The Diary of Bridgette M., Part 14

by Trey Nosrac

Series introduction ishere.

Part 1 is here.

Part 2 is here.

Part 3 is here.

Part 4 is here.

Part 5 is here.

Part 6 is here.

Part 7 is here.

Part 8 is here.

Part 9 is here.

Part 10 is here.

Part 11 is here.

Part 12 is here.

Part 13 is here.


Over the past eight years, I have done a lot of damage due to my addiction. I swear that I never meant any harm to anybody. You would think I am a monster if I wrote down all the wrong things I did, the people I cheated, and the scams I ran. You would say, ‘How could anyone do that?’ Where is her willpower or common sense?

My answer is you will never be inside of my brain or the brain of any severe addict. We get to a point where the pull is so strong that we need drugs not just to get high but not to get sick. Imagine the sickest five minutes you’ve ever spent in your life. That’s what is going to happen if we don’t hook up. And the clock is ticking for users. Why, when I get clean, do I go back? I cannot explain.

I can understand how Paul torpedoed his future in a sport he loved in two words: drug money. Today, for the first time, Paul tiptoed around his past transgressions. He admitted to “giving some stuff” to a couple of horses when he desperately needed money. He quickly got caught, but getting caught and getting a bad reputation was the best thing for drug money. The reason, and this happens on the streets as well, is that we spend money on drugs and then cut them way down and resell them. It’s an old game for the bottom dwellers. The buyer doesn’t get a full boost; they complain, and then you, as the seller, act mad that somebody cheated on you, and round and round it goes.

Paul said that most of what he moved in the racing and the human drug world was watered-down and sometimes just fake nothingness. When pressed if a horse didn’t fire, he always said he had to cut it in the horse world to avoid a bad test result on the horse. I believe him. In the drug world, you do what you have to do. Little makes sense, is fair, or keeps us from running a million miles an hour in circles chasing the dragon’s tail.


He bought the horses online from a horse auction this afternoon. A trailer will haul the remaining three horses for Red Flags Flying Farm from the sales arena to the farm this evening. Paul texted to let me know he would not be at the NA meeting tonight because he needed to meet the shipping truck. We are excited. The guys agree that new yearlings are one of the best things about this sport, a day when each horse has a clean slate.


Hectic day. The three horses climbed down from the trailer. Paul said two did well, but the middle one went wild. Here is some simple but crazy math. For over two weeks, I took care of Annie, one horse. Today, I began caring for four fillies, which felt like 20 times the work and confusion. A lot was happening simultaneously; Annie was jogging, two fillies were getting used to wearing gear, and one was in a paddock. She stepped on my toe as I walked her out. Paul and Bart, in and out, it was like all hell exploded; it was fun. My toe is killing me, but I’m looking forward to tomorrow.


Bart did not show up this morning. Paul said if Bart went on a bender, he would probably not show up tomorrow. Bart not being at the barn was a problem because the schedule for the rest of the week said: BREAK NEW FILLIES TO CART. Breaking a harness horse is a two-person job, but it is probably better with three. Now, we only have two people, and I am worthless. Or so I thought.

My day was holding a lead line while Paul walked behind the cart. We were very quiet. Eventually, Paul slid into the cart’s seat, and I walked next to each horse as an insurance policy. After an entire lap around the track, Paul motioned for me to sit next to him above the fender of the cart and ride sort of side-saddle. Seated behind a real horse was interesting as heck. I could almost feel the young filles thinking, learning, and feeling safer by the minute. Paul was patient for a big, burly guy who looked like a mountain man. He never wrestled with the fillies. When they made a fuss, he just waited and murmured instructions. I considered the day a success. If Bart is a no-show tomorrow, I was anxious to help Paul teach the fillies more.


The report on Bart was not good. He was in jail. The story we got from the vet who came to inspect the fillies — Paul wanted to go over them — was that Bart left the Roadhouse in Centerville on his motorized bicycle and crashed into a parked car. When the police arrived, he was incoherent and belligerent, so they took him to jail.

Today, Bart meets with social services before being released. This news inspired Paul, the vet, and me to debate whether or not Bart would receive another DWI for driving a bike while drunk. The vet, whose name is Harris, googled it on his phone, and the answer is complicated and depends on the state laws. Possible bad news for Bart is that the vet looked up which states can give a DUI for intoxicated cycling and the list was California, Colorado, Florida, and (gulp) Pennsylvania.

Bart’s AWOL and DWI put me back in the side saddle holding the rope, which was an instant replay of yesterday. You know what I like? When one of the fillies keeps her mind on business, I love the rhythmic, clop, clop sound. The clopping makes me spellbound and I want to get off the uncomfortable passenger seat and climb into the driver’s seat. Wishing to drive is surprising because when I arrived at the farm on the first day of the therapy, the thought of me sitting behind one of these monsters was science fiction. Things change, I hope.