We met in June and it wasn’t love at first sight. This is not a love story.
My head was full of sick people and tragic diseases that start in the brain but kill from the outside in.
Being a neophyte in this psychiatric world I didn’t know if he was a doctor or a patient and if I should be flattered, worried or outraged when he said to me, “You have the cutest face. You look like a chubby little cherub.”
That night I went home and ate an entire frozen pizza, 2 corn-dogs and 4 pudding cups. Afterwards I vomited as much of it as I could before scrubbing the toilet with bleach.
Otherwise it mildews.
No, that wasn’t the beginning, or the middle, or the end, but it was around that time that I started going to AA meetings for moral support.
I never stood up and said, “Hi, my name is Amy Winters and I’m an alcoholic. Mostly I just sat in the back and listened.
I wasn’t really an alcoholic and the meetings never really helped much. I kept going maily to please my doctor. She had read about the AA thing in some medical journal and wanted it to be the miracle treatment that cured her patient.
I quit going to the meetings after I got my first sobriety pin.
I felt like a hypocrite because I had no intentions of ever giving up my alcohol.
Vodka was my liquid womb.
Before AA, before Horace, he of the mid-June chubby cheeked cherub comment, before bleach battles with mildew over the ownership of the toilet, there was a brief time when I wasn’t disordered.
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