Page 11 of Unnecessary Drama

Unclench, unclench, unclench, I tell myself, but saying those words makes me clench my insides, my stomach, my jaw, my eyeballs, my mind, harder.

‘Brooke, get in the picture,’ Jesse says, his eyes shining and his dimple-smile working overtime to charm everyone.

‘Oh, no, I think I’m okay here,’ I say, fake-smiling at him.

‘Brooke, get in!’ Sophie shouts. ‘Put the onesie on and get in.’

‘It’s important for the future of this household that I get a shot of you in the chicken suit,’ Jesse says, grinning.

I narrow my eyes. Does he think I’m afraid to wear the costume? That I’m scared of the judgment from him, and Amber, and his schoolfriends and everyone else here? That I take myself so seriously I can’t wear a chicken suit in front of strangers at my first party in Melbourne? Well, I’ll show him. I determinedly haul the chicken onesie on over my dress and zip it up. I expect my self-consciousness to magically disappear once I am standing alongside the others in costume but, unfortunately, it doesn’t. I can’t let Jesse see that though. He’s only going to see the most carefree version of Brooke ever.

Justin, Ruby and Sophie surround me and make funny faces for the camera and I smile wide—unclench, unclench—being a good sport, laughing along and hamming it up. But secretly, I’m hot and itchy and over-stimulated and a little bit tired, and I want to rip the suit off, go to the kitchen and start tidying up while listening to a long podcast about a random topic like medieval nuns or the history of bread. A deeply absorbing activity where I can just relax and forget I even have a body or a to-do list or a ‘things I want to achieve this year’ plan or big friendship-shaped holes in my life or sharp spikes of anxiety that I keep catching myself on or the memory of Do I like Brooke? No. No. Fuck, no. I just want to sink deep into my brain like it’s a pristine empty swimming pool.

I’m not Fun Drunk Chicken-suit Girl, I will never be Fun Drunk Chicken-suit Girl, I know that, and everyone else here probably knows it too.

8

The thing about parties is, especially parties with new people, I always have to eventually face the Question. The Why-Don’t-You-Drink Question, my least favourite question of all time.

You think I would, after being asked endlessly all through high school? Even by people who know I don’t drink, even occasionally by other people who don’t drink themselves, by people who have known me for years, people who are expecting me to drive them home, but who just can’t help themselves in asking ‘but why’ and ‘but just this once Brooke’ and ‘come on Brookey, come on’ and ‘BB, you would be so funny to see wasted, come on’ and ‘oh my god, can you imagine Brooke drunk?’ and ‘We love you, come on, just for us’.

I have a few different responses to the drinking question, depending on the situation.

‘I’m on antibiotics, so I can’t’—can only be used once or twice without inviting questions about what kind of ongoing medical issue I might have.

‘I’m driving’—if I’m sure I won’t be later hassled about driving them home.

‘I don’t like the taste’—never works.

‘I’m not really a drinker’—people see this as a fun challenge.

‘I am drinking!’—only works if I am holding something that looks like alcohol and runs a risk of me being exposed as a liar.

‘I don’t want to’—can lead to arguments or probing questions or ‘But why?’.

‘I had a bad experience once’—people want the story, they always want the story.

‘No thanks, I’m not feeling well’—leads to people not wanting to be near you in case you’re contagious.

‘I’m pacing myself’—no one respects someone pacing themselves.

‘I’m allergic to additives’—people start googling what drinks are available that you can have.

‘It’s against my beliefs’—then I either have to lie about being religious or create some kind of elaborate belief system that sits outside of religion.

‘I’m on a cleanse’—sadly it’s one of the most accepted excuses, although you need a detailed list of information about the cleanse because they always want to know what you are eating and drinking and more importantly not eating and not drinking and exactly how much weight you’ve lost and if it’s worth it and how long it takes and how fast they would lose that weight if they were to do this imaginary cleanse and suddenly you’re supporting someone else’s disordered eating.

I don’t drink because, well, the simplest explanation is, I don’t want to. Of course, it’s more complicated. It’s layers of complication. First, there’s Lauren. And Dad.

I have spent a lot of time googling ‘how to know if someone has a drinking problem’. Reading books, reading forums, reading life-advice columns. But when so many people around you binge-drink, it’s hard to know what the problem is—the person, or the small town, or the country, or the culture, or my age, or my personality, or my family, or my issues or a very specific combination of it all.

After a big night, Lauren will emerge like a little fawn, unsure on her legs, but smiling, doe-eyed, innocent. It’s all a funny story to her. Then I start to feel crazy. Was it funny? Am I remembering my dread, my jagged anxiety, my disgust all wrong? Everyone else loves this thing, everyone else does it, and I don’t, and I am the only one walking away with dark memories and trembling hands and a stomach that aches when I think someone I love is going out and might not be safe and in control. I must be the one in the wrong.

Growing up, people would say, ‘Your dad is fun’. And he was. But he was the kind of fun that gave me an aching jaw from holding my mouth tight. He was the kind of fun that made me not trust having fun. I have never relaxed around Dad. I didn’t actually realise that until I realised the clenching I feel about Lauren I first felt about Dad. Well, it’s not quite the same. With Dad, it was I don’t like who you are when you’re drinking, even though everyone else does. With Lauren, it’s more I am so tired of being scared of what might happen to you.

I need to be sober to make sure everyone else is safe. I need to feel in control. Being in control of myself is the most important factor to me feeling okay. If I don’t feel like me, true me, real me, then I feel out of sync with the world in a way that makes me feel like I might fall off the planet or stop breathing. I need to be grounded in my me-ness to exist, to keep going, to not get sucked into an am-I-good-enough-have-I-done-enough-will-Iever-be-enough anxiety tornado. Being drunk would be messy, dangerous, out of control. My worst self might come out.

9