The Lowest Point of My Life...

By the time summer was over, three months later, I was drinking again. Harder than ever.

My wife's grandfather passed away in October, 2003; by now my drinking was way out of control, again. I attended his funeral with my mother and father. My wife was not about to allow me to be with her and the boys. Can you imagine how insignificant that made me feel? We’d been married over ten years at this point. Her grandfather had been a part of my life - and I know he loved me. Yet there I was, ten rows back in the church, wondering what people were saying about me and wishing I was there for my wife in her time of need. In reality, I was fortunate I was there at all. At least I was sober (although I'm sure I was still in a bit of a fog; at this point, I was waking up every night around 2 am and having a stiff drink to get back to sleep).

She filed for divorce shortly after her grandfather passed. The whole process was quick- six months later and our marriage had been dissolved. Neither of us had a penny to our name - we couldn't afford to be married and we sure as hell couldn't afford to be divorced. But, even more important, she could no longer live with me - nor could she allow her children to do so. Our children. My children.

At the time, I didn't grasp the courage it took for her to divorce me. When we first met, she was a single mother, raising her four-year-old while working and attending school full-time, living paycheck to paycheck with minimal sleep. Fortunately, she had roommates who assisted with parenting. Our situation had improved slightly, but she was still balancing full-time work and nursing school. Life was challenging. The divorce meant reverting to single parenthood, this time with three children of varying ages. Her resilience was astounding, managing it all gracefully.

She divorced me as much for my benefit as hers, as she understood that I would never quit drinking if we remained together.

My situation worsened before improving. I moved in with my parents, drank from morning to night, and lost my job, depleting my 401k on child support, rent, credit card payments, and alcohol. In my final drinking days, I'd awaken hungover, dry heave in the shower, and swear off alcohol, only to resume drinking by afternoon. My ex-wife ceased contact, and I was unfit to see anyone, especially my children. I had reached rock bottom, unable to climb out of the abyss I'd fallen into. My survival, given my excessive drinking, is nothing short of miraculous.

My parents, God bless them, did what they could for me. Navigating their golden years, they offered unwavering support and love, even as they grappled with how best to help. Though they didn't have the answers, their faith in my eventual recovery never wavered. They were, in every sense, the best of parents, providing a foundation of hope and stability during my time of turmoil.

Drinking, once an enjoyable pastime, had taken a sinister turn. I resented the injustice of my friends being able to drink without consequences while I self-destructed. Angry and bewildered, I couldn't comprehend the disparity in our fates.

Over the years, I had attempted various methods to curb or quit drinking:

Made smaller drinks
Gave it up for weekends
Gave it up for a week or even a month at a time
Switched to beer and when that didn't work, switched to Lite beer
Went to an addiction counselor; the first one didn't work out so I tried another one. And, then another one
Tried several different AA groups
Tried talking to my primary care physician about ways to reduce my drinking (what a disaster that was)
Admitted myself to a well-respected in-patient addiction clinic (for me, an equally bad disaster)

As much as I despised alcohol, I could not live without it. I hated the smell of it - taking the top off of a bottle of bourbon would make me throw up (empty or full stomach). Even knowing that, I couldn't wait to pour a really stiff drink and slug it.

Alcohol had destroyed my life.

At 44, I found myself living like a recluse in my parents' basement, divorced, penniless, jobless, and suffering from clinical depression. I saw little hope for reclaiming my life.

During moments of clarity, I'd reflect on my past and wonder how my life had spiraled out of control. I was once a well-liked, carefree kid who never faced trouble. I earned good grades, owned a successful business in my twenties, married my dream partner at thirty, and advanced through a prestigious consulting firm in my thirties. And...now this.

...I hated everything about my life. So much so, that I no longer cared if I lived or died.

Fortunately, I found the strength to contact my older sister, who compassionately guided me back to reason. Remarkably, as she had assured me, my circumstances started to improve within days.