Puffer Fish

I painted this puffer fish as a Christmas gift for Eljay's sister, Sara. Eljay and I were together at the time, and I had spent Christmas with him and his family in Tucson the year before. I don't know what became of the painting. Years later, I asked Louis if she still had it, and he simply told me it was gone. But the memory attached to that painting has never left me.

Looking back, it was probably the first time I could no longer pretend my relationship with alcohol was normal.

Before the trip, I packed alcohol in my suitcase. I carefully rationed it out so I would have enough for each night. Even then, I knew that whatever I was willing to drink in front of everyone wouldn't be enough. By the time everyone else went to bed, I would still be awake, anxious and consumed by the need for just one more drink. I convinced myself I needed it to sleep, but the truth was that I couldn't tolerate running out.

Each night, after I had finished what I had allotted myself and wanted more, I found another solution.

Sara was a wine importer and distributor, and their home held a huge collection of wine and liquor. After everyone went to bed, I would sneak into the kitchen and take a tiny sip from several different liquor bottles, never enough that anyone would notice the level had changed. I wasn't trying to get drunk from any one bottle. I was simply trying to hide my tracks while satisfying the obsession for just a little more.

What struck me most was how different our relationships with alcohol were.

Sara appeared to have built a beautiful life. She was a successful businesswoman, driven, organized, and a loving wife, stepmother, and sister. Whether she enjoyed a glass of wine or not wasn't what stood out to me. What stood out was that alcohol didn't appear to control her life the way it controlled mine.

I remember constantly comparing myself to adults like her. I felt like I was pretending to be grown up, never quite measuring up. I couldn't seem to build the kind of stable, successful life that other people made look effortless. I carried a quiet shame that I wasn't functioning the way everyone else seemed to.

One evening, Sara's husband, Matt, opened a bottle of wine, smelled it, and announced that it was corked. Without a second thought, he poured the entire bottle down the sink.

I stared in disbelief.

All I could think was that it was perfectly good alcohol. I couldn't imagine willingly pouring it down the drain.

He must have noticed my reaction because he made a sarcastic comment. I don't remember his exact words, only the implication that only someone desperate would want to drink it.

Whether he intended it that way or not, I felt exposed.

In that moment, I wondered if everyone could see what I had been trying so hard to hide. I wondered if they knew I had packed alcohol in my suitcase because I didn't trust that there would be enough. I wondered if they knew I was secretly taking tiny sips from their liquor bottles after they went to bed. I wondered if they could see that alcohol wasn't something I enjoyed anymore. It was something I depended on.

At the time, I pushed those thoughts aside. I wasn't ready to admit I had a problem.

Years later, I learned that dolphins have been observed gently passing puffer fish between one another, seemingly to experience the fish's toxins in small doses. Scientists still debate exactly what's happening, but the behavior has often been described as dolphins getting high.

I don't know if that's true.

What I do know is that I painted a puffer fish without realizing how much of my own life revolved around chasing a chemical escape. Looking back, it feels like an accidental metaphor. The painting was intended as a Christmas gift, but today it reminds me of one of the earliest moments I recognized, even if I couldn't yet admit it, that alcohol had become something I depended on.