On that Christmas in 1998 I was 3 months from entering rehab at Hinsdale Hospital, a guest appearance in the "Nutty Bin." I started drinking by about 7am that morning. I had stocked up on Christmas Eve because I knew the stores would be closed on the holiday. My Christmas meal consisted of Jim Beam, cheap beer and cheaper vodka. That was accompanied by some chips and lunch meat to keep the booze down. A seasoned drunk learns the right combination of booze to keep the drunk going and just enough food not to kill it.
I hadn't talked to my family in months and I imagined what they were doing while I sat alone in the dark. My mom was probably scurrying around the kitchen making a shrimp platter or some kinda cheese ball with nuts. My sister and brother-in-law were knee high in shredded wrapping paper, the torn up remains from the wonderful gifts my niece and nephew were giggling about and dancing between. My dad and my second family were just rising and preparing for a feast later in the day. They were only a few miles away in La Grange but they were done with me.
I hated them for not calling me. It didn't dawn on me that they had done all they could to get me sober. Ultimately I knew I would either stop by some miracle or die. I was nearly dead already. My body was beat, my emotions were spent and my soul was dead. When I did see them it was to borrow money or ask for help out of my latest jam. When I was invited to join the kin I got drunk and funny, then wasted and wicked. I had no consideration for other peoples' lives or what problems they faced. My addiction only had room for thoughts of me and my next high.
I drank more and ate less and began to feel my mind slowing down. The rage was subsiding and the sadness and self-pity were stirring. Why did life always deal me the bad hand? Gulp! Why did everyone hate me so much? Slurp! Where did all my dreams go? Swig! I wasn't afraid of dying at that point in my life. I already was. The machine that contained my agony and called my body was just going through the motions. I knew I was an alcoholic and was okay with that. The fact that I knew I was going insane, literally, was where the panic came from. A couple more beers and I would pass out soon. A couple more hours and my family would be sitting down to a delicious feast.
I woke up with my head pounding and my stomach rumbling. I squinted through the slits of my eyes and saw it was 5:00. The thing was that I didn't know whether it was p.m. or a.m.! I jumped out of bed and saw that it was dark outside. Being December the darkness gave no clue as to whether it was night or morning. My fears were realized when I turned on the TV and a Christmas show danced on the screen. I had not slept Christmas away.
By then my family had finished up the food and treats and were enjoying a belly-stuffed nap or heading back home with boxes and bags of Christmas cheer. I rang the front desk to see if anyone had left a message for me. But how could they? Nobody knew where I was. I still had seven hours until the blessed holiday would finally be over for another year.
That morning I reflected on the horror and despair I was stuck in. Then and there I decided that I had enough. I took the slug out of the freshly cracked bottle of vodka and promptly dropped a cigarette into the top to pollute its contents. I tossed it in the tiny plastic trash can and swore off the drink forever.
Seven hours to go until midnight. My stash was gone. My snacks were eaten and my nerves were shot. I compare it to that cartoon where the mouse nails the furniture to the ceiling and the cat wakes up thinking he's sleeping on the ceiling. Frantically he jumps up and down to reach the floor. He runs to the medicine and promptly downs a bottle of nerve tonic. He jumps to the "floor" holding on with his nails and every bit of his strength only to fall again.
I made my way to the dresser that held my socks. I removed a white sock and rinsed the empty bottle of Jim Beam. Placing the sock over the lip of the empty bottle I slowly poured the tainted vodka over the sock into the fresh bottle. It caught the ash and butt from the cigarette but the tar and toxins from the smoked butt turned the once clear liquid a vile shade of brown. Marlboro vodka was my brand for that night.
I was at a new low at the bottom. I knocked back the ashtray cocktail and chased it with a soda. I got drunk enough to sleep and numb enough to dismiss the depths I had fallen to in order to keep the buzz going. I wept as I collapsed into the filthy bed. Taking the corner of the sheet I wrapped myself up to ward off the roach parade that would be marching over me when the lights went out. Then I prayed. It was a real prayer, a prayer of desperation. It was a prayer I felt to my empty soul. Between the tears I mumbled to the heavens...Lord! Please don't let me wake up tomorrow...
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