newly sober: i can change
an essay about ecstasy, friendship, and the difference five years can make
thank you for subscribing to newly sober. we are hitting our stride, as my brain slowly heals over the last eleven months. in whatever you are able to support— a free or paid subscription— means the world. thank you for being a part of this journey.
an essay: i can change
All that you touch
You Change.
All that you Change
Changes you.
The only lasting truth
Is Change.
***
the year was 2016 and it was June and i was sitting in the dirt outside of The “Broo’ers tent” at my first Bonaroo, the smell of beer and B.O. and dark dirt in my nose. i was wearing rainbow kaleidoscope print from head to toe— i had bought an over-priced racer back crop top and matching high waisted bell-bottom spandex pants, the pants so long that they dragged and were starting to tear under the heel of my mud caked hiking boots.
back in Chicago where we were roommates, Chelsea sat on the end of my Queen-sized bed like a mother trying to have a serious conversation with her teenage son. she knew she had to ease me into it, that i wasn’t going to go for car-camping in extreme heat and humidity in some random field in the South just to listen to music. “Bonaroo is church,” she said, and i didn’t realize that it was an honor that she was proselytizing to me. that she saw the benefit in taking me, in converting me, even if it was way outside of my comfort zone.
all week long, we slept side-by-side on top of one un-zipped sleeping bag (we forgot the second) in a one-person tent in the volunteer camp; the moment the sun hit the sky the scorching heat woke us. we rolled off our one sleeping bag and ate peanut butter straight out of the jar, before heading into Mecca. after arriving a few days early and volunteering as our price of admission, we were headed to church: one mini gatorade bottle each was pulled out of the trunk– half was dumped and replenished with vodka for the walk over; weed in a plastic baggie tucked into our spandex shorts– which i had just smoked for the first time, at the age of 23, the week before with my long-distance boyfriend.
we headed into our day prepared and i had no idea what as coming for me.
the night before at the Volunteer camp, i had asked a man selling $1 homemade Bonaroo stickers to elaborate after he said, “I don’t see why people are so upset about the Confederate flag– that’s our history!” i was, i told myself, an unbiased observer– a cultural anthropologist, of sorts. A child of LA and NYC, i wanted to understand the south– the year before, i had just graduated from liberal-arts-womens-college, and i was ready to see— to understand— my homeland. born and raised in West Virginia, Chelsea laughed and ushered me away from the conversation, pulling me away from what she knew not to engage. by a fire pit in the distance, i watched two girls my age, self-consciously dance. their hair was pulled up in haphazard, lop-sided pigtails, like they were in seventh grade trying something new in their mom’s bathroom. i couldn’t see them as they were now: my age and trying. instead, i saw them at forty-five, each saddled kids and Dodge Minivans. i couldn’t shake the feeling that this moment was finite– but also that i was going to live in it forever.
i was seeing and hearing and experiencing things I had never before— a sheltered girl trying to dance, myself; ruthlessly judging her mirrors. and after a week of volunteering, we were unleashed into a sea of dust-covered people and fried food and live music.
back in the dirt on the second night of the festival, i wipe dirt onto my new kaleidoscopic pants and open my palm to the true unknown: ecstasy.
seconds before, Chelsea had looked at me, her dark brown eyes open wide, as she showed me the two red pills that sat in her palm. she leaned in and said, “I know you’re freaking out, but trust me.” before she placed the pill in my hand, she swallowed her own. she flashed her open palm, as if to say, “Look, easy!”
up until that moment, I operated under the illusion that i was in control—that control was possible— my shoulders tense in a space where letting the fuck go was premium.
but i had, at this point in my life, never let go. in college, i would black out and kiss boys i had crushes on, but that wasn’t true surrender— that was obliteration.
staring into Chelsea’s open palm, the kaleidoscope pants were the only hint of fun i was experiencing. truth was, i was fighting it: the dirt, the heat, the stench. i was deeply uncomfortable, far from my clean sheets and queen-sized bed. the Bonaroo mantra flashed in my mind’s eye: Radiate Positivity. certainly death would harsh that vibe. i remembered Chelsea sitting at the foot of my bed, pitching Bonaroo, promising that Ecstasy was worth trying— the opposite message than i had received my entire life. i wondered if i should text my parents and brothers to tell them I loved them, as i popped the tiny red pill into my mouth and swallowed, praying for mercy:
“If I die, tell my parents I love them.”
“You’re not going to die.”
But maybe, my innocence did.
***
i couldn’t stop smiling– couldn’t help but fan my hands up and down, as if i was a Supreme doing a cat walk— light beams shooting out of my fingertips.
growing up, Elvis was the only music i listened to– and Queen. the simple melody, the clear lyrics, they were songs that i could listen to, again and again, able to grasp the rhythm and meaning easily. prior to this moment, i had been unable to hear music on a first listen– i could only hear the beat or the melody, but never both at the same time. i couldn’t stay present enough— turn the chatter in my skull low enough— to hear anything but the litany in my head. i was not present, i had not ever.
smiling and grinding my molars to dust, i thought to myself, is this joy ? and come to realize: wow, i’ve been depressed my whole life. of course, i had felt glimmers of joy— when a boy liked me or when i won something. but never profound, overarching, aching joy. hearing music unfold in real time, wrapping myself in melody, harmony, and lyrics all at the same time: suddenly, i understood why people listen to music that isn’t just Elvis.
as i continue strutting, Chelsea pulls me towards the What Stage where LCD Sound System is about to play.
i start dancing, and look at a girl covered in LED string lights flinging around a hula hoop— legs akimbo, my hips thrust forward, fanning my arms, i turn to Chelsea and shout, “DO I LOOK LIKE HER?” she promptly yells back: “NO.”
LCD Systems sings, I can change I can change I can change, and i understand that in that moment, i am changing, experiencing the very thing i have been taught to fear— to stay away from— my entire life, that drugs are bad and this drug is eating holes in my brain this very moment and that if i am good and that if i stay in control then things will go my way, but i am learning that if i let go and trust, i will be led towards new experiences, sounds, colors, and insights— and i hope to stay in this moment forever, with my best friend, before we both leave Chicago, embarking towards two unknowns: Hawaii and New York. Hawaii to live with her long-distance boyfriend, New York so i can go back to school.
and just like that, as i watch a past version of myself unravel around me, i don’t fear change so much— i break through the cocoon of my past, understanding that maybe it’s okay to let go
Chelsea really did bring me to church.
and then a fairy, whose face is painted gold, comes up close, sticks her fist into her tiny backpack and blows gold glitter straight into my face: i marvel.
and suddenly, i understand: magic is real, i just have to be open enough to receive it.
and suddenly, i am radiating positivity.
Chelsea looks at me and just says, “Welcome.”
***
God, grant me the serenity
To accept the thing i cannot change
The courage to change the things i can
And the wisdom to know the difference.
***
the year is 2022 and I am seven months sober and I am the Designated Driver for Chelsea’s bachelorette weekend.
we would go to one more Bonaroo together— the week before, the boyfriend who introduced me to weed would break up with me, and during the drive from Chicago to Manchester, Tennessee, my grandmother would die. the first day of the festival, i ate half an edible on an empty stomach and ended up riding on a stretcher to the medic tent (i was wearing a pajama dress with no underwear, and Chelsea rode on the back, holding my skirt down, harassing the medic until he let her ride with and keep my covered— he said he could ride as long as she cooperated, so she piped down) after vomiting amidst a sea of hammocks. when i complained about being cold in the medic tent, Chelsea told me to get my ass up and we started dancing. i would spend the whole weekend vomiting— too stoned, too much tobacco, too many emotions to keep down. and she would just dance next to me, let me have my melt down, then take me back to a stage to hear something new.
somehow she was able to take ecstasy once a year and her life kept growing; i took ecstasy, and something shifted: on the surface, i was achieving— but from that point forward, i couldn’t stop finding new ways to escape.
i was slowly unraveling, destroying, shrinking, dying.
i visited her in Hawaii every year i could, and in 2019, we went to Japan, where people on the street would ask if we were sisters, as they do everywhere we go, and I got cross-faded and ditched her on her birthday to have sex with a Turkish man in a love hotel. in 2020, i was staying at her condo in Kailua as New York was shutting down, deciding whether or not to go back. 2021, I brought my ex-fiancé, and she had asked me not to smoke weed the whole time I was there, and of course we smoked weed the whole time we were there. my ex was upset that we had to take covid tests to fly between islands, and he screamed into his phone the whole day while working in their home, emailing the Hawaii officials to complain, yelling, “What if a nineteen year old wanted to fly? They wouldn’t be able to!” to which I replied, “They don’t want 19 year olds to fly— they don't want anyone to fly!” and i paid for the covid tests and Chelsea waved us goodbye, happy we were finally leaving. on the Big Island, he would ask for my hand in marriage on a star-gazing tour that Chelsea had suggested, and I would say yes even though my body screamed no.
i get engaged and i think about death. Chelsea gets engaged and she starts living.
and then i crash-land at home after hitting rock bottom and i am no longer engaged and I finally start getting honest with myself about how i had been lying. unraveling, destroying, shrinking, dying.
for Chelsea’s Bachelorette weekend, we were going to This Ain’t No Picnic, a music festival in my hometown of Pasadena, California.
we found a house to rent in the Hollywood Hills that looked like it was decorated by a rich woman’s gay best friend in the early 2000’s, complete with pinot-noir colored walls, random Chinese characters that probably say “White Bitch”, and faux-Spanish tiling.
Chelsea designed Power Ranger dresses for each of her bachelorette party: white, yellow, blue, black, red, (pink couldn’t make it). walking around the LA music festival in bright spandex dresses, where wearing brand names is implicit social code, we were bring Bonaroo to SoCal— radiating positivity where judgment masks self-consciousness and money masks having no taste. pictures were taken of our group, as we marched through the golf course next to the Rose Bowl; videos were taken of us dancing to the Ying Yang Twins and swinging around bubble wands.
i wanted to be present— to make up for all of the times i got too fucked up or ditched her or, or, or. i chugged three cold brews and i jumped around, watching people smoke joints and chug beers, and i willed myself into a good time. i was thrust back into the girl before she ever went to Bonaroo— who was afraid of letting go. except that i spent the interim taking risks— too many of them— and now i was afraid of going down the rabbit hole again because the rabbit hole led to throwing up in a sea of hammocks or ditching my best friend in a foreign country on her birthday.
because that’s the thing about addiction— it keeps us from acting in a way that is aligned with our self-concept. i always told myself i was a good person, but would a good person do those things? they say that alcohol isn’t the problem, but the problem is how you act when you drink alcohol. and now, i was trying to learn who the hell i was without it: a designated driver.
i watched as my pack of Rangers got more and more fucked up, titillated by the fact that i was not— back in the AirBNB, i had become the glitter fairy, smearing gooey glitter on each of their faces and dumping chunky glitter into their hair. midway through the festival, i went to the merch tent and got my fix spending money, buying a work shirt, which i had monogramed with my last name on it. i felt powerful, with the power of presence. i gave extra glitter to a security guard who had admired my own.
but it wasn’t until the final band, until the sun had set behind the hills that i had grown up looking at every day— five minutes from my parents’ house— the Santa Ana winds cleansing me, that i understood that yet again, i had changed.
this place that i had told myself i was running from was actually a place to run towards— home; myself.
The Rangers swayed— and as LCD Soundsystem started to play, i was transported back to that first time, to that girl who thought she knew so much— a cultural anthropologist; an unbiased observer; a girl covered in glitter judging girls with lopsided pigtails. the girl who was taken to church, but didn’t realize that church isn’t a place but a presence of being. that joy is everywhere and everything is finite.
New York I Love You, But You’re Bringing me Down
back in 2016, i held Chelsea’s hand as i first heard those lyrics, thinking about what was to come; unknowns. and here i stood, having spent ten years in New York, having gotten disgracefully discharged by my ruthless bottom and my battle with addiction, only returning to teach that summer, and then truthfully choosing to leave the week before this festival— that i understood what it meant to love something that truly brings you to your knees.
time yawned— i was both the girl back in 2016, her dopamine receptors blown out with ecstasy, and the woman in 2022, releasing all that she held, fearing what she knew to be true.
she had changed: knowing it is possible to love something and leave it.
the trauma of being trapped in a car for three days as my fiancé screamed whilst in full-blown weed withdrawal; recovery meetings every day since; the guilt of all that i had done while high or drunk or both; the presence of mind to know that i was and was not all those actions— that change is possible. but only when you want it.
that i can love weed and fear it; that i can love New York but leave it.
but that this change— sobriety— ultimately wasn’t my choice. i had been struck sober.
but staying sober is a choice.
but falling to my knees at an Alabama gas station 9 months before, rocking back and forth, my arms a straight jacket holding me together, as I cried, I CAN DO THIS I CAN DO THIS I CAN DO THIS but it came out as I CAN’T DO THIS I CAN’T DO THIS I CAN’T DO THIS
but now i understood: i can and i did. i was struck sober and i stayed sober. that i had been invited to this bachelorette weekend and that i was going to drive everyone home. that i was a good friend who had been a bad friend. and i realized, i can breathe. i can be. i survived.
i absolutely was not the only one who had just left New York in that crowd, but i felt like i was sobbing the hardest— i did not care. the music changed, and again LCD Sound System was singing, I can change I can change I can change, and i danced even though my body was exhausted and i shook off everything that i could no longer hold and i looked at my best friend and i was thankful that she was the one getting married— not me— and that she had first led me to church, she had shown me what live music can do, and here we were, five years later, dancing and singing, I can change I can change I can change,
And we had.
change happens whether we are ready for it or not. thank you for reading, thank you for supporting. thank you, thank you, thank you.
xoxo,
PAULINA
p.s.
(paid subscribers get an up-to-date day count and ability to vote on content!)
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to newly sober to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.