Lord! Please Don't Let Me Wake Up Tomorrow....Ghosts of XMAS PAST!

On that Christmas in 1998, I was three months from entering rehab at Hinsdale Hospital, with a guest appearance in the "Nutty Bin." I started drinking by about seven that morning. I had stocked up on Christmas Eve because the stores would be closed for the holiday. My Christmas meal consisted of Jim Beam, cheap beer, cheaper vodka, some chips and a pack of lunchmeat to keep all the medicine down. As a seasoned drunk I knew the right combination of booze and food to keep the numb going. It was enough not to kill the buzz and just enough to keep me on my feet.

I hadn't talked to my family in months. I imagined what they were doing as I sat alone in the darkness with curtains drawn. My mom was probably scurrying around the kitchen making a shrimp platter or some kind of 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 amongst and dancing between. My dad and second family were just rising 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. They had tried many times to get me sober, yet whenever I saw them, I only wanted money or help out of my latest jam. When family or friends did invite me over, I got drunk and funny, then wasted and wicked. The calls, then the relationships ended. I had no consideration for other peoples' lives or their problems. My addiction only had room for thoughts of me and my next high. I was nearly dead already. My body was beat. My emotions were spent.  My soul was on empty.

I drank more and ate less. My mind was slowing down. The rage was subsiding. Sadness and self-pity were now crying out. 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. A couple more beers, and I would pass out. A couple more hours, and my family would sit down to a delicious feast.

I came to, head pounding and stomach fighting back. I squinted through the slits of my eyes and made out that it was five o’clock. I didn't know if it was p.m. or a.m.! I stumbled out of bed and saw it was dark outside. Being December, the darkness lent no clue as to whether it was night or morning. My worst fears were realized when I turned on the TV. A Christmas show danced on the screen. I had not slept Christmas away.

By now, my family had finished up the food and treats and was enjoying a belly-stuffed nap or the drive 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. Enough!I took a slug from the freshly cracked bottle of vodka, dropped a cigarette into it, and tossed it in the tiny plastic trash can. I swore off drinking forever..again.

Seven hours to go until midnight. My stash was gone. My snacks were eaten, and my nerves were shot. I was like the cat in the 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 cabinet 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 in futility.

I staggered to the dresser, grabbed a sock, then rinsed the empty bottle from the whiskey. I placed the sock over the lip of the bottle and carefully poured the tainted tonic into the fresh bottle mindful not to spill a drop. It caught the ash and butt. The tar and toxins had turned the once clear liquid a vile shade of brown. Cigarette vodka was the brand of choice for my holiday night cap.

I knocked back the ashtray cocktail and chased it with a soda. I got drunk enough to sleep and numb enough to dismiss the realizations of the depths I had reached to keep the buzz going. I wept, as I collapsed onto the filthy bed. I wrapped myself in the sheet to ward off the roach parade that would march over me as soon as the TV went black. Then I prayed. It was a real prayer, one of desperation and sincerity. It was a prayer I felt to the pit that was my soul. Between the tears and self-loathing I mumbled to the heavens: “LORD!... Please don't let me wake up tomorrow.”....

If You Love Someone Dump Them Before They Break Your Heart!

When I reference being married 4 times it's a source of discomfort and to a lesser sense, a point of shame. Coming from a family of divorce I promised myself that when I get married it's gonna be forever. That statement of Biblical defined marriage obviously didn't come to pass for me. Divorce is a part of many of our lives, not just addicts. My multi matrimonial scorecard is just another reflection of how my addictive mind twists perception to fit its purpose.

The relationships I am in, and have been in, range from healthy to absolutely sick. Squeaky, the nickname of adoration I have for my wife, and I have a fairly healthy and functioning marriage. She is my best friend. We have been through a lot together. She has had to deal with the pains of my addiction and recovery, relapse after relapse and has some extremely big stones. My insane, controlling and irrational behaviors displayed in the early and later years of our marriage were enough to drive the strongest partner away.

I can honestly say that if I was the earthling and she was the addict I don't know if I would have stuck around for all the chaos. I can say with sincerity that my wife knows everything about me. We have no secrets between each other and never let the sun go down on our anger. In the beginning it was not so simple. There are difficult todays but in the early years I had the emotional I.Q. of a 15 year old. Some say that when you transition from casual user to addict your emotional maturity is suspended or retarded. I can say for myself that was definitely true and I can still act like a big, dumb baby when the world doesn't do what I want it to do. I have matured in the last few years more than I did in the several years before them.

I had my first "steady girlfriend" in third grade. I didn't know what that meant but I bought her a smiley face ring from the gumball machine at Mokena Pharmacy and she presented me with a plastic yellow bulldog. We were a match made in heaven. We would play house at recess and she was the bulldog and I was her proud owner. Our master and man's best friend arrangement worked marvelously as long as she did what I said and agreed to play the way I wanted to play. It also took great pains to tell her how she could be a better bulldog and improve herself. This was a pattern I repeated late into my adulthood.

A relationship to me was an opportunity to share romance, avoid loneliness and help my partner better them self. I offered my self-improvement advice whether it was welcomed or not. Long before I used my fear, self-loathing and hyper self-criticism were solidly forged. I got better and better at not trying to change my shortcomings by working harder and harder at telling everyone around me what was wrong with them. I didn't have to look at myself as long as I was focusing my attention on where others were defective.

One of the innate characteristics a lot of addicts share is the ability to read people. In the first few moments of meeting someone I can usually determine how confident they are with themselves, their vulnerabilities and the best way to manipulate them into giving me what I want. It is uncanny. For a casual acquaintance or work associate my unique skills were limited to a few hours a day. For family, friends and significant others I honed in on their tender spots and beat them to death with my recommendations on how to overcome them.

The more I cared for someone the more I feared they would eventually hurt me. Since I was certain that a painful ending was assured I would jab and poke at my partner's insecurities with my relentless advice and criticisms. I would slowly bleed out each partner until they told me it was over. Once my prophesy was fulfilled and I was alone again I could beat myself up some more and reflect on how I knew they would have hurt me all along.

I ruined countless relationships repeating this destructive behavior but I would always find another victim willing to take me on as their man. In the almost 40 years of dating and relationships the longest I have been single is probably three months or less. I needed to latch on to women to take the focus off of how badly I hated myself. By making others feel bad about themselves I took comfort in their discomfort. The words of an alcoholic or addict go straight for the kill shot. There is no preliminary round. We go for the verbal knock out with the first few words.

My recovery has helped me recognize this defect and a multitude of unhealthy behaviors I have participated in. I am longer to think and slower to speak now. I try to build up people instead of tearing them down. The funny thing is that in the past I would cause pain to feel pain. Now when I make others feel good, I feel good. The more time I have in sobriety the easier it becomes to be me. When I am okay with me I play nice with all the other kids in my life sandbox. With the help of God, other friends in recovery and continuous dedication to my sobriety I am confident that the day will come when I wake up content spending each day with myself.