The Early Years...
One evening many years ago, our best friends came over for dinner. By the time they arrived, I was so drunk I could barely talk. I hadn't planned on it being this way (at this point in my life, I had a couple of drinks almost every night, but it rarely went beyond that). But, one drink while I was tending to my barbecue early in the afternoon led to another, and another, and another. I lost track, so what the hell...I had another. Our friends hung around for 15 minutes and then left - revolted by my condition. They were so embarrassed and full of sadness for me…and especially for my wife. I was so embarrassed, too. But, not until the next day - because that night I was on a roll. All I wanted was another one. And, another one. Until I passed out.
A couple of days later, I called my friend to apologize - he immediately drove over to take me out for a cup of coffee. He is not a drinker. Oh, he drinks, but he doesn’t have a problem with it. This is huge difference that a problem drinker simply must come to terms with. Some people can drink whenever and wherever they want to - because they can (and do) stop before it becomes an issue. We. Can’t. Do. That.
However, little did I know that our friends were fighting their own battle. He had been finding wine bottles hidden in their closet, in the trunk of her car, in the basement, even under the trash bag in the kitchen trash can (she thought nobody would ever find it there since nobody but her ever emptied the trash). Over coffee, he pleaded with me to get help. He had known my wife longer that I had, and knew her almost as well as I did - and he cried as he reaffirmed how much, despite my drinking, she still loved me. And, he cried while sharing his fear that his wife would drink herself to death. He loved her more than anything in the world, but he detested what she was like when she drank. And, she drank a lot.
They eventually divorced and, sadly, she is no longer with us. She passed away due to complications from alcohol abuse in early 2020. She had been one of my wife's very closest friends growing up, and remained so until the very end.
And, no- this letter was not written to her. Regrettably, the two of us never talked about our issues with alcohol. It was not something she was willing to discuss.
I Promised I Would Get Help...
I promised him I would get help.
I gave it everything I had.
I really, really wanted to quit. As much as I needed to drink - I despised it even more.
My wife and I found a marriage counselor who specialized in addiction. I HATED him. I drank more because of him
I tried AA. I hated AA the first time I tried it. At least I didn’t drink more because of them
I tried several different AA groups. Same results. Most people were mad. Really mad. Mad at their spouse, mad at their kids, mad at their God. Why would God do this to him/her? And, they replaced their drinking with smoking. Oh man do they smoke! One after another after another (I've never smoked). And, if you don’t “give it up to a higher power,” there’s no hope for you. While I believe in God, I also found it impossible to believe that if I just prayed a little harder, God would solve my problems. This was no way to go through life, so I quit going
We went to the pastor of our church, who told my wife that she should leave me. Divorce in the Catholic Church is acceptable if a spouse has an addiction issue
Looking back now- he was right, but I was mad as hell at him and the Catholic Church back then. I thought we had married for better or for worse. A "little" drinking shouldn't be reason enough for the Catholic Church to allow my wife to divorce me. Problem was, "little" was in the eye of the beholder- in reality, I had long ago passed that threshold.
I tried two more addiction counselors - no luck. Neither had been alcoholics, or addicted to anything else, yet they spoke as if they had all the answers"
"Just say no"
"Use some willpower, for God’s sake!"
"Only the weak drink"
"You are making bad choices"
"You’re escaping something through drinking." That something was anything they could come up with, and every one of them was wrong: bad childhood, boring job, failing marriage, I hated my parents, my parents hated me, middle child syndrome, I wanted a better lifestyle. You name it, they threw it at me… and none of them were true
"Addiction is not a disease - it’s a choice"
"Surrender to a higher power"
And, my all-time favorite: "You'll never amount to anything"
Oh, the bullshit. What kept running through my mind was the following...
"You have no f***ing idea what I’m going through"
"Don’t f***ing tell me I can stop if I really want to"
"It’s not like turning a f***ing faucet off, or flipping a goddamn light switch"
I knew deep down that I really wanted to stop - but something just wasn’t letting me
I scheduled an appointment with my primary care doctor, confiding in him about my drinking while in his office. I expected empathy, but instead, he abruptly left the room after I finished speaking. When he returned minutes later, he chastised me loudly enough for others to hear. Handing me the card of an addiction specialist, he directed me to take my "business" elsewhere. This was a doctor I had liked and visited for years. Exiting his office, I sat in my car, shaking and weeping, feeling frightened and bewildered, questioning my very existence. If my own doctor wouldn't help me, could anyone?
I finally checked myself into a well-known treatment center with a solid reputation. I really, really wanted to get well. Truly. So, I gathered my wife in my arms one evening and told her I’d made the decision to enter an in-patient treatment center the following morning, and then I went and had my “last drink.” The next morning, she cried as she kissed me on the cheek, told me to be strong, and then walked out of the clinic on her own.
I despised it, mainly because I doubted their genuine concern for our long-term sobriety. The experience felt akin to incarceration (no, I've never spent a moment in jail): constant surveillance (even in the restroom), ill-fitting clothes without belts (due to suicide concerns), three dismal meals, and minimal contact with the outside world. "Treatment" mostly involved group sessions where we shared underlying reasons for drinking, followed by crappy PowerPoint presentations. Although the center was run by a nonprofit, the whole experience reeked of venture capital money to me; the staff seemed more intent on ensuring that all of the right 'boxes' were checked than to providing each of us the personalized help we so desperately needed.
While this was my sole rehab stint, many of my peers were returnees, viewing the experience as a temporary escape from home life and nagging loved ones. Many were court-ordered attendees, humorously anticipating respite from their family's complaints upon release. A couple of guys who'd been down this road before joked that their wife would have a cooler of beer on ice in the trunk of her car; he wouldn't even have to search out the nearest gas station to be right back in business. Only they weren't joking; they were reciting what the staff wanted to hear, while counting the hours down until their next beer.
My disdain for the experience wasn't due to abstinence (nerve-calming medication was helpful), but rather the overall ordeal. To maintain appearances, I departed sober, vowing to remain so for my loved ones. I upheld my sobriety for several months.
The Lowest Point in My Life