I proceeded to get blackout drunk, stole a pitcher of IPA, and told him to drive me to his house.
My final memory of that night is holding the sloshing pitcher between my two legs in the front seat of his car. This romantic evening turned into a five-year relationship that ended when I was 27.
I told them how I’d only been in relationships with men before and how I drank to cope with my suppressed sexuality, along with the agoraphobia stemming from my parents’ medical battles.
I nearly choked on my own vulnerability but they looked me in the eyes and said, “Bonnie, I am honored to be sitting here with the person you are today.”It was an acknowledgment of my past — a confused straight girl who beat up her liver — and I’ve never felt judged for my wildly inappropriate stories, such as finishing other people’s wine glasses left for the busser at a restaurant (yes, I did that).
Night after night, I sat on the same spot on the couch in my hole-ridden sweatpants and gulped down wine, whiskey, cider, or a combination of the three. I hated my attraction to women and, more terrifying, my lack of attraction to men.