Wishes from the Bottom
Christmas miracles do happen and New Year’s resolutions can last. What happens when you give yourself a second chance?
“Just because you are alone on Christmas Eve does not mean you are buying yourself a diamond!” I scolded myself. It was late afternoon on Christmas Eve, and I was the only person trying on jewels at Shimansky’s Diamond Museum in Cape Town’s waterfront district. It was all so tempting.
Surveying myself in the full-length mirror, adorned with bling that contrasted my normally understated look, I felt gorgeous. I always wanted to buy myself a diamond before a man did. I fell in love with a piece called “The Dancing Diamond,” a necklace that was clear blue tanzanite with white gold clasps on either side. As I breathed, it danced and shimmered. I could not stop staring. It was more beautiful to me than the real diamonds and I later learned it was even more precious and rare. “Oh, come on, it’s just a necklace. Quit being ridiculous.” I handed the necklace back to the jeweler and left.
Just a few months before, in September, after twelve hours of not-uncharacteristic heavy drinking, I was raped. I knew this did not mean the rape was my fault. But after many other hungover mornings tinged with various forms of regret, I also knew I had been lying to myself for quite some time about my drinking problem. This particular incident was my wake-up call, rock bottom. At Thanksgiving, I went sober, cold turkey. The irony was not lost on me.
Freshly sober and still reeling from violation, all I wanted to do was get away and celebrate that, after all of it, I was still alive. About a decade prior, as a fresh college grad, I had visited the African continent, and it captured my heart. Now, I felt it calling me back. Qatar Airways had a one-way flight from San Francisco to Kigali, Rwanda for $493; I immediately booked it. This would be my rape survival victory lap. I bought the flight less than a week before departure. I was stoked.
I never intended to go down to South Africa, but somehow, here I was. While I was in Rwanda, a friend was posting beautiful pictures from his current trip in South Africa. I asked him if it would be worth it to go if I only had five days. He said yes, so I booked another one-way flight.
While stateside, I had not had a drink since late November. But it struck me as a sin not to taste the legendary South African wines. I found myself on a winery tour on Christmas Eve, having my first drink in over a month. I spilled red wine all over the white jumpsuit of the stranger I befriended who was celebrating her honeymoon. A message from the sobriety gods? I was not listening.
At 10pm and still slightly tipsy, I found myself in a quiet and empty hostel in the center of Cape Town. I was not ready to go to bed, but did not know what else to do. Muscle-memory found me scrolling through Facebook. Photos of smiling people with their families, celebrating the holiday I felt like a loser for spending alone. I am not sure what led me to check Facebook Messenger, a feature I found annoying and rarely used. But waiting for me was a very timely and surprising message. An old friend from my UC Berkeley days, Vishal, was living in Cape Town. He noticed from my posts that I was here, too. Did I want to meet up? Absolutely! I replied, and almost immediately, he called. Where was I? He could pick me up. I was overdue for that Christmas miracle — yes, please, and thank you.
Thirty minutes later, I was hugging a familiar face. He too was excited to see me. I was not alone. We went to a cheap Italian restaurant, the kind of place that is open late on Christmas Eve so even us rejects will not go hungry and ate crappy pepperoni pizza off cardboard plates. It was perfect.
We had not spoken in over a decade, but together we laughed like it was just yesterday we were sitting in Sproul Plaza, unencumbered by the realities of adulthood. He still rocked his cute nerdy glasses and made me feel I could be myself. The restaurant started to close, so we had to leave. We wished each other a Merry Christmas. I thanked him for being Santa’s perfect gift, and he invited me to a Christmas dinner the next day, a light to keep me going.
I had only a few more days before I had to fly back, but Vishal and I became inseparable. A true gentleman, he completely cleared his schedule to show me around. We drove all over Cape Town together. With its civil rights history, mountains, wineries, and coastal drives, it reminded me of my beloved home of the San Francisco Bay Area. Vishal drove and blasted Jack Johnson songs, many of which were straight from our college days. He accepted me for who I was and helped me remember parts of myself to be proud of.
Every day was an adventure. We bonded as I screamed next to Vishal inside a cage separating us from a twelve-foot crocodile. Even while menstruating — and I felt comfortable enough letting him know I was bleeding — I insisted we still dive into the cage of freezing water to try to see a great white shark. Sadly, we did not see one, but sharing that adrenaline rush with him is something I will never forget. With all these magical experiences together, it was not difficult developing a crush on my very sweet college buddy.
So, I extended my trip. Vishal generously offered to let me stay with him and his roommate Justin. I told my family I was sorry I would not be able to join them for New Year’s, relishing trading in the cold Boston-based drama for warm sunset drives. I would stay till January 1st, I told myself. That’s it.
On December 31st, still adamant that I would absolutely, positively, stop drinking (again) after midnight, I went all in. I partied nonstop, pounding drink after fiery drink, like it was my last day on Earth.
We were at a club in District Six, the historic part of Cape Town. Justin gave me a nudge. Go dance with Vishal. I asked him, with liquor-fueled courage and hopes that a dance would turn into a midnight kiss. He was the first guy since the rape that I wanted to touch me.
Asking him to dance was the last thing I clearly remember. Blurred images of shots at midnight follow. Hugs, but no kiss. Christmas miracles must end somewhere.
With a pounding hangover headache, during brunch the next morning at a café with Justin (Vishal said he had to focus on work preparation for the next day), I learned what I had done. After yet another round, I started screaming at Vishal about how oblivious he was. Didn’t he see that I liked him; what was wrong with him? I was vulgar, angry. Back at the apartment, I threw up all over his bathroom before passing out on the unmade couch.
Vishal dropped me off at the airport with an awkward hug. I apologized again for the umpteenth time and he told me not to worry about it. He gently reminded me, “Promise me no more bad guys. You deserve the best.” I forced myself to hold back the tears, but when I made it to the second set of automatic doors, I began weeping hysterically.
I arrived at my gate with an hour to spare. My body was reeling with shame and regret, as the residual vodka still flowed in my veins. This was not how I wanted to start the new year. This was not how I wanted to be leaving Vishal. He had been nothing but kind and generous to me. I could not believe my drinking had gotten so out of control, yet again. I wanted to die. I guess I really was an alcoholic.
Then, another sign pulled me in like a magnet. Shimansky Diamonds had a store in the airport, right across from my gate. In the window display, under signs proclaiming 30% off for the holidays, was my favorite, Dancing Diamond tanzanite. With tears, I asked to try it on. Again, I looked at myself in the mirror. This time, totally hungover, my eyes framed by red, swollen pillows. But around my neck, the tanzanite still shimmered.
“How much is it? There’s a discount, right?” I asked. The saleswoman told me it was $669 with taxes. My heart pounded. The only thing I had ever spent that much money on a single purchase was international flights, never something to wear. I logged into the airport Wi-Fi to double-check how much was in my checking account, knowing my credit card was already maxed out. I only had about $1,500. How could I make this work? I started a mental inventory. If I cancelled my annual Gloria Ferrer Sonoma winery membership, I would save $400. All those nights out at the bar and Uber rides home add up, I reasoned to myself. As the emotional floodgates broke, I cried to the saleswoman “Today, I am really going to stop drinking. I’ll buy it.”
I never got that New Year’s kiss I so desired, but I left the African continent with hope around my neck. I wear that necklace every day. Each time I put it on, I renew my promise and have stayed sober ever since. It has been the greatest investment I made in myself.
On 1/1/21, I am super proud to be celebrating my third year of sobriety!
