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Chapter twelve, Lavender. "WHY WE ARE WHO WE ARE."
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DEFINED BY SIMPLE TERMS, the act of getting sober was not too dissimilar to that of waking up – entering the transcendent planes of nirvana in what could only be a psychological desire triggered by devine enlightenment.
Rebirth, in a sense.
Ada Tartt thought that was complete and utter bullshit. Because, sure, she stopped drinking, but whether it be the butterfly effect (yet another bogus phenomenon which manifested itself in the mind of philosophers) or fucking destiny, she had, for a time, become what she always feared she would be; her father.
Or, well, something not too far off from what he was.
James Tartt was a broken man. And before that, he had been a broken boy. Stern dad and overbearing mother and pregnant girlfriend-turned-wife. A lad who never got to live out his dream. But, more than that, he was an addict. Someone who was overtly glutinous. A slave to his cravings and vices. Not necessarily weak, but someone who couldn't bare the responsibility that came with being strong.
Not too long ago, Ada thought she was much the same. The origins certainly checked out; a troubled soul whose accumulation of childhood upheavals and tribulations had served as a catalyst for her (seemingly inevitable) fall from grace. Someone whose dream of becoming great was ripped away from them too soon. Someone who fell into a routine of drinking in order to avoid the cards they'd been dealt.
Sharon took a small sip of her coffee. "And was it difficult, stopping?"
"No, see that's the thing." Ada sat up straighter in her seat. "Stopping was so fucking easy, because I never craved it. Never felt like I had to drink. I just did it. A lot. There was a time where I was barely ever sober. I'd put shit in me coffee every morning just to make sure the kick was still there."
"And why do you think you did that?"
"Because I thought that was people did, you know? When they lost something."
