18
I awoke in a cold sweat, disoriented, my heart pounding. I was apparently experiencing the mother of all hangovers. The night returned in snippets: dinner, the casserole that roiled in my stomach and on my breath, fighting to make its way from my body. I pushed it back down, holding my breath until the urge to vomit passed. Then I fumbled for my phone. 6:07 a.m. f**k. The bath. Andrea. My head was pounding. I couldn’t remember what had happened, how I got to my bed.
A night of too much drinking on too little food had likely led to a blackout. I reached for my Klonopin, eager to fall back into its hazy, medicated embrace, allowing it to suppress the rapid beating of my heart. I craved its calm. I fumbled in the morning’s dim and my hand collided with the bottle, which shot off the nigh
