I had it good. I always had a roof over my head, I always had a new toy, and I was always told how much I was loved. Regardless, I always felt alone. I remember being six years old and the trip to my great aunt’s house on whatever occasion it was. I was full of anxiety. What was I going to say? To who? When? I’d mull over the deep thesaurus of my six year old brain and try to map out the deep terrain of conversation before one even began. The talking would start and I’d be lost in my head. An hour later I’d remember the great joke, but the moment had passed. I’d be kicking myself until the next conversation. I was so focused on the past and future that I consistently missed the present.
We sought dozens of therapists and dozens of different medications but the result was always the same. At 15, I found myself immersed in a new group of friends. They invited me to my first party. I could see the fire dancing from in between the trees as we rounded the culdesac. I was back in my head, rehearsing, planning, and panicking.
Before I could get words out I’m handed a bottle of Jack Daniels. It was magic. Suddenly I can see color. I feel ease and comfort that I had never known before. This is what I had been searching for in all the medications, all the music, all the women, and everything else I tried to fill myself with. This was it. I had found God.
The delusion: That night I felt like I suddenly could say and do no wrong. I was in conversations as they were happening, I felt like the women were in love, and the guys were my friends. I had arrived.
The reality: I had fallen over so much that the next morning I could barely stand. My back felt broken. Bruises covered my body. My clothes were torn. The night before was a blur and the “friends” were gone.
I chased the freedom I thought alcohol gave me. I thought I was free from worry and I thought I felt no pain, and this carried on and off like this for 34 years.
Everything I thought alcohol gave me, it always took it away. I felt alienated, I drank. I drank, so I was alienated. I became increasingly angry, resentful and sometimes violent. Any part of my body I could put through the wall, I did. The body count was rising. Loved ones, strangers, anyone I could terrorize - I did.
After about a decade of pretending I was partying, pretending I was something I’m not, the music began to stop. I was drinking by myself just to keep from shaking. Any moment of clarity was dedicated to careful consideration regarding how I might end things. I thought about a car crash, a quick slip of the knife, a deep plunge, or a cocktail of over-the-counters or just plain drinking myself to death. Ironically, the only thing saving me at this point was alcohol. If it weren’t for alcohol at this point in my life, I almost positively would have put a stop to the noise.
On one night I set out to find oblivion. I said I was going to buy a pack of cigarettes, but I drove to the liquor store. I pulled up to the lake and proceeded to plan how to utilize my 45 to end it. I was so tired. I just wanted to rest, wanted the pain to go away. Ultimately, I ended up back at home, terrorizing the house. My wife was angry and in despair, stared in bewilderment at how much of an animal I had become.
I woke up to the stale air after a hurricane. The furniture was shattered spread like mulch, family portraits were smashed, and I sank into my bed. I looked up at the ceiling and said, “Help me, please!”
My wife decided she had enough.
I was now excommunicated from our marriage and exiled to my mothers home.
That first night it all came out in a tidal wave of emotions.
I let out a most primal scream as years of pain started to spill out.
I felt more fear that day than I can ever remember having, but I was so scared to die that I took a leap of faith.
A guy asked me my name, told me he’d like to stay sober, and that meant sponsoring me. So he did and he took me through the steps. I started to feel less anxious as the weeks went on. I started to approach uncomfortable situations and walk through them. I began to feel fear dissipate.
My life took on new meaning. I began to see my part in the world and it’s players. Quickly, I felt the obsession to drink remove. I began to feel comfortable in my own skin, a comfort that I had never known my entire life.
A year ago today I lost everything, including my life. Today I’m a responsible adult that comes home, does dishes, says I love you, pays the bills a could be an equal partner. I’m a friend who is present and my word is bond. I’m a son who doesn’t keep my mom up all night wondering when she’ll get the call. I’m a son who can create joy.
A year ago there was no hope for me. There were no pats on the back or “you got this ”. Everyone was resigned to the fact that I was destined to die an alcoholic death. A year ago I stopped saying no and started taking direction. A year ago I agreed to turn my life over to God and the gifts have continued to be given.
