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You hide behind the professional persona all day; then you leave the office and hide behind the drink.
It wasn’t so much that he got any less God-like when we drank; it was that I’d feel more God-worthy, less intimidated with a few drinks in me, more self-assured.
Jean Rhys describes this in Good Morning, Midnight: “In the middle of the night you wake up. You start to cry. What’s happening to me? Oh, my life, my youth. . . . There’s some wine left in the bottle. You drink it. The clock ticks. Sleep. . . .”
To tell the truth would have meant disclosing my full self, owning up to flaws and imperfections and depths of confusion I was too ashamed to reveal: I am not in control at all; I am deeply fucked up.
was like a monster that took root after her divorce, and began to grow, and then stirred every night around dusk. She’d feel it moving in there, like a mother feels her baby shifting in utero, and she’d stiffen with a sense of powerful panic and move to kill it.
