Free Dry: A Memoir by Augusten Burroughs

the CDH group, looks at me with eyes that seem to belong to someone three times her age. It’s something beyond wisdom, all the way to insanity and back. It’s like her eyes are scarred from all the things she’s seen. “When you look at what you’ve just written, what do you feel?” she asks.
    I look at the board. Now that it’s up there, it does seem like I drink a lot. “I guess I drink a lot.” I feel ashamed, like I wear the same pair of underwear for days at a time.
    Brian, from Group, says, “Given the quantity of alcohol you’ve consumed, it’s a wonder you’re alive at all.”
    And what makes Mr. Valium such an expert? I wonder.
    A lesbian wearing a blue MALL OF AMERICA sweatshirt tells me, “I am so happy that you’re here. You need to be here.”
    A couple of other people agree. Glad you’re here. You need to be here . They may be right or they may be wrong. But the one thing that I know for sure is that this will make a great bar story.
    “The amount of alcohol you consumed would be associated with late-stage alcoholism. You were very much in danger of alcoholic poisoning, an overdose. And I’m glad you’re here, too.” Tracy looks at me with genuine warmth and understanding. Something else, too. Something that makes me think we could have really partied together.
    I figure I’ll up the ante. “Does Benadryl count?” A couple of people look at me. I shrug innocently like, Shucks, I don’t know these things .
    “Benadryl? The antihistamine?” asks Tracy.
    “Yes,” I say. “Does that count?”
    “It depends,” she says, suspiciously.
    “Oh. Well, the thing is, I can’t drink alcohol, not any alcohol, without having an allergic reaction. My face swells, my chest gets red, I get a metallic taste in my mouth and it’s hard to breathe. Even one drink will do it. But I found that if I take Benadryl before I drink, I’m okay.”
    “How much Benadryl?” she asks.
    Other people look at me, then at her, then back at me. This could be Wimbledon.
    I suddenly realize that the amount is so staggeringly large that I am ashamed to admit it. “Ten pills a day. Usually. Sometimes fifteen.”
    Her eyes widen in alarm. “And the recommended dosage? What is that?” But she’s not really asking me the dosage, she’s asking me if I recognize insane when I see it. I play along.
    “Two.”
    She looks at me. Actually, right through me to the back of the chair. She can see its upholstery despite the fact that my body is blocking the view. She says nothing. Because she knows she doesn’t need to say anything. She knows that I already know. All she does is close her eyes and give me a small smile. “Yep, I’m very glad you’re here.”
    I sit quietly and a strange and unfamiliar feeling comes to me. It is almost a feeling of relief, ears popping, pressure released. But it’s something else, too. I think for the first time I can see, right up there on the board, that I do drink much more than normal. And the pills I have to swallow to drink. Like my body is allergic to alcohol and is telling me I shouldn’t be drinking, but I do anyway. And when I sit there looking at what I’ve written, I almost can’t help but feel like it’s possibly a good thing I am here. Or rather, that this has been drawn to my attention, made serious and not just a joke.
    Maybe that’s enough and I can go?

    Dinner goes like this: on the way upstairs, I avoid Kavi, the sex addict from Corpus Christi, a city whose name now sounds obscene to me, like the technical term for a Blue Whale penis. “The Corpus Christi of the Blue Whale is typically between nine and twelve and a half feet long, when fully erect.” Once inside the cafeteria I am greeted by some of the other patients, a few of whom I recognize from group or the chemical dependency history class, some of whom I have never seen before. “Thanks . . . yeah . . . culture shock . . . thirty days . . . alcohol . . . I’m sure . . . Thanks anyway . . .” I take a