My legs started to buckle about 20 feet from my car. My car was the only car in the entire parking lot when I’d first arrived, and I’d parked it in a spot closest to the front door next to the handicapped parking. When I left the store, a cop car sat parked in the handicapped parking spot between me and my car. And the fucking cop was still sitting in it. And I was on probation. And if I collapsed in the middle of the parking lot, and this cop had to get out of his car to tend to me, it would be discovered that I was in withdrawal. Bad. And I wasn’t supposed to be drinking. And I had a brown paper bag full of wine.
Before this moment, I’d never talked to my legs before, but all I could think was, “MOVE“. One foot in front of the other.
I finally reached the driver’s side of my car and flopped down into the front seat. My dog, Rumi, was in the back seat. As I reached behind me to pat him on his head, I noticed the cop watching me. How I’d made it to my car without collapsing, I did now know. My withdrawals were so horrendous, I’d barely made it out of the market.
I backed out, pulled forward, drove home, skooched down the 27 steps to my front door (I couldn’t step down the stairs), went inside and found the bottle opener, opened the wine and drank it straight from the bottle with both shaking hands.
… Definitely not one of my finer moments.
The above is an excerpt from my memoir, Saturation.