth and expressiveness that a sense of comfort washed over me. She played for me, drawing nearer; her gaze was knowing and familiar, filled with motherly kindness. A deep calm settled within me. My body grew heavy as I surrendered to the moment, gradually sinking into the embrace of soft, warm earth.

I was jolted awake by a noise like a car crash, snapping upright and leaving the dream world behind in a haze. Suddenly, I was back on the leather couch, pulled harshly into reality—the taste of stale alcohol on my breath, spit crusted at the corner of my mouth. Everything around me felt unfamiliar and strange.

“What the hell am I doing? I really need to quit this.” By "this," I meant drinking until I black out, waking up with no idea how I landed in these random places. “Where even am I right now? Why am I here?” “Remember, remember, remember,” I repeat to myself.

At first, the memories trickle back to me. Then, suddenly, they come rushing in. We had been hiking through the Rio Grande Gorge—a wild, plunging canyon. Chris was there, surrounded by his privileged, arrogant boarding school friends. We’d been drinking and getting high for hours. I was too stoned to hike, so they left me behind in the car.

It all happened there, too, scrunched up in the back of the Volkswagen, GTI. Drunken sleep. When I regained consciousness, everything felt out of place. I took a sip from the open bottle of Becks, then reached for another and drank it down. Outside the window, sunlight lit up vapor trails across the sky and lizards flashed between sagebrush. The land stretched endlessly around me, the desert giving way suddenly to the chasm of the gorge. I tried to follow after them but quickly realized, to my frustration, that I was completely lost.

That’s the last fragment I recall before now. I know I can’t keep drinking like this, not anymore. There’s a heavy dread in my stomach. “I can’t stand this,” I think.

Pushing myself up from the worn leather couch, I make my way to the kitchen, determined to figure out where I am and how to get home. The view sharpens: formica countertops, a table covered in bright oilcloth—bursts of orange, brown, yellow. Old wooden cabinets encircle a battered gas stove and a chipped white enamel sink, both pressed against adobe walls hung with religious art and southwestern images.

Above the green fridge, a ceramic rooster keeps silent company with a cluster of family photographs: a girl of about nine alongside her father, caught in moments from another life. Handmade curtains mellow the morning light that filters through the windows.

I open the fridge. Inside are a few cans of Tecate, a jar of hot sauce, tamales in plastic, and some salsa. I crack open a beer and drink, desperate to steady myself. Its warmth spreads through me, taming my anxiety. I scan the kitchen and spot a phone bill with an address. Grabbing it, I make my way to the rotary phone and dial.

My boyfriend answered the phone, his voice thick with sleep. I couldn’t help but notice the absence of concern for me in his tone. I could easily imagine the irritation etched across his face, his lips set in a frown. I heard the crinkle of a plastic bag—probably him pulling out some weed and packing his bong. He spent most of his time in a haze, making it almost impossible for us to truly connect. He was emotionally distant, rarely present, his eyes often blank and faraway, freckles scattered across his face like a map of Ireland. He had his own battles to fight, and the trauma that bound us together was toxic for both of us. Still, we stayed.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I don’t really know. I woke up in some house," I say, giving him the address. "Can you come get me?”

He sounds annoyed. “Where the fuck is that?” Neither of us knows the area; we both grew up in Connecticut and only moved here eight months ago. Our points of reference are basically limited to the ski mountain, the main drag, and the liquor store. Since we arrived, we’ve been swept up by the party scene: late-night bars, coke with the locals, skiing when funds and weather allow. We came out here to stay with a man his father knew, an eccentric artist, who’d hooked us up with a place through a friend.

Deep down, I’ve always known coming here with him was a mistake. He’s unpredictable, perpetually high, and seldom in command of himself. But at this moment, all I can think about is getting away from this strange home. I give him the address, and after a moment’s reluctance, he agrees to pick me up.

A woven Navajo rug lines the hallway as I search for the bathroom. Passing an open door, I glimpse a man asleep in bed, the girl and a cat curled beside him—he’s snoring, and neither of them stirs. A kokopelli tapestry hangs on the wall. I relieve myself, grab another beer, and step out the front door to wait.

Outside, dawn unfolds in gentle purples above the jagged silhouette of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, washing their snowy peaks in soft lavender and gold. At the quiet end of a short, dusty cul-de-sac, bordered by six adobe homes that mostly look alike, the world feels suspended in the hush before a New Mexican sunrise.

Houses, glowing faintly with the warmth of sunbaked clay, sit close to the road. Some have modest garages; others leave cars parked on cracked, sun-bleached gravel, or in the thin shade of piñon and juniper. The native yucca and prickly pear cacti along the curb catch the first light, standing like sentinels. I find a spot on the curb and wait, feeling the buzz wash over me. Lately, life feels like a perpetual brown out.

I take a sip of the beer, but it’s gone too quickly—story of my life. I don’t want him to notice the can, or to know I’ve been drinking since I woke up, so I tuck it behind the wheel of the car in the driveway—a silver 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass with a dent in the driver’s side door, mismatched tires, and a wooden crucifix swaying from the rearview mirror.

In the window’s reflection, I catch sight of myself—tired eyes, curls a wild mop framing my sullen face. I can’t remember the last time I ate, and the sharp lines of my thin frame show beneath my Levi’s and green rugby shirt. The sight makes me angry at myself.

The anger stems from a lot of things, but my most recent disappointment was the abortion in Albuquerque. He isn’t father material and I understand that I am a mess and can’t stop drinking, but he made promises and broke them. I can’t trust him. When we were in the waiting room at the clinic they gave us a handout of the many ways that this could go sideways resulting in death. I was completely freaked out and nearly opted against going through with it. My only request was that he wait in the waiting room the whole time until the procedure was complete. I was terrified.

Hours later, I was cramped, bleeding, and feeling awful. When I went into the waiting room, he was gone. The staff stayed with me for a while, but still—nothing. He never showed. Eventually, they closed the clinic, locked the doors, and left me sitting on the curb of an old shopping plaza—alone, scared, bleeding.

Half an hour. That’s how long I sat bleeding and hollow before he bothered to show—no apology, stoned out of his mind, mouth twisted wide, all pride for some shiny new ski rack he bought while I got torn apart. I couldn’t speak. Asshole.

Months have crawled by since then. The drinking spun out, got heavier. Loneliness, sharper. He wasn’t company; he was chaos. A storm with a face, tearing through everything. Even with him there, I might as well have been alone. He couldn’t be present—never all the way here. Couldn’t be sober. Couldn’t be trusted. I was surrounded by wreckage, and he was at the center.