Same Person

Photo of Tilda Swinton taken by director Sally Potter for the film, Orlando.

Two years ago today I woke up on our couch to the sound of Tilda Swinton’s voice. I had passed out on our uncomfortable yellow sofa after drinking two bottles of rosé and a six-pack of hard seltzer during a Christmas Zoom session with my best friends just a few hours prior. It was the first Christmas of the pandemic, I was still reeling from an awful year of post-partum depression, and I was so nervous about seeing my friends and being the right amount of funny and engaging that I promptly drank everything I bought from Trader Joe’s to make sure that I was “perfect” for them. Instead, I blacked out, forgot what we talked about, and fell asleep alone. My plan had totally backfired. 

The one thing I do remember, though, is putting on the 1992 film Orlando (something in our conversation had reminded me of it) and then passing out shortly after the opening credits. I remember waking up, bleary-eyed and confused, during the exact moment Orlando runs through a hedge maze, mumbling something to my husband about the costume design, and then passing out again. Art left me to sleep it off and I was woken up around 4 in the morning by another sound, but this time it was the cries of our then 20-month-old son and not a soothing English voice. I got up to help him but instead, I ran to the bathroom and started throwing up, hearing the sound of Owen’s cries between my own moans. When I finally finished, I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror. The mascara I had put on for my Zoom was running down my cheeks, my face was swollen and puffy, and I felt awful. I told myself that was it, it was enough. It was time to stop drinking. 

My drinking had always toed the line since I started. I was a good girl in high school and only drank twice at two different parties, but never really got into it until college. Then the drunk dials (as were popular at the time) and the random make-outs with scruffy guys during 80s night at Hailey’s began. I was able to keep it somewhat “under control” through the first half of my 20s. Drinking was fun and what we did with our friends. Everyone had bad moments that were forgiven the next day over Gatorades and greasy food and laughter. The mistakes were forgotten once the next party started. 

But then, toward the end of my 20s, it did get bad. I would pick fights with my friends, and with strangers on the street, I would make regrettable decisions, and drive home when I absolutely, 1000% never should have. This trajectory continued until one argument with a friend pushed things over the edge and I decided I would try to be sober in order to save my sanity and my friendships. This first try lasted about 9 months, then I decided I was cured and could handle myself. Of course, this wasn’t true and I continued to start arguments and embarrass myself (passing out in a hot tub at our engagement party is a particularly tough memory) until I decided to give sobriety another go after Art and I were married. 

Dancing with Syd in 2014. Photo taken by Katie Bradley.

This second shot at sobriety was more successful than the first round and seemed solidified for me after getting pregnant with our son. While I was pregnant I thought I would be able to stay sober for the rest of my life, but as soon as we got home from the hospital with our new baby I wanted a burger and a beer ASAP. And wine seemed to soften the blow of adjusting to life with a baby and dealing with post-partum depression. I was able to “handle” things relatively “ok”- no arguments, just a panic attack or two every now and then - until the pandemic happened. Then I found myself picking up a box of red wine, face masked and gloved, every time I would go to Target or HEB. As soon as it hit 4:00 I would pour myself a glass of wine and drink until it was time to shuffle to bed. It didn’t feel wrong that I was living this way because everyone was doing it! We were all collectively drowning our sorrows so what if I went through at least 5 bottles a week?

But the morning of December 12, 2020, as I looked at myself in the mirror and heard my child cry in the next room, I realized enough was enough. I can’t handle drinking, there’s no such thing as that for me, and it was time to stop. So later that day, hungover as fuck, I drew myself a bath, added some lovely bath salts my friend had given me as a Christmas present, and let the water and the scent surround me. I sat in the bath and I prayed to stay sober this third try, to do it for Owen, to do it for myself and my family. I made it a ritual this time, something I could look at when I was tempted to drink and remind myself of the promise I had made. Later, when Owen went to bed, we put Orlando on again so I could actually finish it and as the end credits rolled, I felt solidified in my decision. I would focus on my child and our future together, just as Orlando does. Sobriety would make this possible.

Orlando and her daughter ride off together toward the future.

It’s not lost on me that a movie about transformation and mutability (and many other things) is so closely tied to my sobriety. These two years have been at once transformative and solidifying for who I am now and who I have always been. My first year of sobriety was so tender, so anxious. I came face-to-face with all of the issues that I had been hiding and self-medicating under my drinking and this second year has been about learning how to accept them. Facing myself is an ongoing struggle, I can’t say that I’ve overcome my foibles completely, and having a child only amplifies your triggers and trauma more, but I’m more equipped to recognize and handle them now. I’m more forgiving of myself and my flaws and my constant need for control and perfection. For “handling” things. 

But despite the struggle, I can reflect on the sober milestones I’ve experienced - two close family member deaths (one due to alcohol-related illness), traveling, attending weddings and festivals, purchasing a home and leaving Austin - with pride. I know that I am feeling everything and staying present for it all, no matter how painful or difficult it may be. I can look at myself and realize, as Orlando says when he transforms into a woman, that I am the same person. No difference at all... just sober.