She Likes To Pretend I Don’t Know

Wladyslawa Uzsko

(she/her)

The short story 'She likes to pretend I don't know' explores the everyday stigma of alcohol addiction. As I've gotten closer with people I've been shocked by how many of us have alcoholic households or bad experiences with alcoholism but don't say anything. I always felt like I was the only person because of how much alcohol is venerated in our society. You'd think finding out I wasn't alone would've been liberating, but instead, I felt angry. I thought this was interesting, and wanted to investigate these more ugly responses to friends opening up to me and the other effects of internalised stigma.

I never like talking about this. I’ll write about everything else: racism, sexism,

ableism, I even did reviews for a time. But you gotta have a line in the sand. A line in

the sand is fair. And it’s nice, imagining a world where you don’t see it on the corner

of every street. I get lost in it, I forget, then I come home and get offended. It’s still

there? That’s not supposed to be here, in my life, in my home. Not the way I write it.

A friend sat me down a couple of weeks ago. They were a good friend; at that

perfect time in a friendship when you’re close enough to be comfortable and happy,

but not enough to deal with their problems. I mean, I knew they had some baggage,

kid’s anxious as hell, but I didn’t have a responsibility to deal with it. To listen. To

calculate the best thing to say. To always be available to talk. To watch what I say so

I don’t upset them. You’ll notice all this is in the past tense, because this asshole told

me what was up in their family. Classic alcoholic mother and absent working father.

Douchebag hadn’t told anyone. Ever. We’ve been friends for two years. That’s not

nearly long enough for me to be the sole holder of this. Jesus.

Of course, terrible situation to be in. But it comes to a point when you hear the same

thing so much you just... can’t feel bad about it anymore. Like, I’m angry he’s in this

situation, and that my other friend is, and my best friend, and my acquaintance, and

my mother, and my uncle. I was mad at my friend for saying it. Still am, if I’m being

honest. It’s not supposed to be here, in my life, in my home. Not the way I write it. I

write streets where it doesn’t lurk, where it doesn’t ask for money, where it doesn’t

hollow and redden and bloat.

I came home the other day. That smell infected the driveway, and for a moment, I felt

it. She always does the same thing - jokes about bringing gin to meetings, about how

wine could make her classier, then I find the bottle of whiskey hidden in the shoebox.

A couple of weeks, a couple of months. She confesses to me. We do penance, it

doesn’t work, the smell comes back. My friend told me they hide the wine bottles

when they see them, but their mother just buys more. I never had the audacity.

Perhaps I should. If I did it would ruin the illusion: she likes to pretend I don’t know.