How to Live Sober
A Memoir
“Getting sober was the single bravest thing I’ve ever done and will ever do in my life.” – Jamie Lee Curtis
The New Jersey Shakespeare Festival was in residence at Drew University in Madison, New Jersey. Some New York actors in Equity would spend their summer there performing plays in repertory. Then, there were lowly apprentices like myself who could audition for roles but otherwise spent their time running errands and building sets. One set required a massive grid to fly above the stage, and each square in the grid (hundreds) had to be covered in this shiny stuff called Mylar. It was the perfect task for stoned, bored, resentful, and rebellious apprentices who banded together to form a secret society called FOST (Federation of Set Technicians). We had a secret handshake and signal, a set of ever-morphing regulations, and we spent hours, days, and weekends Mylar-ing the grid.
The head of the New Jersey Shakespeare Festival was Paul Barry, who ordered us to run laps every morning around the Drew University Athletic Facilities, and when those laps were completed, push-ups and burpees. Those of us with hangovers were in pain. I made friends with a small girl who identified herself as an alcoholic the first time we met. She actually said, “Hi, I'm Jurin, and I'm an alcoholic.” She then removed a flask from her pocket and chugged it. This seemed scandalous and tragic to me. Also, I could tell myself I wasn't that bad, although I knew I was. I could whisper into the grass like King Midas, but admitting I was a drunk felt like jumping off a cliff into a bottomless pit.
I soon recognized the limits of my acting talent. I learned through knowing actors that you choose to act and nothing else matters, or you do something else. I was cast in two plays, but neither character had a name. One was an “old woman,” and the other was a “maid.” Each had enough lines to require attendance at rehearsals.
photo by Monica Di Loxley
Meanwhile, I searched for an apartment in Madison as living in a dorm room was neither pleasant nor, as fall approached, possible. I found a place above a bar and a butcher shop, a classic student dump with two bedrooms, one occupied by a couple, Jack and Wendy, and the other about to be vacated by a woman who was moving abroad. Jack and Wendy sought an uncomplicated person who paid the rent on time. Instead, they got me. Jack was a good-looking, slightly full of himself guy from Princeton, Wendy was an intense blonde who grew up all over the world. She was not so nice but focused and seemed fair.
I had no clear idea of what I was doing except one: I was not sticking around to run laps every morning, get screamed at, and attend rehearsals with my four lines, and two: I couldn't go home again. When they accepted me as their new roommate, they had to have the apartment fumigated for roaches, and we got very drunk in the bar downstairs. I liked them, which was great, and realized I had signed another lease on another dump of a place to live, which wasn't so great. My roommates were easy, however, and I was welcome to join their domestic life of shared meals as much or as little as I wanted. They acted like a married couple, and I was the third wheel, happy to remain outside what I perceived as an unhealthy partnership with endless squabbling. A plethora of failed relationships gave me the right to judge.
There were a few people at the Shakespeare Festival I gravitated towards. One of them was a set designer named Annie, a talented, self-possessed woman with a handsome boyfriend. She actually liked me and ignored my instinctual flirting with her handsome boyfriend. I spent time with her, listening to the rationale behind her choices for scenic design. I learned about scrims and the reason behind the mylaring of the grid. Her passion was familiar, although I had left that world of motivated, thoughtful people so far behind that it felt like a foreign country. Annie had to go to New York to get supplies, and I agreed to lend her my car. Later that evening, she returned and cornered me in the theater.
“You're a writer,” she said. “Why didn't you tell me?”
”Because I'm not.”
”I read the notebooks,” she said. “I was waiting for the paint guy, and I sat and read your notebooks. You're really good, Molly.”
She terrified me. I have been writing nonstop since grade school, including poetry, prose, letters, essays, plays, and novels. When Gabrielle's mother died, I wrote a poem that my father showed to Richard Murphy, one of Ireland’s great poets. He told my father it was “a perfect poem.”
I had a bad poem published in the Princeton Day School literary magazine about death weaving my shroud. Nowadays, a child psychologist would probably diagnose me with suicidal ideation, but my mother merely called it “silly.” Writing was safe, writing was happiness, writing was comfort, and writing was my secret, waking dream. My father was the writer. I was nothing.
“What notebooks?”
”The ones in your car piled on the back seat floor. You started six stories I wanted to keep reading. And something that reads like a novel.”
My father writes novels. My father had a terrible childhood. I'm a spoiled brat who writes mediocre, bratty stories. I babysat for the fiction editor of The New Yorker; my parents’ friends have won Pulitzers and National Book Awards and are best sellers. Richard Poirier brought us to Martha's Vineyard to stay with him at Lillian Hellman's estate, where he was executor of her will. My father took a trip with Richard Ellman, Joyce's biographer. Nabokov’s widow chose my father to write and read his elegy at his funeral in Manhattan. The list is endless. I am nothing. I am an alcoholic.
“You need to take your writing seriously, Molly. You're so good.”
Fear moved up my spine and entered the base of my neck. I had trouble drawing breath. This was not the fear of people, failure, or being abandoned — I have been abandoned and survived. Instead, it was the fear of acceptance, of hope, the possibility of happiness, and purpose. My mouth was dry. I was not a writer. He was the writer.
“I've submitted stuff before. Maybe I'll try again.”
This was a lie. My creative writing instructor at Rutgers, poet Alicia Ostriker, had urged me to submit my work to be published. When I mentioned this to my parents, my father remained silent while my mother said, “That woman is a subpar poet.” Neither of them reacted to the praise. But this was the norm. If a lousy poet praised my work, why would I persist? Annie was still waiting for an answer.
”Thank you.”
”Do you have any idea how good you are?”
”No.”
I had written about losing Cynthia, my Ohio-born best friend in seventhth grade who healed my loneliness, loved me unconditionally, and just as she was about to marry, died in a flaming car crash. I had described the taste of copper in my mouth, the ache in my chest, my memory of her beauty and sweetness, and my reckless squandering of her loyalty and love. I had written about my parents, my mother's tyranny, and my father’s silence. My drinking, my endless, terrible thirst.
“I've never sat in anyone’s car before deciphering their handwriting and crying because of the way a writer described grief.”
”Sorry. But I'm not a writer.”
I took my recently acquired credit card, hitchhiked on the turnpike to Newark Airport, and flew to San Francisco in a blackout. Johann Jr. picked me up, we swallowed a large quantity of psilocybin mushrooms, and drove to Tiburon, where we met a friend with a boat. We went out on the boat, took more mushrooms, drank a ridiculous amount of wine and beer, and went to several bars where I was thrown out of the sleaziest after getting into a fistfight with someone’s girlfriend. The morning after that fight, I discovered a piece of paper folded into a square containing the message: “If you ever want to stop killing yourself, call me. I'll take you to a meeting.” I vaguely remembered a guy who showed no interest when I shimmied up to him, so I started screaming “faggot,” at him until my friends dragged me away.
One evening, they all blurred together; I fell backward into an empty goldfish pond, preserving the bottle of wine I carried but evidently not my skull. We went into Johan Jr.’s house, where his skeletal mom was drinking herself to death, and started watching a horror movie while blood slowly dripped down my face. Johan Jr. was adamant that we should go to the emergency room.
Emergency room doctor: “I can see your brain.”
Me: “Really? That's amazing.”
Emergency room doctor: “Do you want help?”
Me: “I want you to stitch me up and leave me alone.”
Emergency room doctor: “How old are you?”
Me: “Twenty-four.”
Emergency room doctor: “You could have died.”
Me: “Sad.”
The next morning, I had a headache that felt as if someone was drilling into my skull, but the worst of it was the horrors. Whether I had DTs or alcoholic paranoia or just realized I had nearly killed myself, it was pure terror, fight or flight, but the enemy was myself. I followed Johan Jr. from room to room, crying that I was afraid, until he finally sat me down and said, “You have to stop drinking.”
”I can't. Drinking is traditional and genetic.”
”Other people can drink until they die, but you're not like that. You're a terrible drunk. You’ll write books, be a mother, and have a life.”
”I don't want to have a life! I'm tired of stupid life. I don't want to have a baby or write books.”
”Call your father and tell him to pick you up at the airport.”
I called my father.
”I'm an alcoholic.” I had never said that word aloud. “If Mommy comes to the airport, I'll get on another plane and disappear.”
”She won't come."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault. Just come home.”
”I love you, Daddy. I'm sorry.”
The red-eye flight left at eleven, so Johan Jr. took me to an AA meeting. Before we turned into the church parking lot, he pulled into a package store and bought a six-pack of beer.
”Come with me,” I said as he opened a beer. “We can both get sober.”
”No. Drinking is what I do. Go on.”
I walked inside with my bandaged head, wearing the same clothes I’d worn for five days, a denim mini skirt, a tank top, and flip-flops, my fear hidden behind what I perceived to be a cool smile. I was greeted with kindness, acceptance, and love. It was awful. Someone was celebrating an AA anniversary, so I was convinced all AA meetings included cakes, candles, and singing. I was given the blue bible of AA, the Big Book, and a bunch of phone numbers.
”Don't drink and go to meetings,” they said as I ran out after holding hands and mumbling something at the close of the meeting.
On the flight, I held the Big Book on my lap, and each time the drinks cart rolled down the aisle, I held it like a mighty shield. The person next to me in the window seat looked familiar. I finally realized he had been a graduate student in theater when I was at Rutgers. I had tried seducing him at a cast party when he was dating a woman I liked very much. I had taken my shirt off and stood in front of him until he told me to put my shirt back on and left the room.
“I know you,” I said to him. “I'm Molly Moynahan. We were at Rutgers together.”
”Sure. How are you?”
I flipped the book over. “I'm an alcoholic. I’m going home to get sober.”
And then he told me his sister had jumped off a building in Washington D.C. the day before, leaving a note that said she couldn't bear being alive anymore. He was returning east to help his parents bury her. When they dimmed the cabin lights, we talked as the plane flew through the night and other people slept. I could feel his sadness, like my fear, as palpable. He was angry with his little sister while I completely understood why she had flipped the switch. It was exhausting to be alive. He made me promise not to kill myself, and while it felt crazy that we'd ended up on this flight together, I understood that ending my life would cause a ripple that became a wave and, finally, a hurricane of grief, rage, and regret. Survival was apparently my only choice if I was to honor the hope of not causing pain.
As soon as I walked into the house and faced my mother, I regretted not dying in that goldfish pond. Instead of displaying any concern, the first thing she said to me was, “I didn't make you an alcoholic.”
While I had no idea whether this was true, I felt my father’s immediate withdrawal. He had been quietly kind on the drive back from Newark airport, not grilling me like a suspect but willing to listen. I told him a few things, and we even laughed about some of them. I described how I had sat next to the grieving brother on the plane and saw him wince.
”Did you ever want to kill yourself?” he said.
”Yes, but I'm okay now. I want to get better.”
As my mother sighed, stared, and asked me loaded questions about my “plans,” the feeling of hopelessness returned. After two days of trying to avoid fighting with her, refusing to answer her query, “What do you think made you an alcoholic?” This is ironic since there was my father, his father, my Uncle Brendan, and probably shadowy men and women stretching back for generations in Ireland. As she dumped the hated lima beans on my plate despite my saying I didn't want any, I answered, “You did!” this led to a scene, an apology, and the understanding that I could only stay sober away from her.
I tried to get admitted to a detox but was told I had already detoxed and should just go to an AA meeting. I checked the schedule for a meeting in Madison, and Wendy was kind enough to say that I was welcome to return. I said “goodbye” to my mom, who turned her back on me while my father offered to drive me to the train.
”I'm sorry,” I said as we turned into the train station.
”You have nothing to be sorry about.”
”She acts like it's a personal insult.”
”She doesn't understand. She's frightened for you.”
”But isn't it better that I know what's wrong?”
He nodded. He understood why I couldn't stay and why I couldn't stop. He had controlled his drinking for long enough, so he functioned brilliantly, and he understood.
”Someone read my writing and thought I should take it seriously. She thought I was good enough to be a writer.” We were passing a pig farm..
”Pigs are very intelligent,” my father said.
”I wish we could just talk,” I started to cry. “I wish you were happy, Daddy.”
He pulled into the train station. “Listen, I love your mother. You go back, and things will be better. Write something.” I kissed him goodbye and walked up the steps to wait for the northbound train.
While Wendy and Jack were fond of partying, they also worked cooked meals and managed to clean the apartment. I told Wendy I was going to AA, and she was encouraging.
”Good. I know we drink a lot, but you're insane when you're drunk.” She made sure the alcohol and pot stayed in their room.
I quit the New Jersey Shakespeare Festival and applied for a position as a security guard at the Prudential Insurance Company. Each day, I sat at the receptionist’s desk, where I was supposed to check IDs, call whoever the visitor was visiting, write out passes, and keep an accurate log. However, my new hobby was reading any book on alcoholism I could find, especially those written by famous writers. I was obsessed with finding a self-identified alcoholic who managed to learn how to be a successful drinker, but the ones who drank again seemed to end up either dead or in terrible trouble. I attended AA in Morristown nearly every day, but when I looked at the Twelve Steps on the wall, all I saw was the word “God,” which made me remember how mean my grandmother was and how God didn't save Cynthia. I was very angry with God as well as being pretty positive he or she didn't exist.
Visitors politely paused at my desk, but when I failed to look up, they walked to the elevators unchecked, which didn’t seem to matter. In fact, the head of security said I was the best receptionist they'd ever had and suggested I apply to the security guard academy so I could be promoted and be issued a firearm. Carrying a gun didn't seem like a great idea, and while Mike, my supervisor, was a nice man, I didn't aspire to a permanent placement in corporate security. I just liked reading my books and getting paid. When Mike stopped at my desk with his daily checklist, I tried to look interested, but it was hard to care. The promise of a beeper and a badge was not enough to inspire me to excellence. I began writing a novel about a woman who wanted to be an actress but ended up attending law school because her father was a famous judge. I avoided eye contact with the people who stopped to ask me for directions while I wrote about this woman's attempts to appease her tyrannical father. Although I barely did my job, as long as I showed up and was sober and polite, it didn't seem to matter. Decades before 9/11 people were usually allowed to wander into businesses without identification. At least the people who wandered into my building did so without any major issues with terrorism or job rage.
The day after Christmas, Jack and Wendy were gone, so I returned to an empty apartment feeling triumphant for having survived the holiday sober. I was happy to have the place to myself. We had celebrated Christmas Eve at Brigid's house, and her Italian husband cooked lobster pasta in deference to the tradition of eating fish on the day before the birth of Christ. Sometimes, I tried to understand how I could have been raised without any religion, and yet every choice made by my family was infused with Catholicism. I was the recipient of all of the guilt and none of the grace. Although New Jersey is small, it was a long drive from Princeton to Montclair. I was the designated driver, so my parents could have multiple glasses of wine and champagne, which my sister always opened after dinner. As usual, Andrea, my Italian brother-in-law, offered me wine, and when I told him I'd stopped drinking, he looked like I’d killed his puppy while my parents exchanged looks. Brigid’s son Julian was adorable, and I tried to avoid thinking I would never have a child because of the abortion in California and I didn't even have a boyfriend; anyway, I'd make an awful mother.
On the drive back to Princeton, my drunken parents gave me conflicting, simultaneous directions, and soon we were lost, headed North towards the Lincoln Tunnel into Manhattan until I saw the skyline and managed to turn around.
“Molly,” my mother spoke from the back seat, slurring slightly. “Do you know how proud we are of you?”
I glanced at my father, who was sitting next to me. He didn't look proud. “Because I'm such an excellent security guard? Because I have a college degree and I make eight dollars an hour?”
”No, honey. You are just a wonderful girl. I'm sure they know that.”
”I'm a terrible security guard.”
”You're my sweetie pie.” My mother didn't say anything else.
”I'm writing something,” I said. “I think it’s a novel.”
”The turnpike entrance is in five miles,” my father said, his face shadowed. And that was that.
I glanced into Wendy and Jack’s bedroom, noticing they had a carton of wine stashed next to their bed. In the living room, I turned on the television and watched the end of Casablanca. My mother told us everyone knew it was a mediocre movie when it was first released. Despite the corniness, I was moved by Bogart’s sacrifice, and as he slammed glasses of whiskey back, I remembered that the actor had been a terrible drunk. The phone rang. The kitchen was dark. Picking the receiver up from the wall phone, I noticed a full bottle of tequila on top of the refrigerator with a ribbon tied around it.
“This is Officer [something].” The connection was very poor. The line crackled, and it sounded like someone was calling from the side of the road. But how was that possible when we all had 1980s phones with helpful accessories like call waiting, caller ID, and call forwarding but no capacity for calling from a car unless you were a policeman or maybe a spy? “Are you Wendy Levine's next of kin?”
”I'm her roommate. What happened?”
There was a pause. “Can you reach her next of kin?”
”I'm not sure. Why?”
”There has been an automobile accident. A very serious automobile accident.”
Wendy was a terrible driver. Jack and I joked about it, but we both felt she probably shouldn't drive.
”Is she alive?” I eyeballed that bottle of tequila. Who would know? Who could blame me?
”There’s a chance she'll pull through. Try and reach her family. They're taking her to Burlington County hospital.”
I hung up and stood in the dark. Aside from the refrigerator’s humming, it was totally silent. I didn't love Wendy, but she had been very kind to me. I didn’t even like Jack, but Wendy loved him. I considered what might happen if I opened that tequila. I'd probably go to the bar downstairs and pick up a fireman or a stonemason or a postman, sleep with him, and feel degraded until I remembered Wendy might be dying. Her family had rented a house in Avalon, New Jersey, which was where she was returning from when she had the accident. Wendy kept all the bills in a folder, and I scanned the phone bill until I noticed an area code from the New Jersey Shore.
A man answered. “Hello?” I said. “Is this the Levine’s?”
”Maybe,” he sounded a bit drunk. “Who wants to know?”
”I'm Wendy's roommate. I should speak to her mom or dad.”
”Well, I'm her Uncle Joe. Will I do?”
”There's been an accident.”
”Let me get her father.”
After explaining what had happened and where she was, I called Jack. His father answered, and I told him what happened. I could hear Jack in the background asking what was wrong. There was a terrible feeling of déjà-vu with Cynthia’s accident. This time, it was a less close friend, but it felt terrible telling people the news. The first hospital had no CAT machine, so they transferred her to another ICU. When Jack finally came home close to dawn, he was distraught. Her brain was swelling so rapidly that they operated by opening her skull. The car's roof was dented to the steering wheel. Jack sat and called Wendy's friends while downing several six-packs. He was sort of a jerk, but he clearly loved her. Wendy would remain in a coma for nearly two months. During that time, her younger sister ran away from where she was living in Canada and locked herself in our bathroom, announcing she intended to kill herself. Jack visited Wendy daily while I tried to stay on a work schedule, running, attending A.A. meetings, and not drinking.
Jack was drinking heavily, and it was common for us to have conversations about Wendy while he was on the verge of passing out, weeping about her tyrannical mother and how he would marry her even in the coma. I listened and tried to persuade him not to lose hope, amazed by how boring it was to deal with a drunk while sober. Although I had been a cocktail waitress, I was always high on something, and as the night wore on, I was often blotto. Now, completely sober, I became aware of the fragile thread that connected us all to life. I felt grateful I was able to behave with some grace.
—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach