A Drunk Amelia is a Funny Amelia
First glass of wine
RYAN WALKED ME OVER to the table, pulled out my chair for me, and pushed me in, acting now very gentleman-like and formal in his tuxedo, after he had unceremoniously fucked me, and then ran after me in it. Still, he somehow managed to look unflappable. That was a little annoying, really. He handed me my glass of wine and gave me a big kiss on the mouth, before he sat himself next to me.
I could hear the tittering of the females next to me. A new determination came over me, however, and I was heartened by the public kiss.
Tough, bitches. He was mine.
Maybe.
The seat beside me was unoccupied, and while Ryan talked animatedly with the couple next to him, after polite introductions, I nursed my glass and had time to think.
This was the most uncomfortable public event ever. I looked like a fucked up mess. My fancy dress didn't hide the recent orgasm or my multiple freak outs this evening. I had cleaned up in the posh bathroom a little bit, but still, I was sure that the reapplication of makeup did not hide my flushed face or my unnaturally bright eyes.
I felt so strange, so many different emotions at once. Too many for a depressive to handle. I downed my wine with a gulp and Ryan refilled it with a bottle on the table.
Second glass of wine
Ryan was some sort of multi-millionaire. As in hundred millions or something like that—Fielding Pharmaceuticals had developed several potentially successful cancer treatments, and had been sold to a larger drug company years ago. It continued to operate as a research and development division of that corporation. And I don't know why this made such a difference, but it did. There was something about having that much money. He could do whatever he wanted. And it gave him some power. So I needed to rearrange my thinking about our relationship.
Regardless, there was no bitch-snob anymore. I was not going to let there be one. And, feeling the second glass of wine, I grabbed Ryan by the lapel and whispered in his ear, "There is no more bitch-snob, Ryan."
He looked at me with amusement. "Good." He bopped my nose, looked me in the eyes for another beat, and then went back to the conversation with the muckety-muck on his side.
"Do you see how he is with her?" I heard one of the blondes say.
I hitched up the bodice of my dress and gulped another sip of my wine. I don't think Ryan heard her because he was monopolized by the grand marshal of the event.
I poured myself another glass of wine. The food should probably start to come soon.
Third glass of wine
I made it through a discussion with the keynote speaker, who was sitting next to me, asking me about my law practice. I made it through watching the keynote speaker get up and talk. I wasn’t totally sure what was said, however, and probably wouldn’t have paid attention even if I were sober.
Fourth glass of wine
Ryan, glorious and handsome, stood up at the podium, thanking everyone for coming, and imploring them to open up their wallets for the Foundation. As he spoke, he caught my eye, and he looked at me intently, a grin on his face in front of everyone.
Fifth glass of wine
I don't remember what happened, sorry.
Next bottle of wine
I stumbled out to the hallway, looking for the restroom, teetering on my heels. Lights overhead spun, and the walls moved. Or maybe it was me who was moving. With tunnel vision—in a hallway like a tunnel—I made it to the bathroom and came back. As I went to go into the ballroom again, there was Jonathan, my handsome, but now slightly gone-to-pot ex-football player ex-husband.
"Amelia," he said, grabbing the tops of my arms, as I almost fell into him.
"Zzzshjonathan," I slurred.
"Wow," he said, getting a look at me. "How drunk are you?"
"None of your bizzz-nezzz," I retorted, weaving a little bit to shrug out of his grasp.
He raised his eyebrows, as if to say oooooh-kay, and turned to leave. One of the blonde society bitches from the table next to us, who had been trashing everyone all night long, came up to him. "Jonathan," she purred. "I wanted to talk with you." Ugh. They hadn't been sitting together. Apparently he knew her.
He turned to go with her, and then looked at me, shaking his head. "I wondered what happened to you," he said. "Now I know. Get ahold of yourself, you're an embarrassment."
And in my drunken stupor, I lunged at him, making a fist and slamming it into his cheekbone.
Fuck, that hurt.
He looked at me, squinting his eyes, and hissed, "Get help."
Second shot of tequila
And I remembered no more.
Later
"All patients need to be strip-searched. It's protocol."
"But I'm an attorney. I'm a professional."
"No exceptions."
"But I thought I could check out at any time. This is voluntary. There's no 5150 hold on me. I don't have anything with me."
"We need you to remove all of your clothes, and place them on the bed. While you are here, you cannot have any shoelaces, drawstrings, or underwire in your bra. Do you understand?"
"But I don't want to take off my clothes."
"This is procedure. A female nurse will be in here to do your assessment. She will be looking for cuts and other markings on you. You can wear this gown, but leave the ties open."
The brusque male nurse left.
I stood, locked in a room that defined the term "institutional." It was straight out of a movie about the loony bin. There's nothing in it but a wooden bed with a mattress that had a sheet on it. No electric plugs, no furniture, no pictures, there was nothing else in this room except the fluorescent light overhead and a large door with a window. The door locked on the outside, but not on the inside. I'd never been in a room with nothing else in it, except when moving into or out of a home. It was so, so eerie.
I could not leave this room. If I wanted to go crazy and climb the walls, I could. If I wanted to scream, this was the place to do it. If I wanted to pitch a fit and show them that I really belonged in a mental institution, now was the time to do it. Something about the bare walls made me feel like I could hear the echoes of past mental patients' screaming embedded in them.
I did not like this room. At all.
But I needed to get help.
I needed to stop thinking about killing myself. I needed to stop planning to kill myself. I needed help.
I needed to take a deep breath and get on with it.
I looked in the adjacent bathroom. If I was being facetious, I would call it an "en suite." There were no locks. There were no door handles. The door could not close shut.
I had never been in a bathroom with a door that intentionally never closed.
No towels, no towel rack, no toilet paper rack, no trash can, no soap dish, no soap. Nothing but a sink, toilet, and toilet paper sitting on the tank.
So this was a mental institution bathroom.
I removed my clothes and placed them neatly on the bed. I put on the hospital gown and waited for the nurse to come in.
It took a long time.
The nurse came into the room and told me to open my gown.
She had a clipboard in her hand and stared at me, naked, taking notes. I didn’t have any cuts on my body. I didn’t have any tattoos or piercings. She saw my C-section scar even though it was healed by now. As healed as it would ever be, that is. I didn’t try to kill myself with anything other than my thoughts and a railroad track. I turned around and showed her my back.
It was embarrassing for someone to see me naked. In the light.
She silently made notes on her clipboard. Then she picked up every piece of my carefully folded clothes, and felt each item all the way through. She confiscated my bra, because it had underwire. She told me that I could get dressed, and left the room.
I took a deep breath. This was the first step to getting better.