On Becoming Jodie Foster
Sleuthing in Sobriety: Playing Detective, Part I
[Author’s note: If you opt to listen to my voiceover, please take a moment when you’re finished listening to read the closing message that’s not included in the recording. Thank you!]
By day 230 AF (alcohol free), I was settled comfortably in a routine that pumped new oxygen into my day, handing me something invaluable, something I gave up heedlessly in my 20s just to sit on a sticky barstool and slug back ethanol with strangers: TIME. It’s infuriating to think about for too long. All the time I let slip by. Time that could have been filled with enterprising activity and healthy new friendships and relationships. There were also moments stolen in my 30s, straight up crapulent mornings where the floors would shake before my eyes, my intestinal wall burning and wailing, overshadowing the needs of my children who expected their typically active and fun-spirited mom to serve them breakfast, not some debilitated, greenish-looking bone bag.
But in the first few weeks of sobriety, I didn’t let myself travel too deeply into the “if only I was sober then” mindfuck. At seven-and-a-half months sober, I was grateful just to have the blinders removed. Sure, I was still grappling with painful flashes from the past that would slide into my thoughts and get stuck there like a sharp pringle in my throat. But what was gradually being unveiled to me was an intense need to get right with myself. If I was going to be sober indefinitely, I couldn’t just be sober from booze. I was going to have to become sober on a cellular level – physically, emotionally, and spiritually…the full defining term of which I couldn’t yet grasp but would soon discover.
It was time to open the door to my past, something I had deadbolted and willed myself to forget since I met my husband.
When Anthony came into my life, I was fresh out of rehab. Hardly a promising start for a healthy relationship but he was the kind of man that made you forget your troubles. I went from being a wounded, lost soul, impious and discarded and an all-around disappointment to being whisked straight into a captivating tornado of passion and obsession and finally belonging somewhere and to someone. That left little room for doing the necessary healing work (which, to be fair, I wasn’t ordered or guided to do at the time anyway). It was a mad love, stingingly perfect, and easy to mentally shut out everything that had happened before him. And when we moved in together and got engaged, I shoved that ancient history in the back of my bedroom closet faster than I used to sneak a nip before doing anything social or family related.
But now that I was serious about my sobriety and aware of my needs more than ever before, I was ready to do the healing work. Therapy, shadow alchemy, primal screaming, whatever – I was up for it all. After the surprising discovery in a journal entry of my earlier foray into AA (long before I met Anthony), I knew I had to return to my bedroom closet to get more answers. What else had I missed in the gray gristle of my memory log? Once the kids were all in school, I forced myself, once again, to endure the dark vibrations that coated each entry. The more I read and searched, the more questions I had. And the more I started remembering, the more I realized how desperate I was for answers. My diaries had seen a couple of moves and their worn spines reflected that. Each time I transported them I could feel a heat coming from inside of the bag, shifting in between the weight of each journal. I was afraid if I put my ear right up it, I’d actually hear a voice. Just open us, Michelle. You know you want to. You need to read our pages again. You’ll never heal if you don’t figure out why things happened the way they did. The voice would sound like me, but it would be throatier and creepier, like Tiffany Valentine.
On the day Anthony took off from work and we went to the diner, I sat across from him and stared out the window while he cut his waffles a little too perfectly.
I didn’t feel any closer to figuring out whatever it was that had been begging to be discovered since I had started this whole sober journey. And I was mentally fatigued after reading the entry in my journal that detailed my attack. The odd part was that I didn’t mention anything about speaking to cops the next day or an incident report ever being filed, and it gave me goosebumps. I started flicking through pages and skipping ahead, thinking I might find something about it in a future entry. But I didn’t. At that point in my sobriety, I was antsy for facts, not booze. Was a police incident ever filed? What exactly was my blood alcohol concentration level? Was I just waved away as another drunk bum who got what she deserved? Were my attackers ever reprehended or put behind bars…fined at least? I wanted to see the paperwork from the hospitals before I was sent to rehab. I wanted to know what was going on behind the scenes. I wanted answers. I had a general idea of which hospital I likely went to and figured they’d have a report with all the information I needed (the address from where the EMS picked me up, the name of cop or detective, details of my vitals), so before Anthony and I went out for breakfast I made a private phone call.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but we don’t keep files past 10 years. For what you’re looking for you need a DC number. And that’s if your case was even filed to begin with. Do you know the name of your detective?”
My throat felt swollen, and I began to sweat. “No, I don’t.”
“Okay, how about the address of where this happened? That way you’ll know which precinct was on it.”
“Thank you, but I don’t have that information either. That’s why I called the hospital and was hoping those details might still be available.”
A sick feeling came over me. Perhaps a report was never filed. My parents must have spoken to the police at some point at the hospital, right? Some record of this must exist somewhere.
I called my mom and asked if she could gather any paperwork from that time. “I just need to verify a few things,” I explained, knowing that she kept meticulous files and detailed notes on all her daughters since birth. “I’m so sorry honey. You know we’ve been clearing out the basement, and I threw out a ton of boxes last year. I’ll look but I’m pretty sure we don’t have those papers anymore. I’m sorry.” Seriously? I was also hoping she at least kept the discharge papers from rehab so I could confirm the name of the drug they forced on me the first day I was there. But apparently it was trashed, too. I get that it’s not memorabilia you want to frame and display for all to see, but when future medical practitioners ask, “are there any medications you’re allergic to?” I wanted to be able to say something besides, “Well, yes there is, but my mom got rid of all the paperwork a year ago. So, let’s roll the dice and see what happens, shall we?”
It seemed a little too convenient that the paperwork I was desperately seeking was now gone. For someone as thorough and neurotic as my mother, I didn’t quite buy her story. But if she really did get rid of it, I didn’t blame her either. It was a quagmire of my own making and my own emotional processing storm to traverse. With the kids at school and my husband at work, I tapped into my silently brooding Brenda Starr, made some phone calls, and created my own investigation board.
First, I traced out the fated steps I took that night from memory on a magnetic grocery list notepad. When I had a better mental picture of how far my apartment was from the CVS pharmacy to one of two bars that were possibly my pit stop and the scene of the attack, I hopped onto Google Maps. Next, I zoomed in on the satellite image of the pharmacy I had stopped into briefly to pick up some essentials. I was struck by the instant memory of standing outside the drugstore with a heightened knowing that I should return right back home. But just a few blocks away was something more alluring – an option I had been rolling over in my mind like a marble before I left my apartment that night. You’ll already be out, Michelle. It’s just a couple blocks away. See if Ben wants to join you. More clicks of my mouse showed the uneven concrete sidewalk I had navigated in an increasingly tipsy state before finding one of two bars that were directly across from each other. I wasn’t sure which bar I had gone to, and which one held my fate, but once my hovering mouse grazed over the street corner just outside of the bar’s concealed entrance I knew. I knew just by the shape of the sidewalk. I zoomed in and felt an intense sharp pain pop through my chest, my neck, and below my jawline where saliva was pooling. I had to remind myself to swallow and breathe.
Without an incident report in my hand or outside help, I managed to find the street corner where I had been stabbed 14 years ago.
I began shaking. There was a new pit growing inside of me and this one had jaws. Her name wasn’t shame. It was far worse. I knew why I was digging. I wanted to know if my parents had seen my inflated beaten face and stab wounds that evening and immediately demanded justice for their daughter. I wanted to know that even though I was at fault for a dangerous blood alcohol concentration level, they still wanted to wring the necks of the perpetrators and get every detective in town on the case. My diaries seemed to indicate no such investigation or discussion took place. But I couldn’t take it. I needed to know. I sent my parents separate messages, apologizing for bringing up a sore subject but that I was processing some things in my sobriety and wanted to know the name of the hospital I was taken to after my attack, as well as the names of any detectives they may have spoken to so I could get a copy of the incident report. My mom didn’t know the name of the hospital, and my dad took a guess at which one it could have been (it was over a decade after all). Neither responded to my question about the detective and incident report. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I could just dig up this painful memory and lay it out on the table expecting we’d all light some candles and have a kumbaya moment. But I had hoped – given the forgiving nature of time – that I could at least get a brisk “yes” or “no” on the report inquiry. Even a lie. “No, we just wanted to get you home safely, so we rushed out with you when they were done. Plus, we didn’t want you to get in trouble or have a record considering you may have had some role in the situation.” But instead, I heard crickets, and the phone calls I was making were only leading to dead ends.
“You’re not broken, Michelle,” said Anthony still going to town on his waffles. I stopped burning a hole in the window and attempted to eat my breakfast, though I had no appetite. “Yea, I know. I didn’t say I was. I just…ughhh, never mind,” I murmured defeatedly, rolling around a half-masticated piece of soggy pancake over a forkful of egg laced in tabasco, my attempt at securing the perfect bite. “I know you want answers, but I don’t think it’s healthy for you to pursue this. It’s in the past and you’re doing so well now. Just let it go,” offered my husband as he rubbed my leg with his soft hand, likely getting maple syrup on my jeans. “Right. Yeah sure,” I shot back. Only I couldn’t let it go. After we left the diner, I began calling various precincts and hospitals that seemed most likely to know something, given their proximity to the location of the incident. But from the temperaments of those I was patched through to, I got the feeling I needed to be firmer and more exact in my pursuit. “Look lady, you’re talking more than ten years ago. It’s no longer in our digitized files. We’re managing hundreds of these kinds of reports that come in daily…you should see our file from just this month. If an incident was even reported where and when you say it was, and you happen to get a hold of the DC number, that still doesn’t increase your odds of someone finding it where the older files are physically stored.” I realized time was of the essence. I had already lost 14 years. I didn’t want to lose steam in my search for answers. I didn’t want to quit like I always do, so I kept making phone calls. Soon my phone was buzzing nonstop, but mainly with more dead ends.
“What do you think this is, True Detective? Are you Jodie Foster now?” I’ve seen this look on my husband before, half-amused and half-petrified as to what I was going to do next. It was always a delicious thrill to keep him guessing.
“It’s alright baby, I know what I’m doing.”
Author’s Note: In case you’re wondering, I had my parents read through this article prior to posting and they’re STILL talking to me. Yes, there’s some high family drama foreshadowing going on here, but this is just Part I, friends. In the recounting process, as my parents are chiefly aware, my objective is not to villainize, victimize, or any other ‘ize. I’ve always known the profound privilege I’ve had in my life as the daughter of loving parents who go to great lengths to support and encourage their children (now adults). And I don’t take a daily breath without reflecting on and feeling irrepressibly grateful for that blessing.
I'm actually newly sober. I love what I've read so far and look forward to reading more. Your strong and inspiring. Just when I felt like I had no one cool to look up to here you are. Xoxo
Hugs. Firm, unrelenting and love transferring hugs for you, my sweet sister.