I Was Dead... But Didn't Die...

When I started to write this book I told my wife that there was no experience in my past that I wouldn't write about. If I truly wanted to help people trapped in the merry-go-round of addiction I would have to bare my soul. Leaving names and places out is my way of protecting people who I do not wish to hurt any more than I have. Only a handful of family know this story - up until now.

I have intimated the fact that I switched from drug to drug to prove I wasn't addicted, like any seasoned addict would. I stopped drinking on March 21, 1999. I went into Hinsdale Hospital for 5 days to detox and then admitted myself to their psych ward. I had 11 days left of inpatient coverage on my insurance and was fired from my job while detoxing. I was free to come and go from the ward and walk the hospital grounds but was on lock down at night. I was so afraid of drinking that I was willing to make a stop in the nutty bin to help assure my continued sobriety. After my 11 day stay as McMurphy hanging with the Chief, Billy and Martini, I spent 28 days at a recovery house in Poplar Creek.

After 6 months of honest sobriety, I started smoking pot again. It kept me relaxed so I didn't need to continue with my alcohol recovery, or so my addiction convinced me. My new girl Kris, Squeaky as I call her, was okay with the pot as long as I didn't do it in the house in front of the kids. Her previous husband had alcohol issues and she was happy I wasn't drinking. She had no idea how addiction works the addict from every angle until it has its grip firmly on the soul of the user and starts the insanity again. I figured God created it and the Native Americans smoked it so I saw no harm in my occasional high.

I would smoke and go to work. I was a gainfully employed professional, suit and tie intact and was wasted all the time. As the months went by my use got heavier. The level of drug needed to get me to where I wanted to be - outside of being me, was increasing. I was a good worker or good enough to keep the gig. I always had a back-up job in my pocket in case the one I had fell through.

After 5 years of freedom from alcohol we bought our dream house. Nestled on a cul de sac in Plainfield, we began our new life in suburbia. It was a lovely 4 bedroom, quad level with the prerequisite large fenced in yard for my dogs. I had the "American Dream." It was 2003 and Squeaky and I had gotten married the year before. I proposed to her from a phone booth on the coast of Ireland. I had everything a man could want or need, and more.

My weed habit was costing me about $160-$200 dollars a week. I planted grass to fill our dirt plot, and landscaped with bushes and trees to match our dream homes' exterior and smoked grass in all my waking hours. Seeing that I had achieved my goals of happy home and ideal wife, the notion came to me that I could have a few beers. After all, I had not taken a drink in 5 years. It was obvious to me that I wasn't an alcoholic from the control I had displayed during that time.

It started as a couple, then a few, then too much, to where I couldn't get enough. I was now drinking again and smoking dope. But then I was getting tired from the combination so I started taking speed to keep me going. I made it through work doing just enough to keep the boss off my back and when I got home I would tie one on, and two, or three or more. The mind numbing trifecta was now costing me more money than I made and my wife was losing faith.

After a particularly loud and expletive laced argument about the money I was spending and how pathetic I was becoming, she told me she was leaving me. She had packed a small bag and was heading home to her parents. I was furious, high, drunk, afraid and terrified of abandonment. She drove away and I drove to the supermarket. I formulated my plan on the way. I purchased a bottle of 100 proof rum, a bottle of Robitussin and some sleeping pills. I returned home, my resolve forged. I would show her...I would kill myself! The pain of living was suffocating me. I loathed me. I lost my best friend. I had been drunk and homeless and drunk in my dream home. The common factor was I was drunk. My disease didn't care where I was, how much money I had or what I did for a living. Addiction wanted me dead and settled for me high! High was no longer working for me so dead was the only option left.

Addicts crave chaos and drama. I had told my wife I was going to end it before in a carefully crafted Shakespearean-like soliloquy. She never bought into the game and would reply to my performance with a quick reply like, "go ahead, just don't make a mess." This time I was not acting. I was afraid I would go to hell for taking my own life but I figured it couldn't be much worse than the hell I was living day after day here. I called my wife at her parents and announced my intentions of self extermination. She replied with her usual remarks. I called several more times and she wouldn't take the bait. She was done with me. I was done with me.

I drank about half of the rum and sipped on the Robitussin. Why Robitussin, I'm not sure. I think I had read about it in a Jack Kevorkian book. I took the sleeping pills and prepared to move to our attached garage. Being the conscientious suicidal person I was, I opened all the windows in the house and put food in the bowl for my Lab Fabian, then straightened up before I closed the door behind me.  As each moment passed and more of the chemicals spilled into my bloodstream I began to make peace with myself and my final decision.

I took the hose from my shop vac and placed one end into the exhaust pipe and the other through the vent window of my tiny Dodge. I stuffed the window with newspaper and taped the openings closed. I gloated in a macabre satisfaction at what a good job I had done in my preparations. I returned to the house and grabbed  the items I would take into eternity...hopefully! I placed a rosary around my neck and a picture of my wife and the Holy Bible in the passenger seat. I slid in behind the wheel and turned on the motor. It choked and spit for a few minutes while it got used to the foreign object obstructing its breathing. I said I was sorry to God and cried. I sobbed for forgiveness. I thought the rosary and the Bible might enable me to con my way past Gabriel. I was getting sleepier as the fumes filled up the tiny sedan. It struck me that it didn't smell so bad.
The lids of my eyes felt like they weighed a pound each as I struggled to stay awake. The fear returned but I was too tired to reconsider now. My lungs burned as I passed out cold. It was April 30, 2004.

I came to several hours later and wasn't sure if I was dead or alive. My head pounded and I threw up all over my rosary and steering wheel. The car was off and the battery was dead. The engine had stalled, no doubt from the choking pipe restricting the exhaust. I was elated and sullen at the same time. This was no cry for help. I tried to off myself but God had other plans for me. He wanted me to live. It was May Day 2004. I slept a few more hours in the house before calling my wife and rehashing the nights events. I realized it was May Day. May Day, May Day Tom it's not your time. I was grateful to be alive and thankful the car had malfunctioned at the perfect moment.

My wife did not return home right away. I returned to recovery support and began a new relationship with God. I wish I could say that I never used again but that would be a lie. I can say that I have never had the thought of trying my luck again at a kamikaze mission. Addiction will kill you if you let it. You can't do it alone. I know I wasn't alone that May Day when my tiny car stalled in my lovely house in the suburbs. I know now that I am never alone!