Day 3.

I passed the forty-eight hour mark without incident, and I felt pretty good about myself.  It gets easier now, I thought.  At least physically.  The sweating and shaking start to go away, the energy level builds.  I probably would be able to eat some real food.  I knew that if I made it through the third day, 90% of the physical pain would be gone.  However, without the physical pain taking up all of your waking thoughts, the mind kicks into a different gear. The lower dose of Librium doesn't provide a noticeable feeling of relief anymore. There is no 'high'.  Thoughts of drinking return.  You enter the danger zone, a place where many people give back in to the bottle.  It's peculiar like that.  You make it through all of the pain of acute withdrawal, then pick up a drink.  I had done it countless times.  Why, I could not tell you.  But it happens.  A lot.

This time, I was determined to consciously attack this process.  I found a piece of paper and decided to write down everything that went through my mind that gave me permission to drink again. When it's there in front of you, out in the open, it's not as dangerous.  It is exposed.  So that is what I did, all of Saturday and into Sunday.  And let me tell you, I needed a couple of more pieces of paper.  I even surprised myself with some of the schemes that I came up with.  The seventy-two hour mark came and went and I continued to add to my list.  I thought about my children.  My girlfriend.  My family.  Even things like self-esteem and health.  Holy crap, I thought,  I am serious here about not wanting to drink.  I went into day four fully engaged in battle with myself.  But, for the first time I could remember, I didn't want to give up.

a revelation or two.

On Monday morning, I awoke at six.  I was fortunate to have been able to sleep for a few hours.  I have been drinking for so long, I can't remember if I had ever had a normal sleep cycle.  I envy those people who can lay their head down and be asleep in minutes, waking up cheerful and refreshed seven hours later.  How is that possible?  I took a quick shower and actually shaved for the first time in a week.  This was no mean feat, as the razors supplied by the VA are those yellow plastic, single-edged contraptions.  It took me a full fifteen minutes to finish the job.  I switched out my pajamas for a fresh pair, and grabbed new socks from the nurses station.  Breakfast had arrived, so I grabbed my tray from the warmer and found an open seat across from my old friend Don.  'He's alive,' Don said as I slid into my chair.  'Hey buddy.  I'm alive, but barely.  How are you making out?'  'Leaving this afternoon, heading to a transitional place down by the cape.  It's supposed to be decent, I don't know,' he said.  He was finished with his breakfast.  'Well, if I don't see you, good luck,' I said.  'You too, man,' he said, and stood up and left.  And I thought to myself, that's about the closest friend I have right now.

I was sitting in front of the treatment team.  'You look like you made it through the weekend pretty well,' said the doctor.  'You look much better.'  'Thanks,' I said.  'I feel better.'  And I meant it.  'Our plan is to discharge you on Wednesday.  Do you have a place to go?' the social worker asked.  I thought about that for a second.  And, for the first time in my life, I couldn't say that I did.   

On with life.

Wednesday morning, I was the first patient to see the treatment team.  That's how it goes:  the ones that are on their way out get processed early.   Some sort of closure takes place here.  A show of support.  Documents to sign, medications to go over.  I was a little nervous, because historically the next twelve hours were a coin flip.  I always left with good intentions, clear on where to go and what to do for the best chance to stay sober.  About half of the time, I was drunk before sunset.  Now, the other half, I had made some kind of effort.  Called someone; went to a meeting.  Got phone numbers.  And you know, this kind of stuff really works, if you want to stay off the bottle.  But then, there's the rub.  Even though the walls are closing in and your life is falling apart, the drink still calls.  It is maddening.  I guess that if there is any chance at all to stay sober, you have to fight for years.  Forever.  With everything you have.  Maybe you get a few lucky punches in on the way.  Good things happen.  When you take a shot, you are not down for the count. Hopefully, when the bell rings at the end of the fifteenth round, you are still standing.  And just maybe, if you listen closely enough, you can hear the cheers of the crowd, that is if anyone sticks around until the end.

I laced up my gloves and walked out of there.

First day out.

It's a strange experience walking out of a detox.  You're still a tad groggy and confused from the medication.  You experience a weird sense of tunnel vision, in the literal sense.  It seems that your peripheral vision has been reduced significantly.  This probably can also be attributed to the lingering effects of the meds.  I stared straight ahead and banged through a couple of fire doors and made my way out into the sunshine.  Looking around , it seemed as if I was in a different country.  The landmarks were the same, but something just wasn't right.  The subtle changes to the foliage and temperature made everything a bit surreal.  While nature kept plodding along indifferently towards winter, I had stopped time with my drinking and subsequent hospital stay.  It takes a while to readjust; to get back in line with reality.  That is why it is said that alcoholics who start drinking at a young age, say fifteen, never mature past that age.  Intellectual growth is put on hold.  If they finally do stop at forty-five, they find themselves as a child inserted into a world of (mostly) capable adults.  This is a very uncomfortable situation to be in, and the normal coping response is to start drinking again. The deck is stacked against you.

Now, most people do not understand the seriousness of the situation I have just described. They expect that the person returning from treatment should be firing on all eight cylinders.  Tireless, efficient and clear-headed.  'Russ, great to have you back, we've got a lot of catching up to do around here.'  After all, the problem has been removed, right?   However, this is not the case at all.  The problem has actually been revealed, and it is extensive.  This when the real work must begin.  This was weighing on me pretty heavily, especially since I had decided that going forward, the bottle was not going to be an option.  Fortunately, there were some medications waiting for me in the pharmacy that would help me get through this adjustment period.  All of a sudden, the gravity of the situation I was in hit me.  I was filled with abject dread and horror.  My heart rate doubled and I started to hyperventilate.  I became diaphoretic.  I had to stop walking for a minute, put my hands on my knees, and bend over.  All you have to do is not drink, I said to myself.  Everything else will work out.  Just don't drink.  After a moment my breathing slowed; I opened my eyes and squinted.  Holy shit, I thought.  This is going to be brutal.  I made my way to the pharmacy, picked up my medicine, and carted my terror into the waiting room.

I am a patient boy. I wait I wait I wait I wait.

I sat down, took my phone from my pocket, and turned it on.  Just as I suspected, there was no charge.  You are not allowed to keep your phone on your person in detox; the temptation to call someone to bail you out is too great.  It is also not a desirable time to try to repair recently damaged relationships, tender apologies or make promises.  Things are too fresh; there needs to be a period of slack time. So, the phone gets locked up for the duration and inevitably is returned with a dead battery, unless you were smart enough to fully charge it and power it off before you turn it in.  Of course, this sequence always escapes me.  However, somehow I had managed to pack a charger.  At times I amaze myself with certain things I remember to do, especially with a full load on.  I found a wall plug and attached the phone, sat back, and waited.

I thought about the first time I could remember drinking.  I must have been about fourteen years old and my older brother brought home a six-pack of ale.  Our father was out of town.  I drank it down, paying no attention to the fact that he was abstaining. Then result was predictable. I vomited and passed out, and my brother blackmailed me for months with fabricated stories of my drunken escapades. The switch had been flipped, though.  For the next thirty-five years, alcohol became a constant companion.  I thought about this.  Did I experience a fundamental, organic change as a result of that night?  Does it even matter?  Is it important to pin down the sequence of events that lead to an alcoholic life?  I decided that it didn't matter.  I looked around the waiting room and saw an old man sitting quietly, patiently staring into the distance, perhaps reminiscing about his time in the service.  People tend to do that when they come to the VA.  It is place where fraternity brothers can gather and talk about the old times.  For me, it is a depressing place.  I glanced at my phone and noticed that it was holding a small charge, and that snapped me back into the present.  I couldn't stay here much longer.  I had to make a call.  Instantly, the anxiety and fear returned.  As much as the place depressed me, I felt a modicum of safety here.  I had to make a move, though, and I had no idea what was out there.

time to roll

So, the treatment team had diligently researched and recommended a sure-fire solution to my problem.  'You need long term care,' they had told me. 'You have been drinking for many years and it will take you some time to fix your chemical imbalance as well as your thought patterns. Your best chance of success centers around your commitment to in-patient rehabilitation.  There is a six week dual diagnosis program at another veteran's hospital that we feel you would benefit from.  Would you be willing to consider this as your next step?'  The social worker looked at me.  'It takes a long time to walk into the forest, realize that it will take a long time to walk out,' she said brightly.  I stared at her until she cleared her throat and resumed writing on her notes.  'Let me think for a minute,' I replied. 

Six weeks.  Probably seven hours of individual and group therapy a day, maybe a little less on the weekends.  Clive Cussler paperbacks.  Bingo, compliments of the Daughters of the American Revolution.   Three hots and a cot.  I knew I needed another barrier, something to physically stand in the way of my next drink.  This seemed to fit the bill as well as anything I could think of, and besides, I had no place else to go.  I would do it.  'Sure,' I had said.  'Excellent.  We have already called the facility and they will have a bed ready for you on the tenth.  Where will you be staying in the meantime?'   I looked at my watch.  It was the twenty-fourth.  My bed was seventeen days away.  I began to panic.  'I have no place to go,'  I said.  'Can I stay here?  If I leave, I don't think I can stay sober for seventeen days and I'm afraid that if I drink, I'm gonna die.  Please.'  'I'm sorry, but you won't be able to stay here,' I was told.  'Medically, there is no reason for us to keep you.  How about the veteran's homeless shelter for a couple of weeks.  Have you considered that as an option?'  I hadn't.  I mean, I knew about the place, but I hadn't considered it.  Barracks-style sleeping with old metal bunk beds, awful smells, loud snoring. Crummy food, mental illness, fighting, substance abuse.  All your shit gets crammed into a stand-up locker.  I put my head into my hands, defeated.  It's a good thing I don't have a lot of shit, I thought.

I picked up my phone for the tenth time.  The battery icon was half full.  I had to get a ride to the shelter, and the only person I could think to call was my girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend.  I didn't know. I punched in the number and she answered.  'Hello, Russ,' she said.  'What is it now?'

 

I am loved.

Three hours later, I was waiting outside, dwelling on my  misfortune.  I was not a bad person, I had been told, trying to get good.  I was a sick person trying to get well.  For some reason, this didn't resonate with me.  I couldn't make the break from a position of self-loathing.  This was typical for me upon release from a detox.  I was dangerously vulnerable and, predictably, my gaze drifted from my shoes to a point in the distance down the road.  Could I get away with a pint?  I shuddered and shook my head hard.  I couldn't believe I was caving already.  What the hell was the matter with me?  I pressed my fingers to my temples and rubbed hard, squeezing my eyes shut.  I had no idea how much time had passed when I heard 'Russ?  Are you OK?'  I hadn't even heard her pull up.  I took a deep breath, grabbed my bag, and hopped in.

It took about ten seconds for me to gather the strength to say something.   'Hi,' I said, unable to make eye contact.  Suddenly, I felt utterly exhausted.  I turned toward her with the thought of an apology, but before I got another word out, I fell to pieces.  I began sobbing uncontrollably,  completely emasculated and broken.  In an instant, her arms were around me, and she pulled me close, rocking me to her breast.  'Shhh, it's OK.  It's OK, Russ.  I love you so much.  I'm so sorry.  I'm here.' Her tears mingled with mine, and we sat there in her car, holding onto each other as if nothing else would ever matter.  And, for the first time in years, I felt safe.

reflections

We remained silent as she turned the key and drove out of there.  It would take about an hour to get to the shelter, so I closed my eyes and made myself comfortable.  I was enveloped in a warm glow, and for a moment I forgot about what was in store for me. You have to take these brief respites from the crushing blows of life when you can, to recharge and prepare for the next fixture.  Something I read a long time ago came back to me.  When Bob Stinson's (of the Replacements) life was imploding, he had gone to see his ex-wife Carleen for solace.  'You have to start with what's inside you and take it from there,' she told him.  'If you don't like what you see when you look inside, find someone to help you fix that and get over it and move on.'  Bob was already too far gone and perished alone and broken.  He was in the grip, beyond the point where it is possible to fix anything.  Ask for help?  Forget it.  This flies in the face of alcoholic logic, once you start down that dark road.  Intellectually, you know you NEED help, but you simply don't want it.  In hindsight, it is horrible.

Now, it is said that you cannot intellectualize your recovery.  You have to dumb it down; keep it simple.  I am not sure about this.  When alcohol hijacks all of of your self-preservation instincts, it takes some serious intellect to recognize the danger.  'Just don't drink' becomes a hollow mantra. And yes, by the way, I CAN see what this is doing to my life.  Your point?  All logic is removed once the bottle is opened.  I am supine on a luge, feet first and out of control.  And then it hit me.  I can ask for help BEFORE I take a drink. Before intellect is tossed out the window.  And it has to be this way, otherwise I shall crash and burn.  And, when sober, that doesn't sound very appealing.

I opened my eyes just in time to see a blue Walmart sign flash by.  'Can you get off here?' I asked.  'I am going to need some shower shoes.' She braked and pointed the car toward the exit, and immediately that familiar gnawing nervousness in the pit of my stomach returned.

slowing it down...

I walked around Walmart in a daze, trying to think of the few critical items I would be needing.  Shower shoes were an absolute necessity.  Mersa thrives in environments like the one I was headed to. I had managed to keep the booze from killing me for thirty five years; damned if I would get cut down by the creeping crud.  Unfortunately, it was October, and the shoe section was dominated by cheap boots and warm fuzzy slippers.  I had almost given up when, on my third pass, I spied a few dusty pairs of Jersey Shore slaps decked out in pink hyacinth blossoms on an end cap, size twelve, reduced to two dollars.  I tossed a pair in the cart, grabbed a few toiletries as well as a pair of grey sweatpants.  As I stood there pondering my next move, my girl came up behind me and put her arms around my waist.  'You lost a little weight', she said.  Immediately, I became aroused, and once again, the wheels began to turn.

There's a funny thing that happens during detox, as any addict or alcoholic can relate to.  When drinking, you introduce certain chemicals into your body that make you feel good.  Really good.  These endorphins, oxytocin, dopamine, or seratonin, or whatever, flood your system to the point where your brain cannot absorb them all.  So, as not to waste these delicious compounds, the brain brilliantly creates new receptor sites, and all is well.  Until demon sobriety sets in.  Then, the empty receptors sit there screaming helplessly for satisfaction, but alas, there is no relief in sight.  And that's where masturbation fills the void.  Constant, frantic unrelenting masturbation.  I'm telling you, it is downright disturbing.  This can last for a week or two and believe me, it is a huge relief when the urge finally subsides, when some kind of chemical balance returns.  However, at this moment, I was about a week and a half sober, and those receptors would not shut up. The solution became apparent.  'Honey, before we go to the shelter, I'm going to need your help with something', I said as I turned around.  I guess the look on my face made it easy for her to figure out what I was alluding to.  'Russ, but...'. 'Shh,'  I said.  'Let's get out of here.'  I steered both her and the cart toward the check out line, and those empty receptors kicked it up a notch.

The Homeless Shelter

Well, my girl and I were a bit later than planned getting to the shelter.  You know, I don't want to go - she doesn't want me to go, we rethink it all a few dozen times, cry, yell, then realize that I am, in fact, doing the right thing.  The previous three weeks or so has led me to this point; I have to see it to fruition.  That does not mean that it doesn't suck.

Now, I have been in shelters before.  Wet shelters, where everyone was drinking, including me, if you count ingesting about 10 mg of Ativan (thank you, USPS, from Pakistan) a day as drinking.  Because, if they smell booze on you, they kick you out.  So I did the smart thing.  Sort of.

This place was different. Run by veterans, breath tests, urines, the works. There was even a computer room with about 12 desktops.  (The first couple dozen posts to this blog were written there.)  I received a few harsh looks as I checked in (the new guy), but fortunately, I keep myself in solid shape at the gym, so I stared back harder.  I wasn't worried; just tired and still a bit depressed.

After they processed me in, I was taken to my bunk - upper, of course, in a room of 30.  There was a weight bench right outside, so that was a relief.  I began to realize that this would be my home for a few weeks, and convinced myself that I was better equipped than the other 150 guys there to make due.  After scouring the mattress for bedbugs, I went down to the cafeteria to see what was going on.  Of course, there was someone there I knew.

Morality vs. Charity

This is a good time to make a distinction between moral responsibility and charity.  Moral responsibility is what one does because "it is the right thing to do"; the deed itself possesses value that benefits primarily the person is the recipient of the act.  Moral agents have the ability to form ideas about what they will do, figure out why and who or what the action benefits, carry out that action simply because it is the right thing to do.   Significantly, even if the act is done, if the proper intent isn't there, the deed has no moral value.  It is done for the wrong reasons.  Some liken this to a form of altruism, but done with a deeper desire to specifically give as much as they can, especially, in some cases until it hurts.  Some argue that moral agents are a newer evolutionary process of the species, a kind of special person that didn't exist centuries ago, especially if, and when, there was the existence of what Hobbes' referred to as the State of Nature.

Now, lets look at charity. Most definitions of charity center around giving donations, actions, work, etc., primarily to help those in need, usually more than us.  OK, that's great.  But if I give $25 to the Red Cross, that doesn't mean that you will, or anyone else we know will for that matter.  Also, just because I give $25, that also doesn't mean that someone is obligated to give the same, or less, because $25 is already in the kitty.  Charity is not done out a sense of moral responsibility.  It is done as a 'feel good' act, to correct a deficiency in the way we feel, usually guilt.  It gives us a benevolent feeling. We feel awesome when we donate to some charity and tell our friends. And, in many cases, it's done for the wrong reasons.

So, there's a ton of food at the shelter I went to.  Old food from a wedding that took place on a hot day, pizza from some office party (complete with a few half-eaten crusts), and fruit and vegetables that are no longer salable at the local grocery store.  All the bread is outdated and stale.  The bananas were black.  The ice cream was half melted; the lettuce was wilted.  But, as someone said, there sure is a lot of food here.  We sure eat good!

Next time you donate food to a shelter, please do it out of a moral responsibility, not charity.  We don't need your leftovers that were probably going to get tossed into the dumpster.  It is demoralizing, as well as unhealthy.  Even the homeless have dignity.  Thanks for listening.

Laundry Day

OK, right outside the barracks room I was in, and next to the weight bench, there were three sets of washers and dryers.  Now, I had arrived with mostly clean clothes, but in a shelter of this size with such a few number of washers, sometimes it pays to wash even a pair of socks, when and if you can. You never know when you will find an open machine.   So, I grabbed the few dirty items I had and perused the line of washers, noticing one was empty.  There was no one around, a large jug of laundry powder was sitting there with the top off, so I got busy.  I added (what I assumed) was the right amount of this clumpy blue powder to the machine, set the load on small, and started the water in order to get the powder to dissolve.  Doing everything right so far, or so I thought.  I relaxed for a moment and stared out the window, wondering what the hell my life had become.

"Hey, what the fuck are you doin?  That's my washer, asshole."  I paused for a second, then turned around slowly to see a short, stocky dude with a snarl on his face, clearly on the edge, holding a net bag of a few items of clothing.  It was kind of surreal.  I thought about what to say for a moment, but before I could get a word out, he said, "get your shit out of there now.  I was gonna use that one."  He punctuated this statement by pointing into the open washer - the only one not in use. OK, well, I have been in situations similar to this, but usually one of us had a lethal weapon pointed at the other, not a net laundry bag.

I stared at him.  "Really?" I said." Well, no one was around, the machine was empty, and the way I see it, first come, first serve."  I was shaking a bit.  "I checked the machines and went back to get my clothes", the other dude said.  "That's the way it goes around here."  "Yeah?  Well, that makes no sense at all."  I was eyeing a ten pound dumbbell about 10 feet away.  "My advice to you is to take your stupid little bag of clothes back to your bed and come back in about half an hour, then my stuff will be done.  In the meantime, shut your mouth and get the fuck out of my face."   I took a step toward him for emphasis, then stopped.  I knew violence could get me booted, and I certainly had no place to go, so it wasn't worth it.  But I WAS going to wash my socks.  "You're an asshole", he said.  "This isn't over."  But I could tell by the look on his face and the way he skulked away, it certainly was over.

This place might pose a few more problems than I anticipated.

Laundry is Over

Well, laundry is over, found a computer, sitting here listening to the Brian Jonestown Massacre.  It could be worse, I could look like Anton.  What a train wreck.  Not much to say today, no motivation.  Looking for a long term place to get into, probably somewhere in central NH.  I am so tired; things have got to turn around for me.  

I have decided to give some social recovery group a shot when I get out of here. Kind of hard to believe, but I need to add something to the mix. This is going to be a super short post today, the keyboard sucks and I am beat.  Somehow, throughout all of this, I managed to pull off an 'A' on the online course I was taking.  Will wonders never cease! Happy Mother's Day to all!  Including the mother of my kids - a day late, but oh well.  Next year I'll hit her up a day early.  Speaking of my ex and our old house, a memory came flooding back.

I was just remembering the struggle I used to have with recycling back in the day, when I actually owned a house.  I would let the empties pile up everywhere in the house, garage, etc., then skip at least one or two recycling days. Finally, the deed had to be done.  I would double, triple bag with leaf bags and take the stuff out at 6 in the morning, sure that everyone knew what was happening and what a reprobate I was (am).   I am sure they did, but not because of all the empties. The garbage guys probably didn't even care.  Nevertheless, what a stressful experience.  Had to carry the bags softly so they wouldn't rattle.  What a mess that was. Hundreds of empties.Wow. Doesn't take long to pile that shit up.

Random Thoughts

Back in Brockton,  Not sure why, blew a 0.0 when I got there and then the same an hour later.  Came in on a Thursday am, it's now Saturday, and they refuse to let me leave.  I am fuming, primarily for allowing myself to be brought to this place. It's a lock down ward, so otherwise I would simply walk out.  Hopefully I can make my escape tomorrow.  Surprising enough, there is no one here I know.  They are all 60-somethings, and sadly, I see my face in theirs. That's depressing indeed.  I am not even sure of the circumstances that got me here, can't wait to see what bridges I burned this time.  I know the girlfriend is gone, and I don't even care at this point.  Jesus.

So I am a vegetarian, and they have fucked up my food since the get go.  Here and everywhere.  "Can't you just pick around the beef in the stew'" they ask.  Fuck them all.  They just don't get it and I am tired of trying to explain my habits.  The four sublime states of Buddism are love, compassion' sympathetic joy, and equanimity.  No where is murder discussed.  I must be a bad Buddhist.  Forgive me, Buddha.  Awaken me to the truth.

I have been losing a ton of weight.  Down to 163 and can't figure it out.  Simply not hungry, especially here.  Time for a half gallon of skim milk.  Hey, if you have been hanging in this blog, please share and give me feedback.  I am trying to work with a guy in NSW to consolidate some of this stuff.  It would be a lot of work, but it is time for me to write.  The great American novel  is underway.  -TRJ

where am I going to live?

"I don't know where I'm gonna live?  I don't know if I'll find a place.
I have to think about it some.  That I do not wish to face.
I guess I'm counting on His
    divine intervention"

-Matthew Sweet, from 'Girlfriend', on of the best albums of all time, in my opinion.

Alcoholics like to make lists, so that's the chore for the day.  No arguments or debates, please.  I just need to type today and kill some time.  Stay busy.

In no particular order, ten of my top albums.

1.  the aforementioned
2. Eels - Electroshock Blues
3. Secret Machines - Now Here is Nowhere (Miss you Ben Curtis)
4. The Hold Steady - Almost Killed Me
5.The Church - The Blurred Crusade
6. Swervedriver - I Wasn't Born to Lose You
7. Sugar - Copper Blue
8. The Smiths - The Queen is Dead
9. Luna - Penthouse
10. Manic Street Preachers - Everything Must Go.

If you don't want to throw in a couple, go sot off.

Trying to Leave

So, when I arrived here on Thursday, I blew a BAC of 0.0. I was calm, peaceful, and agreeable. (How I got coerced into coming, I have no idea.)  I was sure that they would be inclined to let me leave.  Well, here I am, 4 days later, pumped full of Librium.  Yesterday, I asked to speak to the attending physician about his right to keep me here, and he truly mumbled and stumbled over words like 'policy' and 'safety.'  I said, "Dude, I am sober, the BAC proves it."

  He said nothing. Well, of value anyway.

I said, "look, break free from this dinosaur and let me out of here.  At least get a colleague in here to give a second opinion.  This is complete VA bullshit."

"You were brought here for a reason," he responded. "What reason?  I can't see how you can legally keep me."  He tugged on his ear and said, "I'll consult with another doctor and come back in a bit."

 I stared at him and said nothing.

An hour later, the same doc came back with his 'superior.'  Same questions, same response. I told them they both fucking sucked and sat back, staring at them.  They squirmed a bit, spewing forth some bullshit about responsibility to me and the VA.  They said they would check up on me tomorrow, and if there had been any significant improvement, they would reconsider.  I asked, "Have you ever let someone out for the same reasons?"  One looked at the other and shrugged.  "It's a case by case basis."

 I said nothing.

Today is a new day.  I wonder they will be serving for dinner.   Needless to say, there is no alcohol in my future, at least for the next twenty-four hours.  Maybe those idiots know better than me after all.
Next stop, out of New England, maybe a low-rent place like who knows fuck-all.  As long as there is a VA nearby.

A Lyric?

Giving a Crack at Lyrics...first blush

Your energy saps my strength,

your toes trace a line in the sand; you look at me then the waves wash it away;

the self you make me see is the one I glimpse but never grasp

the days pass in retrospectful contemplation but are soon forgotten

where has it all gone?

where has it all gone?

teach me to fall

the side of me that leaves is the one that must depart

without you my energy returns

the sand repairs itself when we try to make it our own

look away so I can see myself the way I am

let me enjoy my days as they are

where has it all gone?

where has all of it gone?

teach me again to fall

and I will rise and search for you

once again

Perhaps Out of Here Tomorrow?

So, it's a bittersweet night for me.  It appears that tomorrow I will be moving on.  Frankly, my desire to stay sober just isn't there - YET.  It usually appears sometime between when I sign my discharge papers and head across campus to put in for my travel pay.  My big concern is whether or not I will have a home to go to; which, in fact, is also up in the air.

Funny, I have felt less stress with more impending problems than I do right now.  I just have a feeling that things will work themselves out.  Maybe a thirty day stay would be in order, but that option has not presented itself yet.  It sure would be nice to ingest a pint of whiskey, but that would negate all chances that may, or may not, be available to me.  Like I said before, it's a fifty/fifty chance as to what will happen tomorrow.  I am trying not to give it too much thought.

They have pumped me so full of Librium in the last four days, and the place is empty, so they may decide to keep me one more day for observation.  I am not totally opposed to that, although I gotta lay off the oatmeal cookies and ice cream.

I wonder what my (girl friend) is doing right now?  God, I miss her; I wonder if she looks back fondly or with pity.  We have some major events lined up for the summer - an MLB game in NY, a concert in the city, and a cruise in November.  Probably all shot to hell, but in the long run, it doesn't matter.  I want to live, I just don't know how to make that happen.  It is both stupefying and horribly terrifying.  Am I one of, as the recovery book says, there are those who can't get sober because they are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves?  What a bunch of bullshit.  I have yet to meet someone who is constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves, and I mean that honestly and sincerely.  But the fact is, people like me die everyday.  Shudder to think.

A Revelation

Did you ever get to a point where you feel like you just can't make it?  I mean, on your own?  If you haven't, I suppose you are either not human or a sociopath.  It hit me like a ton of bricks this morning.  First of all, let me digress a bit.  I am not fond of people.  But I am fond of life.  The last two times I left rehab I went into what is known as an SRO (single room occupancy) unit.  Just me, the four walls, and my thoughts.  Not a good place to be, and the results were predictable. Oh, I was able to hold out for a couple of weeks, but soon there suddenly appeared a bottle of whiskey and a handful of benzos.  Potentially lethal.

So, today, if I have the opportunity, I am going to ask to be placed in a house where I would have a roommate or two.  I need accountability and, finally, I am not ashamed to admit it.  It is cathartic, really.  I'm not going to say that it won't suck, but in order to preserve this life, it is the best option.

So I'll have to make my bed every day.  Big deal.  Maybe have to clean the kitchen, go to recovery as a group, walk every-fucking-where.  Clean up cigarette butts that aren't mine, soggy ones, stick them in a rusted Maxwell House coffee can.  Have my food stolen from the community fridge. (Fortunately, I'm a vegetarian, so usually the Boca burgers are safe).

If anyone steals my laundry, though, game on.

The Dash

There is a time when I look around at the faces here in this rehabilitation center and realize that I am perhaps the youngest one.  For a split-second, that gives me a sense of satisfaction, until I remember that they, too, were once here when they were my age.  Then I begin to panic, wondering if I am also caught in the undertow, too fagged out to reach the shore, destined to return again and again until I can simply never leave.  I feel too strong, though, too smart.  How could I let my life slip away into the horrible death that is alcoholism.  That is a problem.

A while back, I read a book called The Dash.  It was basically the musings of the author in a graveyard, looking at the birth and death dates on those old tombstones, and realizing that the dates meant nothing - it was the dash between the dates that told the story.  It reminded me of an old Smiths song, with Morrissey musing about the dead poets - Keats, Yeats; and trying to imagine them living with "loves, and hates, and passions just like mine.  They were born and then they lived and then they died."  Pretty profound.  I hope my dash tells more than the story of a man broken by alcoholism, with the musings of what could have been, a wasted life.

That scares me more than anything - the regret of a life lost, potential unfulfilled.  I am running out of time; the whispering has already started.

New Day

Five in the morning, alone in the community room. I have the earbuds in, listening to the brilliant new Swervedriver album.  Music...my saving grace.  Also my nemesis at times.  It's like reading Fante, Bukowski, Burroughs, etc.  It is so easy to get caught up in the story and emotion; imagining that I am living vicariously through the romantic antics of these poor, broken individuals.  But they had a story to tell, and it was real and in your face.  They are gone, but they really lived.  I think the part that is always glossed over is the real pain, which, unfortunately, takes up most of the dash, although the authors may not want, or be able to, talk about it.  I can.

For every hour of joy, there are countless hours of hopelessness, pain, and despair.  Every once in a while you get an hour or two of relative peace, but the life of an alcoholic is a constant struggle; a scramble to keep afloat.  Once I was at a rehab and they brought family members in for a session one night.  The question was posed to both groups (family and alcoholics):  describe in a word or two how you perceive the life of the alcoholic to be.

Family responses included:  selfishness, easy, shiftless, happy, uncaring, partying, to mention a few.

Alcoholics:  pain, agony, loneliness, hopeless, unloved, desperate.

That, in itself, tells a lot.  There is a new book out there called Chasing the Scream, by Johann Hari..  It presents a pretty convincing case for the legalization of all drugs.  Sounds like too much?  Read the book.  It could change your view on a lot of things, the least of which could be your view toward the addict or alcoholic.  It is a horrible life, and compassion, not punitive measures, is the only way to stop what has made the US the laughing stock of the world when it comes to the way we deal with drug and alcohol offenders.

Holiday Weekend Looming

The tension is building around here as we head into the Fourth of July weekend.  The ranks have thinned, and I doubt we will see too many more admissions until after the weekend.  One last big blowout.  I kind of wish I was out there, sitting on my deck, sipping a cold beer, master of all I survey, content and in control.  Watching the kids splash around in the Mr. Turtle pool.  Then I realize that that would not, and never has, happened.  I was the one sneaking into the garage, taking long pulls from a hidden bottle of whiskey, then trying to appear that I was drinking at the same pace as everyone at the party, sweating profusely, red-faced, talking too loud.  My ex-wife would always be confused.  "How is it that you are perfectly sober until you hit three beers, then you have to be scraped off the floor?" "No clue, hon, I'm just kind of a light weight, I guess.  But you make a good point.  I better make a trip to the liquor store before it hits me."  And off I went, two in the afternoon, probably already about a point three.  Usually with one of the kids. Christ, euphemistically my head is buried in my hands right now.  It never has to happen again.

There is a realization that one can't hope for a better past, but can plan for a better future.  I cling to that mantra.  If I didn't, if I dwelled on the past, I swear to god, I would put a bullet behind my ear. But no way, because among all of my flaws, cowardice rises to the top of the heap.  Cowardice and fear - the two emotions that drive most alcoholics to the brink.

So, here in the states, it's a big holiday weekend.  I suppose I will be safe from myself, secure in another treatment facility or a sober house.  I know for a fact that someone I know - yet to be determined - will find their way into trouble.  I just hope it doesn't end as the end.  Alright, enough of this maudlin crap.  Time for a few half-pints of ice cream and a few chapters of the latest Lee Child book.  Hey, what can I tell you?   Guilty pleasures.  Better than a handful of midazolam and a pint of Jack.

Secure Your Mask

Sometimes it is difficult for me to remember that this disease is absolutely lethal.  Interestingly enough, it is rare that I see someone someone take it to the end, dying in a hospice, liver shot to hell, with emphysema or COPD topping it all off.  No, usually it is a quick heart attack, car accident, overdose, suicide, or perhaps a violent end from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  The point is that alcoholism WILL kill you, if you don't stop drinking.  And even then, down the road, liver or pancreatic cancer, kidney failure, or any other number of ugly chronic conditions can put you down.  These are the things I need to remember.  I may make it to tomorrow, but maybe not.  And if I do, what am I lopping off the back end?  Thanks for the memories.

A while back, I abandoned Christianity and began studying Buddhism.  The basic tenet of Buddhism can be summed up as 'do no harm.'  That, I must always keep in the forefront, includes harm to myself.  That is the less obvious part, but the most important.  If I am taking care of me, I am likely taking care of you, or at least doing you no harm.  I remember contemplating an instructional placard near the automatic oxygen while sitting in an airplane.  "Place the mask securely over yourself, then assist the other person you are traveling with."  Counter-intuitive at first, until you realize that this simple act of self-hygiene is the only way that I can be able to assist others.  A great metaphor for life.  Take care of yourself, sweep your own side of the street, then you can help others.  If you don't, you can't.  Period.

As alcoholics, we turn this upside down.  It is the nature of the disease, and hard to comprehend.  But, in recovery, we can learn that the only way we can truly be of service is to 'secure our mask first.'

Back to the Story...Not Much to See Here

Well, it's time to get back to the story.  As I suspected, here, a few days before the Fourth of July weekend, the place has emptied out.  A few have left AMA (against medical advice), and a few simply talked their way into an early release.  One last blast out there with a jammed cooler, under a night sky aglow with fireworks.  I, on the other hand, am sitting tight, hoping that I get word that I will be headed to my next stop - the VA Hospital in White River Junction, Vermont.  It better happen soon, because I have been told that I will be discharged Monday one way or another.  If I behave, I might be able to squeeze couple of more days here.  Not sure why I would want that, but truthfully, if I left now, I would be drunk in an hour.

I also suspect that there will be an major influx of patients arriving at the beginning of the week, all banged up,  I may have to leave simply for administrative reasons - no space.  I am officially a placeholder now; no detox is going on.  I, for now, am cured.

I believe that if I do get to Vermont, I am going to be there for about a month.  Then, if the stars line up, I plan to finally get that total knee replacement that I have needed for a few years.  The ortho staff up there is superb - might as well get it all done at once.  I am a little fearful about the process, but it has to be done sooner or later.  I'm kind of a pussy like that.

Anyway, today could be a pivotal day.  With the long weekend ahead, business will slow, and I might slip through the cracks.  All I can do is ask the universe to see the value in my concept.  The problem is, it hasn't listened to me much.  Or maybe I haven't asked enough.

Things I Don't Miss

1. Being broke, or worse, under water.  Losing cash, writing unintelligible checks.  Forgetting my PIN. Overdraft charges.

2. Damage to my car.  Finding it sitting in the driveway with bent rims and flat tires.  Realizing that it is suddenly out of alignment; not remembering hitting anything.  Spills and burns on the upholstery. Too many empties under the seats to clean out in one trip.

3. Vaguely remembering arguments; then being confronted the next day regarding the seriousness of my behavior.  Not being able to remember or understand.  Lying.

4.  High blood pressure.  Racing heart.  Sweating.  Feeling bloated.  Going days without eating.  Mystery bruises, blood on the pillow.  Going days without shaving, always needing a haircut.  Wearing the same underwear three or four days in a row.

5.  Wanting to be alone.  Always.  Hating the social scene.  Avoiding family.

6.  Waiting for the liquor store to open at 9 am.  Arriving at 8:30, having been awake since 4.  Shaking like a goddamn leaf.  Stealing, if need be.

7.  Waking in the middle of the night, knowing that I was dying.  Horrified, filled will terror, knowing that I was doomed to die an alcoholic death.

8.  And most of all, hearing the plaintive voices of my parents, telling me how much they worried that I would be dead soon.

Uproar!

Uproar here.  The rules have changed.  It used to be that if you were a patient for 72 hours, and you were detoxed and wanted to leave, you were free to go.  Well, not so much anymore.

Now, regardless of how long you have been here, once you voice your intent to leave, you can still be held an ADDITIONAL 72 hours.  So, here we go.  A few of the guys who have been here all week want to go home for the holiday, and figured no problem.  They called their families, made plans, arranged rides.  Only to find out that they have to stick around another three days after all.  But here's the rub.  This particular facility does not discharge patients on the weekends.  To make a long story short, no one is getting home for the holiday.  As a matter of fact, they will all be here until Monday. Anger abounds.  It's actually kind of funny, only because I plan to be here anyway.  I just asked the duty nurse to try to find us some unopened puzzles.  No kittens, though.

So, after about 3 PM today, the long wait begins.  Tomorrow will be the acting holiday for the federal employees, so essentially the place will shut down for three days. Another holiday weekend of my life, stolen from me by alcohol.  Or perhaps I should rephrase that.  Another holiday weekend of my life, given over to alcohol.  And I can't stop thinking about my girlfriend.  It is going to be a long 96 hours.  Lots of writing, hopefully some of it will be entertaining.

the message

This morning I woke up, turned on the computer, and checked my messages.  Right there, staring me in the face, was a statement from the woman I love, "I am so sad, I hate you for what you have done to us." That's it.  Nothing else, sent around 10 PM last night.  My heart leapt into my throat.

I wish I could tell her how much I love her, and how hard I am trying to get this addiction behind me. I want her to be able to see into my heart:  to see the hope and optimism I have, the efforts I am putting into to try to get to the root problem.  I want her to know that I hate this life as it is, the past few years of the constant struggle to stay sober, sometimes just to stay alive.  I think that sometimes the alcohol saved my life, because without it, I may have been so full of pain I might have ended it all. But recovery is additive, and I feel myself getting stronger.  It takes knowledge and practice, and, unfortunately, painful lessons.  And I have had my share.  I want her to know how sorry I am for upending her life.  But the word 'hate' kills me.

I thought about not responding, because what do you say?  I have put her through hell over the last six months.  Words are meaningless at this point; there is no convincing her that everything will be OK.  She's not hearing it.  And that's hard to swallow, but I know it's an absolute.  But I love her, and still see my future with her.  Can't imagine it without her.  Don't want anyone else, never did, never will.  So, with that being said, I will continue along my path, because there is nothing more in this world that I want than to be sober.  Nothing.

So I replied, "No matter how you feel about me, I love you."

And I am still heartbroken.

I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got

Why is it that as alcoholics, we are so full of anxiety?  It's kind of like the age-old question - what came first, the chicken or the egg.  Are we anxious as a product of years of drinking, or did we start to drink because we suffered from generalized anxiety?  There is no doubt that when we STOP drinking, a period of intense anxiety sets in.  Crazy fear, unrealistic projections, inaccurate assessment of our situation.  Now, when I say inaccurate, I mean that we focus on every other solution except the most obvious one - that is, to stay stopped.  Then there is the time issue.  We truly believe that we are on the the right path, therefore, everything should be put back in place right away. It is stunning to think that it might take years to fix some things, and some of the the things we want the most may never be fixed.  And that is downright terrifying.

I was just sitting here thinking about what a mess my life has become (this is, in fact, an accurate assessment - it is a mess), then a man sat down next to me and told me what was happening in his life.  And it was worse than mine. A strange thing happened.  Immediately, I felt empathy and a human connection.  Also, my own burden lightened a little bit, just for a moment.  So there it is in a nutshell - the importance of sober social contact, such as recovery groups. Nothing physically has changed, but my perception of my own situation changed. And that is therapeutic.  And may help me stay away from that drink just a little longer, which is why I am on this journey and writing this blog.  There was an old Sinead O'Connor song entitled I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got..  Someday, I would like to be able to say that and mean it.  It will never happen if I don't stay sober.

What a long, strange trip it's been...

So, today is the Fourth of July, 2015.  Pay no attention to the time stamp.  The Grateful Dead - sans Mr. Garcia, of course - are playing their final concerts in Chicago.  My brother is there tonight; tomorrow will be the last show.  Fifty years together.  They started as the Warlocks back in late '64-'65, then changed their name shortly thereafter.  Now, I have never been a huge fan, but what a legacy!  A more devoted fan base you will never find.  Cheers, guys, and Fare Thee Well.

I was born in 1964.  Rolling around in my crib when Weir, Lesh, Garcia, and the rest were getting their act together in the Haight.  This causes me to pause and reflect.  Compare, not identify.  Look what those guys did in fifty years; look at me.  Quite a difference.  But I also am grateful.

Grateful to be alive.  To have two wonderful children and an ex-wife who is raising them well. Grateful for another chance at sobriety.  For having a wonderful woman in my life over the last year or so, and perhaps an opportunity to repair the relationship.  Grateful for good health, having had a decent education, a good credit score.  A few friends with the desire to gain more.

Grateful for good coffee.  The ocean.  Warm summer nights.  Cats and dogs.  Music, good books, the internet.  The Pittsburgh Pirates, having a good year.  Both my parents - still alive and well.  I got a good night's sleep last night.  General contentment.

So, gratitude is rearing its pretty head today.  And for that, I am grateful.  Fare Me Well.

crutch fight

Well, so much for the theory that this facility will remain basically empty until the Fourth weekend is over.  We are full.  Over the last 48 hours, about 10 guys came in, giving us a population of about 18, which, I believe, is maxed out.  It sure feels that way.  The dynamics have gone from mellow to tense.

The VA police brought in a guy last night who was clearly trouble.  His BAC was probably through the roof, and he was combative.  Now, the best thing to hope for is that he will calm down, sleep it off.  Not this guy.  He was hollering all night, even from his bed, demanding that the duty nurse bring him ice cream - bedside.  "Get off your lazy ass and get it yourself," I heard from the nurse.  This guy is a real piece of work.

This morning, apparently he decided to limp into the bathroom on his crutches to take a shower.  One of the other patients was in there, a solid dude who has been here a week.  (Someone else I have known from years gone by).  The new guy started spitting on the floor, the other guy told him to cut it out.  An argument ensued, whereupon my friend grabbed one of the guys crutches and walloped him across his head.  My friend immediately then went to the nurse's station, told the nurse that he had been attacked by the drunk, who had subsequently slipped and hit his head.  Moments later, the drunk came roaring out, yelling that he had been attacked.  The duty nurse told him to shut the hell up and go back to his room.  After a confused moment, the drunk did just that.

Awesome.  My buddy told me the story, furtively watching the scene behind him, asking me if he thought he was going to get in trouble.  "No worries," I told him.  "I was there, saw the whole thing. It went down exactly as you said."  My friend smiled.  "Want an ice cream?"

Vermont

So, I have made  full circle and am back in Vermont.  The place I had to wait seventeen days to get into after my stay at the Brockton VA last year.  Kind of hard to believe that those seventeen days that preceded the last stay weren't more of an incentive to keep it together.

I am looking out the window at the same view I had seven months ago, the one I left behind when I exited exuding confidence.  That day seems like yesterday, since time flies when you are not having fun. And I didn't.  But..during those seven months, I stayed sober about for about five.  Of course, I hop-scotched the last three or so, but sober time is sober time.  I also returned to school and began masters' degree work, got one course finished.  Had a job for three months; promoted three times. Lots of good times, more bad ones.  But I have another chance.  And, as the good book says, it is better to be a live dog than a dead lion.  Woof.

I guess I will be here about a month, give or take, probably give.  Have to find a place to land and I'm not sure what that looks like yet.  Maybe I can go back to the place I just left, not sure if they'll let me, not sure if I want to.  I've made a couple of friends in that town, so it would be nice to get back for that reason.  The space between my children and me is weighing on me, though.  If I stay in New England, I have to hatch a plan to see them regularly.   Fifteen and eight, and they miss me.  And I miss them.  But I've been here two days.  It will all come to me.