The Last Bottle of Bourbon
September is Suicide Prevention Month, and the IndyWeb Carnival theme is "Power Underneath Despair." We are asked to share stories about times in our lives when we managed to come back from low points. This is my contribution.
As someone who has dealt with chronic depression since the 1980s, I could share about that. But the more powerful story is how I felt almost 16 years ago during the last few weeks of active alcoholism, before I had the moment of clarity that led to my recovery.
Active alcoholism was a series of contradictions for me. I would start almost every day determined not to drink, even though it had been literally years since I'd been alcohol-free for an entire 24 hours. I was never the kind of person to keep beer in the fridge for later or to maintain a bar so that I could make the mixed drink of my choice whenever I wanted. No, when I bought anything to drink, I consumed all of it unless I happened to pass out first. Like any long-term drinker, my tolerance was quite high, and finishing a 12-pack of 16-ounce beers or most of a fifth of 80-proof whiskey was an evening's work for me.
I would manage to stay sober until 5 pm most of the days I worked, although I occasionally wouldn't make it that far. As soon as I got off work, I'd head for the state-owned package store or a Kwik Mart so that I could drink for the duration of my 30-mile commute home.
By the time I'd get home, my eyes would already be glassy, and my voice starting to slur. I'd stop drinking long enough to cook dinner for my family and talk to my then-wife if she had the patience for it. After that, I'd start to get antsy, eager to drink again. I'd retire to the room where my computer was, with beer or a bottle, and stay there for the rest of the night, entertaining myself by listening to music and browsing the Internet. When I reached the end of my supply, I'd stumble to bed where my wife had long been asleep alone.
During December of 2008, I was growing increasingly desperate to stop this behavior. I'd been hospitalized at the beginning of the month for mixing booze and the prescription drugs I took for depression in an unsafe way. I was at work when I suddenly lost my vision and the ability to walk. My boss had to call an ambulance to get me to the emergency room, where I received multiple bags of saline for being dehydrated. Despite weighing nearly 300 lbs, I was also malnourished, as the majority of my calories came from alcohol. The doctors and nurses didn't even try to refer me to rehab. I'd already been twice. They didn't even tell me not to drink. They just told me how to take my medication more safely.
When I got home, I was determined not to drink. I thought this had to be a bottom. I managed to go a few days without drinking for the first time in ages, but within a week or two, I was allowing myself a few drinks a day. Sometimes, I would buy a bottle of whiskey and then drive to an AA meeting and give the bottle to one of the old-timers because I really didn't want it. I'd sit through a meeting and then drive back to the liquor store, buy another bottle, and finish it off. My wife knew about this and didn't even seem mad or concerned. She was like, "This is my life now." That's kind of what broke me. It was a Sunday morning, three days after Christmas, and she was out working in the yard. I went out to apologize for having gotten blackout drunk the night before, and she just blew me off. She couldn't even work up the emotions to get angry.
I drove to the AA building where I knew people would be gathering in preparation for a meeting. Being Sunday in my Southern city, there was no alcohol for sale before noon. I went in and found a couple of guys I knew and liked and told them how hopeless I felt. Instead of feeling sorry for me, they were pretty matter-of-fact. They told me that I had all the information I needed to get sober. I wasn't an alcoholic out of ignorance about the disease. They told me no one could save me from being a drunk but me, with a willingness to follow directions—but all that I had ever demonstrated was an arrogance against doing that. Instead of feeling offended, something just clicked. These were men I knew and respected. They weren't trying to play a tough-love head game on me. Knowing me to be an atheist, they chose not to use a bunch of supernatural spiritual language. I certainly didn't have the power within me to resist demon rum, but they did, and they were willing to help me. One was a retired Army medic who worked at the county jail. The other guy was an ex-con who worked as a carpenter. They made it clear that for me, getting sober and staying sober wasn't going to be a dramatic event, but a slow process where I'd need to rely on and trust them. I was ready to do that. I didn't want to keep living a life where I was unable to stay out of the liquor store, and where the people who knew me best didn't think I could anyway.
That was 16 years ago, and I haven't had a drink since that day. Recovery was not dramatic. I went to AA meetings and worked the 12 Steps of the program the way I was instructed to. I started taking care of my physical health. I kept the same job, but my relationships there improved dramatically up until the day I retired. Life has not been perfect. I've gotten divorced and remarried in sobriety. I seldom think about drinking anymore, and when I do, it's with revulsion, not longing. I'm alive because I got sober, and I'm grateful for that.
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