The Weight to be Me

“Oh my gawd! I love it! You look just like Brenda Morgenstern!” Maryanne squawks as she and the rest of the gang walk into my apartment. Wow. Not the look I was going for at all. I thought I was killing it with my Halloween costume as a 70’s hippie chick. Even though I’m greeting my guests making the peace sign, wearing a tie-dye t-shirt, bell bottom faux Pucci patterned high-waisted pants, and my pink suede platform shoes. But apparently, I’ve completely missed the mark. They don’t see hippie. In fact, not only do I not conjure up Valerie Harper’s iconic character Rhoda, who exuded cool 70’s style – I’m reminding them of her insecure, dumpy sister Brenda. Okay then. 

I don’t care for Halloween. The only way I’ve ever been able to get into it, is by going as some type of celebrity, a TV or movie character. Spooky, scary costumes were never my thing. One year, at the ripe old age of eleven, I went as Jodie Foster’s character Iris from Taxi Driver. What can I say? I was an edgy tween.

It doesn’t matter that my costume is lame because my friend Michael has gone above and beyond and looks exactly like Edward Scissorhands. The movie just came out, and his attention to every detail is perfection. His makeup is impeccable, and his handmade costume is a fucking masterpiece.  All the “oohs” and “ahhs” are completely focused on him, and rightly so. I feel special just being in his presence. We might as well be partying with the real Johnny Depp the way everyone is freaking out. 

Michael’s sweet beard of a wife Maryanne is dressed as Marilyn Monroe, Amy is Judy Garland in her “Come on Get Happy” garb, and Robert and his friend Gary are donning their best drag. Even in my Brenda Morgenstern costume, we make up quite the motley bad-ass crew.

Before anyone showed up to my Hell’s Kitchen apartment, where we’ll pre-funk before we head out for the night, I had an all too familiar focus group with me, myself and I – where I promised that if I drink tonight, I won’t smoke pot, and if I smoke pot, I won’t drink. It’s my magic solution for my ever-increasing bad habits. Just stick to one substance Mia…and everything will be fine.

Since there are six of us in costumes, one of us with blade-shaped hands, we take two cabs downtown. We’re at the universal epicenter of Halloween. The largest parade on the planet goes straight up Sixth Avenue from Canal to West 15^th, through the heart of the Village. I’m bombarded in a sea of drunk Judy’s, Madonna’s, and Dolly’s – and a mixture of every kind of costume imaginable. It’s so crowded, we are desperately trying to stay together by holding hands but it’s so packed on our way to our party destination, and Scissorhands is the star of our show – but he’s harder to wrangle since he has no safe point to latch onto.

We arrive at a very crowded party in a warehouse, where the DJ is blaring “Groove is in the Heart” so loud I can feel the bass thumping through my chest. I’ve already consumed several Tanqueray and tonics, and they are kicking in big time. I’m seeing double when I hear someone say, “Want a hit?” and a full pipe of bud finds its way past my lips. I inhale the sweet stank and the promise made several hours prior is all but forgotten. 

My tolerance is so unreliable these days, I can have two beers and feel wasted, or a fifth of Tequila and several bong hits and be ready to hit the ground running. Tonight, is a total shit-show, and there’s no chance I’m going to make it to our next destination, because now I’m slurring, staggering and so out of it I keep falling off my platforms. Amy, my designated co-dependent, pours me into a cab, bids farewell to our friends, and gets me home before I get myself or anyone else into any real trouble.

I loudly stumble my way up the stairs of my walk-up, begging “Keep pushing Amy…KEEP PUSHING” as she shoves me upstairs from behind, and I try to steady myself with the handrail to hoist myself up the four flights to my apartment door. I pray my old standby of swallowing two Tylenol and passing out will do the trick, and all will be well in the morning. I collapse on my bed in costume, but I’m not horizontal two minutes when the bed spins gain momentum. I try the one foot on the floor trick, but it isn’t working…so I head to the bathroom where I once again, will bow down to the porcelain queen.

I identify as a bul-aholic, a term I’ve coined for when I drink too much and then force myself to puke to stop the dizzies. It’s become my thing. I’m not proud of it. But it’s the only solution when I overshoot the mark. Which is happening a lot more often these days. Tonight, feels different though. I don’t even have to stick my finger down my throat – I barely get to the toilet when the heaving starts, and it won’t stop for hours. 

When it seems like there can’t possibly be anything left in my system, I think getting into the bathtub will be a good idea, because now I am so achy and sick it’s the only thing that I think will make me feel better. Before I can settle into the water, the puking starts all over again, and I start to freak out because didn’t Jim Morrison drown in his own vomit? Didn’t that happen in a bathtub? My so-called life is flashing before my eyes when I start to scream “AAAAMMMMYYYY! Get in here! Hold my head up so I don’t die!”

Not my finest moment. Any reasonable person would have gone on the wagon after a night like this. It’s already been a rough year of many financial and physical consequences as a direct result of my descension into full blown alcoholism. Again.

I justify my excessive drinking because hey…I’m not smoking crack! And I’m convinced that if I’m not on the pipe, everything else is fair game. But to say I can’t hold my liquor is an understatement. And the holidays are just beginning.