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.