by Angela Perez

Oh, Jesus, that miasma of “triggers” – the things that make you go off the deep end for various and sundry reasons. Had a couple of triggers wave their unruly genitalia in my face this evening. These triggers came in the form of rituals. Tonight, I went to an art reception. Which means I went through my usual going-out ritual – putting on make-up and dressing up in expensive evening clothes. My brain is hardwired to associate the completion of this ritual with an imminent treat – a cold gin drink is undoubtedly soon to be in my hand, soothing my social anxiety and making the social event at hand tolerable. Curse that social anxiety that we privileged Americans suffer from so assiduously! Without social anxiety there would be no travel writing, no “Quit Lit,” no “mumblecore film,” and on and on.

Trigger One: Self-deprecation aside, slathering my lips in NARS’ “American Woman” lipstick tonight flipped a switch in me. Once I made sure my lip liner and lipstick were perfectly in place, a thought popped into my head: COLD GIN TIME, BABY.

Trigger Two: Checking my shiny, glittering holiday attire in the mirror before heading out to the art show, I thought, “CHECK. Looking good girl. You are going to meet a hot, fine man tonight, for sure. I need a cocktail first, though, to make sure I can be fully present.” [Note: by my third drink, I am distinctly NOT present and register about 50% of what anyone is saying to me. With each successive drink, that percentage goes down about 5%.]

Trigger Three: In my car on the way to the show, I cranked up some Greta Van Fleet. I love listening to rock and roll and getting hammered simultaneously. The two intertwine to give me a weightless, falling-body rush that is glorious in its titillation. I thought, after the show, I gotta find a bar that has good rock music and get a cold gin drink.

Needless to say, I roll into the art show, triggered and sweating. I ignored the free wine, somehow, and focused on the art at hand. And, being sober, I could actually truly focus on the art and found a piece by Caitlin Cary (I asked her to help me find something brutalist and caustic that suits my current mood and she had a piece of her own that fit the bill) that spoke to me deeply. I bought art with a clear head and mind. Which led to

Trigger Four: I need to go out and celebrate my new art purchase! I deserve a cold gin drink. And I’m looking good, so I am sure to meet a wise, witty, and fabulous fella at a bar tonight.

After leaving the gallery, I returned to my car and sat there in the dark without turning the key in the ignition. I forced myself to imagine the process that has repeated itself a million times over when I am in a caustic but revelrous mood:

Go out to the bar.
Drink lots of gin drinks.
Have conversations that I don’t really enjoy but that I pretend to enjoy.
Smoke cigarettes even though I cannot stand them when I am not drinking.
Leave something valuable behind at the bar or late-night you attend gloves, jewelry, hair clips, credit cards, cell phones, socks, etc.
Wake up with a terrible hangover.
Ignore everything exciting and fun I had planned to do that day because I cannot get out of bed.
Spend $50 or more on cold, crappy food from Doordash because I cannot be bothered to even drive my tired, sluggish behind anywhere.
Wallow in regret for deciding to drink.
Swearing off the drink until the hangover subsides and one or more triggers tickles my soul.

Once I ran through that endless loop I have been stuck in for years, hell, decades, I decided to go to Snoopy’s, get a double cheeseburger with chili and onions (more toxic than gin perhaps – but no hangover!), head home, do some writing, reading, and plan to get up early for art galleries, book shopping, and a massage tomorrow. And look forward to my new artwork arriving at my home in the next few days.

There in the dark cab of my car, I studied the shape and form of my drinking world and finally saw it for what it is: not some sexy, velvet nightclub where everyone is gorgeous and brilliant and fun and smells of orchids and musk oil;

no, that world is a stark landscape, a muddy backwater where no flowers bloom and only bitter, venomous animals and insects slink and prowl, and the sun never shines and any hero foolish enough to venture there ends up with at least a pounding headache and usually much worse.