5 posts tagged “alcoholism”

I know, I know.  I already posted something with "Thanksgiving" in the title.  But that was just a hook to get folks to look at some websites that might direct money to charity.  Generic stuff.  True meaning of the holiday blah blah blah...

Then there was the whole cutesy Vox Hunt ironic crap post.

Which brings me to the real post, starting now:

Those of you who are my friends, or who have read my blog on a regular basis, know that I don't drink alcohol.  Indeed, I would go so far as to say that I am an alcoholic.  Alcohol is poison for me.

I think that it's important to say that I have no moral opinion about alcohol.  After all, it is nothing more than fermented plant matter.  Alcohol is not bad.  And there are plenty of people who are able to enjoy a drink or two, or an occasional blow-out, without any serious impact on their lives.  I am not one of those people.  Now, when I started drinking, when I was in my early teens, I was.  Not to say that I drank just a little bit.  I always drank for effect, even when I was stealing bottles out of my dad's wine cellar and acting like a snob.  I'm just saying that the way I drank did not appear to be having any serious negative impact on my life.  I had good grades, I had lots of friends, I was athletic, I was involved in serious relationships, I was one of the Kool Kids.  I also was basically decent, honest and compassionate.  Just a normal Joe.

But it is difficult to describe to someone who hasn't had the feelings what it was like to drink the way I drank.  There was nothing about alcohol that I didn't love.  I loved the smell of it, the taste of it, the tingling feeling on the roof of my mouth, the numbing of my tongue, the heat as it passed down my throat, the warmth growing in my belly and spreading up to my head, the way I felt more relaxed and confident.  And especially the way it made those voices in my head shut up.  I spent most nights of high school downing hard liquor after my parents went to sleep, and listening to classical music.  It was bliss.

And it opened me to new experiences.  All of a sudden, I wasn't so shy.  That girl who had seemed so unapproachable was there for the taking.  I knew more and better than all of my friends.  I was a raconteur, an intellectual, a bon vivant, a lothario. 

That all passed over time.  I didn't drink more; I had started out drinking a lot.  What happened was that my world got smaller.  By the end, it was me alone in the dark, with inner shakes and the sweats, sleeping with a kitchen knife under my pillow, because I thought the folks having a party next door were plotting to scale the tree outside my window, in order to climb in through the window and kill me.

But I didn't believe that I had a drinking problem.  All evidence to the contrary, it didn't occur to me that the catalyst for my daily hell poured out of a bottle.  I use the word "catalyst", because the booze wasn't what caused the hell.  As a matter of fact, it was alcohol which had taken me out of my personal hell in the first place, in the beginning, when it quieted those voices whispering in my ears as a young teenager.  But as the years had gone along, alcohol ceased to muffle those voices.  As a matter of fact, it became an amplifier.

On a typical evening, I would get home from work intending to run to the supermarket, or maybe to the laundromat.  But I would say to myself I'll just have one drink first.  And all bets would be off.  I would rinse out the same underwear and shirt and socks I had worn to work that day in the bathroom sink, and hang them to dry on the shower rod.  I would work my way through the bottle, usually of whiskey.  At some point in the evening, I would stagger into the bathroom, kneel down, and stick my finger down my throat, so that I could vomit to overcome my nausea, so I could drink some more.  As I washed my hands and face in the sink, I would look at myself in the mirror, and think Who is this animal? 

I'll save the story of how I came to realize that I had a drinking problem and decided to go to rehab, and my experience in rehab for another time.  This is a Thanksgiving story.  And how, might you ask, could what I have shared have anything to do with Thanksgiving?  I left rehab on Thanksgiving morning, 1987.

It was a cold dank overcast morning in Wernersville, right outside Reading, Pennsylvania.  I stood outside the main hall of the rehab waiting for the van to come.  My group members, and some of the other patients I had become friendly with shook my hand, or hugged me, depending on their personality.  The van came; I climbed in.  The driver took me down to the local bus station and dropped me off. 

I stood outside with my ticket, looking at the other passengers, using my alcohol radar to guess who else might be an alcoholic.  (This was a freshly acquired skill).  I picked out one fellow as appearing a likely prospect.  Wouldn't you know it?  When it came time to board the bus, this guy decided randomly to sit next to me.  I have found over the years that busses are some of the most likely conveyances in which to find oneself in unsolicited conversation.  This time was no exception.  It didn't take long for me to discover that my instincts had been right.  My new friend was on his way to the New Jersey shore to have Thanksgiving with his brother.  He had recently lost his job and his marriage.  I didn't mention that I had just gotten out of rehab.

The bus pulled into Philadelphia, and I got off holding my shabby suitcase.  The words of one of the counselors at one of the full rehab meetings resonated in my head.  He said Look around you.  Four out of five of the patients here will be drunk or high within a month of getting out of rehab.  It's probably going to be you.  Unless you take this seriously.

I was determined to be part of the 20%.  I was also afraid to go back to that same apartment I drank in to be alone on Thanksgiving Day.  So I grabbed a cab, and took it to a local AA "clubhouse", which I had discovered while in rehab was less than two blocks from my home.  (I had passed the building nearly every morning on the way to the subway.  I could never figure out if it was a fraternity or a drug house.)  The taxi dropped me off outside, and I walked up the stairs, across the porch, and into the clubhouse.  There was an AA meeting going on.  I sat down in a chair, and listened through the rest of the meeting.  When the meeting was over, I noticed that they had put out some food for Thanksgiving. So, I grabbed myself a plate, and loaded it up with turkey and stuffing and sweet potatoes and OBrien salad and pie.  I ate my first sober Thanksgiving meal as an adult that day, sitting on a shaky folding chair among strangers.

After I finished eating, I started going around to the other folks, and started to ask for phone numbers.  (The rehab had suggested this.)  Most of them people I asked declined.  Just one guy, who seemed pretty crazy, offered his number.  I took it while promising myself that I would never call him.  At the time, I thought that the reason nobody would give their number to me was because I was white, and they were black.  I have come to understand that I wasn't the only one in pain that day, that perhaps the people who said no didn't feel they had anything to offer me.  Alcoholic thinking can be like that. At the time, it led me to conclude that perhaps the clubhouse was not a place around which I should center my efforts to stay sober.  But I felt OK.  I had gotten through first day out sober, and had even eaten a Thanksgiving meal.  I felt good enough to walk home and fall into a dreamless sleep.

The next day, I went to another AA meeting.  Two guys came up to me after the meeting, and offered me their phone numbers.  Both eventually became friends, and one of them became my AA "sponsor".  I have not had a drink of alcohol since.

Because of the circumstances of that first Thanksgiving Day, the holiday always has centered around sobriety for me.  The first couple of years, I went back to the rehab on Thanksgiving, and sat with the patients as they ate their holiday meal.  Then I made it a point to go to detoxes where people were locked up for the holiday, and shared the joy of being freed from bondage to alcohol.  As time went along, I got back into the "normal" pattern of sharing Thanksgiving with friends and family.  Last year, I had fifteen people over, including my sister and my best friend.  But no matter what, every year, I go to an AA meeting to share my gratitude.

Thanksgiving is the quintessential AA holiday.  A  secular (or at least non-denominational) holiday centered around gratitude.  This year, my sister is going elsewhere, and I don't feel like cooking all day.  So, I'm going down to a local AA group for breakfast and a meeting, and returning in the afternoon for Thanksgiving dinner and a meeting.  I will see a lot of friends there.  Certainly, all of my homeless friends will be there.  (We make it a point to be sure that the local homeless community knows about the event.)  We'll go through at least a dozen turkeys, along with side dishes by the truckload, and tons of desserts.  And coffee, lots of coffee.  The AA kind, that can also be used to strip walls.  I can't wait.

On the off chance that any of you reading this will be doing the same thing, I will be with you in spirit if not in fact.  And if anyone out there can identify with the pain I described earlier, knows what if feels like, and is willing to believe that my experience is not unique, that alcohol need not rule your universe any longer, drop me a line.  I won't answer until Friday my time, at the earliest.  But I will answer.  You are not alone.  You never have to feel the pain of drinking again.  And I love you.  No questions asked.

Who helped make you the cool person you are today?
Submitted by Amy - Sister Brown Hair Surprise.

This is Father Bill Hultberg.  Father Bill was my counselor at Chit Chat, the rehab I attended in 1987.  He no longer works as a counselor there, but remains in the role of spiritual advisor.  When I was there, he took a couple of days off to go to his first rock concert, at the invitation of a rock star he had counselled earlier.  (No, I won't tell you who.)  Bill is an ex-Marine chaplain who went in-country with his troops in Vietnam.  He had to face his own demons in order to come to a place where he could be useful to people like me.  And you would not mistake Bill for the kindly priest down at the country parish.  He wears boots, and has plenty of Oorah left in him.

Bill was the first person who was able to get me to face myself and my alcoholism squarely and honestly.  He was able to place me in a position where I could admit that I was doomed if I didn't change, but that there was hope that change was possible.  And he helped me to understand that there was a power greater than my addiction, which has allowed me to live a life without fear, and with the hole I used to fill with booze now healed by joy and faith. 

I haven't had a drink since the day I met Father Bill.  I owe him my life. 

Today is Thornton Wilder's birthday.  He was the author of the one play I ever acted on stage, Our Town. 

I was a senior in high school, and wanted to try something different.  So I joined a drama class for one semester.  The spring play that year was Our Town.  I tried out as a lark, and got the relatively minor role of Simon Stimson, the drunken choirmaster.  Only in three scenes, with only two substantial sets of lines.  But it was a perfect role for me.  The first scene was of Simon conducting choir practice rehearsal, while half in the bag. The second scene was a bit of mime, with Simon staggering drunk across the stage, and then out of sight.  And the final scene, in the body of a third act which takes place mostly in a graveyard, consisted of Simon roundly condemning the living world, in a bland voice.  My best friend, Kim, came into the dressing room after the show and said "Lorin, you were great.  I hated you."  The reviewer was also kind, and compared my voice to "an idling motor boat engine".  (Funny that I still remember that.)

Why was the part perfect for me?  Well, by then, I was already drinking heavily.  I had started drinking in my freshman year in high school.  That year, my sister left for college, and my brother was off in Germany as an exchange student.  It was the first time I had been alone with my parents, who were no picnic.

My parents' habit was to start drinking after "the sun was over the yardarm", meaning at dusk.  And they would drink until they felt groggy enough to stumble upstairs and pass out.  Leaving me alone downstairs, knocking around the dark-stained panelled formal area of the house, where the stereo was located.  And the liquor cabinet.  A long dark mahogany masterpiece, with three deep cubbyholes, filled with glasses, and with assorted bottles of hard liquor and vermouths.

After it quieted down upstairs, I would sneak over and open the cabinet.  I would pull out a mint julep glass, and throw a few cubes in.  Then I would take a silver jigger cup, and measure out a full jigger each of assorted liquors, depositing each portion into the blue glass, until it was full.  Some nights it would be scotch/gin/vodka/rum.  Other nights it might be tequila/rum/cointreau.  The kind of liquor didn't matter.  What mattered was that I only took enough from each bottle to contribute to the glass without alerting my parents.  I called that drink a "Soberkiller".  And that's what it did.  When I was finished, I would wash and dry the glass, and put it back in precisely the same spot.  I would also make sure the bottles were placed with the labels facing as they had before.  And I would go upstairs to bed, with the voices which usually were screaming in my head blessedly silent.

I won't bore you, now, with further details of my drinking.  Suffice it to say that playing Simon Stimson was easy.  Not even acting really.  It took me many years to reach the point where I understood in my soul what my friend had said to me.  Kim, whose father was an alcoholic. 

I don't drink alcohol any more.  But I still understand Simon, and do whatever I can to reach out to alcoholics in despair.  Simon, in the play, ends up in the graveyard after having hanged himself.  My friend Jeff came to the same conclusion about life that Simon had, and acted as Simon had on that conclusion.  Everyone can't be reached.  But, in addition to me being sober, so are my parents.  And my brother and sister.  A family ravaged by alcoholism has been restored to an ideal which it never knew to aspire to before.  And at least, now, Simon and Jeff are at peace.

Andy and Doug picked me up in Doug's car at around ten in the morning.  Andy was a surfer dude from New Jersey, tall, tawny and sophomoric.  His idea of a good time was to go to the diner, and tell crude jokes in front of waitresses who had heard it all before.  Doug was the product of an abusive family, covering up his pain with humor, and afraid to look inside.  They had been sober for only a few months, and I was worried about them.

"Where are we going?", Doug asked.  "No questions.  Turn right here, go over to Lombard, and drive over the South Street bridge.  I'll let you know what to do then."  Andy and Doug glanced over at each other, nervous, but didn't say anything else.

As the blocks flowed by, I thought about Katie.  She had been a teenager when she first came to work for me.  But even then, she was stunningly beautiful.  As is always the case in a work setting, I ignored her beauty, and set about teaching her how to get the work done.  It wasn't hard; she picked things up quickly.  Over time, as appropriate, I came to learn a little more about her.

Katie was Canadian, but her mother had been born in Philadelphia, and her father was from Brazil.  She had moved to Philadelphia to help her elderly grandfather, with whom she lived.  She was such a nice person, I doubt it ever occured to her that she had picked up a burden many teenagers would never consider shouldering.

Katie spoke five languages, and clearly could do whatever she desired, if she put her mind to it.  At some point, in context, I complimented her beauty.  Katie demurred.  She told me that she had worked as a "face model" but didn't think she had what it took to make it on the runway.  She talked of having been in Paris, and of meeting the supermodel Laetitia Casta, who was so nice, and loved her young sister so much.

Over time, Katie started missing work.  When she was there, her work was exemplary.  But she took long lunches, sometimes only coming back after a couple of hours.  Some of the other guys she worked with started complaining.

I called Katie into the office one day, and asked her to sit down.  "Katie", I said, "have you thought about going to college?"  She looked down at her shoes, and didn't say anything.  "You're wasting your time here, Katie", I continued.  "You are a brilliant young woman, and could do anything you wanted.  Please consider going to college."  Katie was, as ever, unfailingly courteous, and thanked me for taking the time to speak with her.  Not long after, she announced her resignation, and enrolled in a local university.

"OK, go over to Springfield, and follow it until we get outside the city.  I'll tell you what to do then,"  Doug glanced in the mirror at me, and Andy squirmed a little in his seat.

After she left, more of the brokers started gossipping about Katie.  Apparently her "recreational" activities had been more extensive that I had known.  Lots of pot and cocaine during working hours.  Drinking after work.  I was just a little surprised, but figured she had been bored, and didn't think much of it.

It was a little over a year laater when I heard about Katie next.  She had stayed in school, and had a 4.0 GPA in a pre-law major.  She still had an adventurous side, and had gotten engaged to a heavily tattooed guy from South Philly, who ran DJ parties around town.  Knowing Katie, she must have glimpsed the light inside of him that truly kind and loving people see.  Katie was head over heels in love, and her parents were coming to town to meet their future son-in-law.  When I met her parents, they were touched that someone from her former job had taken the time.

"Turn right at the entrance, and go to the bottom of the hill."  It was a cloudy day, with a little breeze in the air.  We parked on the dirt, near a tired and grimy willow.

I walked over to the grave with them, and turned around.  "This is the grave of my secretary Katie.  She was murdered by two colleagues of her fiance, who was an ecstasy dealer, after an argument involving money.  She was twenty-two years old.  It was two years ago today.  This is not a game.  You guys need to start taking sobriety seriously."  I kneeled down, and cleaned the stone.  Then I closed my eyes, and told Katie that I was sorry I had not seen the signs.  I would have reached out to help her if I had.

Doug and Andy are still sober today.  I think Katie would be happy to know that she had helped them.  She was that kind of girl.

Twenty years ago today, I had my last drink of alcohol.  It was a Friday night, and I was due to go to rehab in six days.

It is impossible to describe the difference in my life from then to now.  Suffice it to say that I can look in the mirror now, and love the man who looks back at me.

There are literally hundreds of people who have helped me get to this day.  I hope that I can be as useful to others as they have been to me.

Peace.