My promise held for a few months, but then things began to fall apart. I began drinking heavily again, this time at home, wallowing in my depression and allowing memories of Dianne to haunt me. I started smoking pot on a regular basis, craving an escape from the ache that enveloped me, or at least something that would dull it. I managed to put on a sober face for Carl and get through rehearsals, but then I developed a crazy phobia that Carl would see through it and I’d lose my job. This triggered panic attacks, and after my third one on the set, Carl ordered me to see a doctor, who supplied me with little pink pills that would calm me down. The warning on the bottle clearly stated No Alcohol, but rather than letting that deter me from drinking, I merely waited the allotted time for them to get out of my system before drinking my six-pack at night.

This arrangement worked for a while, until we reached the anniversary of Dianne’s death. Our annual end of the year party was a week earlier than the actual date, but still it loomed before me like the Grim Reaper himself, daring me to pass him without paying an emotional toll. I decided to pay ahead of time. The night of the party I prepped myself at home with a couple of my chill-out pills before taking off for Carl’s. Once there, I drank surreptitiously so no one would see how much I was downing.

When I woke up the next morning I was still at Carl’s, fully dressed and sprawled atop one of the guest beds with a sharp pain in my side. My head swam and I lay on the bed for an hour after waking up, trying to think past the layer of clouds enveloping my brain to what had happened the night before, trying to figure out what I was going to say to Carl when I saw him. When I finally gathered the strength to get up, I shuffled to the bathroom, where my reflection shocked me.

My face was bruised and a nasty abrasion reddened my right cheek. My lip was swollen and bloody, and I found bruises on my arms and chest. I sat in the bathroom for a long time, feeling terrified and wishing I knew where my meds were. Finally I gathered the courage to find Carl and ask what had happened.

He was in the kitchen reading the paper when I walked in. He cast one glance at me, silently stood to pull out a chair for me, and got me a glass of water and a couple painkillers. I took the pills and drank the entire glass of water, realizing how parched I was. Carl filled it again, and again I drained it. He sat down next to me, then leaned back and waited for me to make the first move.