Like a lot of addicts, I grew up wanting something else. In me, it presented in the form of a desire to travel. I lived in a small war era one story house backing up to an enormous backyard which backed up to tall oaks and an overgrown mess of bamboo. We ran everywhere with bare feet, and the library was right at the corner. I hated it.
I wanted to be in Peru, or Iceland, or Greenland, or maybe even go basic and say France. I wanted to trek through Bolivia with just a backpack and fall asleep in a Venician gondola and get far too fucked up in Amsterdam. It positiely killed me that in my perfect little life my mom had so lovingly crafted for me, she had not included living in Botswana. There was a long-ass time when I would’ve wished her dead in exchange for a plane ticket. This was made more complicated by her contracting a terminal illness.
I still went to Belize, though. I still went to Ireland.
In Belize, I saw beaches pink instead of tan because there were so many conch shells, and the water under the sun shone like glass. The drinking age was ‘tall enough to reach the counter’ and I tried everything, spending most of my time in the dark. In Ireland, alcoholism was a cultural statement, and drunk Americans were fun, especially the women. I don’t remember Ireland too well. Lots of fish and chips. Lots of beer.
Lots of me. That’s the startling truth my teeth sank down into as I left the US–I was coming along for the ride as well. I couldn’t just go to a foreign country and leave myself behind.
I have yet to travel outside the US in sobriety.
I have yet, tbh, to really want to.
Leave a comment