Sometimes people ask me why I write so openly about my trials and tales of alcoholism and addiction. It is usually something a family tries very hard to cover up. My readership has gone from 100 readers a day to 100 readers a week. The stories are getting old to you. My point has been to bring functional addiction out into the open. I have shared my story to help you think about whether you have a problem. Maybe it's your husband, or wife or child. My feeling has been that if I have helped one person stop, or gain insight into this deadly reality, my years of pain were not lived in vain.
This is my 100th post. I told myself I would stop at 100, reassess the reach and impact the blog had, and go from there. The decline in reads tells me the facts. People are uncomfortable with my uneasy subjects. My wife has spoken about living with an addict, I have told you about my own lost years through alcoholism and chemical abuse, and now you have heard some of what we are facing with our daughter.
I am glad that autism and chemical imbalance have come into the light. I do have a problem with the marketing of quick fix pills that relieve symptoms but don't address the causes. You can watch any of these commercials and self-diagnose yourself between commercial breaks. I have watched commercials about menopause pills and felt I had at least four of the symptoms. These drugs are marketed like spaghetti sauce. Uncle Phil passes the bowl to his nephew knowing he's not going to wet his pants. Sleeping pill ads are filled with butterflies and well rested actors. Kids don't need to got to the street to score anymore, they can just reach into the medicine cabinet.
The availability of drugs is a huge problem that's growing by the minute. There are as many, or more, drugs available in your "cute" suburban neighborhood than the Northside, Southside or Westside of Chicago. It's not just weed like "back in the day." It is now crack, coke, meth, heroin, painkillers, Ecstasy, and the latest craze "Cloud nine," a mixture of cocaine and Egyptian bath crystals. The drugs are man made, cheap to produce and quick to destroy. The Internet has given our kids an unending resource for finding the latest get high craze, or "how to make it yourself" recipes.
In our desire to "keep up with the Jones'" mentality, and not wanting to appear dysfunctional to the world outside, we enable and embolden our kids. Addiction is the new "pink elephant" in the room. We deny or just don't know how to face the issues our kids deal with daily. It is new to us. We never had so much information and avenues to get high when we were growing up. It is only going to get worse. Money is the root of all evil, and death can be purchased for just a few bucks.
Being in recovery gives me some insight into what makes an addict tick or the signs to look for. That doesn't insulate my loved ones from the poison that's available at anytime, in anyplace. My wife and family have a new challenge with our daughter. She said all the right things and layed out the drama. She couldn't look us in the eye (a huge red flag). She is scared and remorseful. She is feeling all of the emotions that come with crashing or being caught.
She is being drug tested at school. She has agreed to go to recovery meetings. She understands that the next stop is rehab. The wounds are raw and the pain is fresh. The real test will come over the weekend. Quitting dope or booze is achieved by many. Staying stopped is achieved by few. We are not kidding ourselves. Addiction is stronger than love. It is an inside job. It constantly gnaws at the addict, begging us to give in to "feel better". It does make you feel better temporarily. Then comes the crash, the remorse, the shame, the self-loathing and all the pain comes again. This time with a little extra discomfort.
The cycle of scoring, using, crashing, feeling like hell and wanting it to go away becomes a vicious circle and dead end. Addicts are on a human hamster wheel, always running but only going around in circles. Words and threats mean nothing to an addict. When using, we are tuned into the "get high" channel 24/7. It is a lonely existence that few truly understand. I am in recovery but I still have to do things on a daily basis to "stay stopped." I talk to others in recovery. I have a mentor. I read about my disease. I help others with theirs. It is a lifelong commitment. I will always be an addict. I have just got it locked in a rusty cage inside my mind.
It is still working up in my noodle, trying to find ways to get out. Active participation is essential to my continuing sobriety. If I begin to isolate, and cut myself off from those addicts just like me, the time will come when my addiction says just the right thing to get me to pick up. My sick mind doesn't always give me sane advice. I need to share my feelings with people like me. If you are not an addict but a loved one with a problem says that you don't understand, you really don't understand, no matter how many times you have watched Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz. I know what it is like to have a baby, but I will never know what it's like to have a baby.
Our daughter is making some good decisions on addressing her problem. The follow through is up to her and our family. The only person who can get an addict clean is the addict, with the help of God and other addicts. Our hearts may be broken. There me be lost ground. There may be lies and broken promises. We are ready for all of these possibilities. We pray, we love, we support and we hope that she will make her way back onto the path of sobriety. There are no guarantees. We know that also. All we can do is our best. It is in God's hands. I hope I have helped you in some way. Keep the faith. Remember EVERY DAY IS A GIFT! GOD BLESS YOU!
Showing posts with label User. Show all posts
Showing posts with label User. Show all posts
Friday, March 4, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Life with a Drunk or Addict Makes You Feel Like Damaged Goods!
I have spent a lot of time sharing stories about my experiences with the destruction that I created while drinking and using. I grew up in an environment where alcohol was always in the picture so I see things from both perspectives. I have only briefly touched on my wife's feelings trying to deal with my self-destruction and the personal hell that loved ones go through living with addicted people. Yesterday I learned a lot more about her turmoil and frustrations that I was responsible for creating. Two incidents that occurred during the day gave me a direct line into what she was thinking and how she felt during my "lost moments." She has also promised to write a blog aimed directly at those who suffer along with the active user.
I spent my tender years with 3 heavy drinkers. Whether they were alcoholic is not for me to determine. That condition has to be determined by the user themselves. I do remember that I felt like I was always dealing with multiple personalities. I was never sure what "mood" the drinkers in my life would be in and had to be ready to morph into whatever character would upset them the least. I spent my time walking on egg shells and felt deep dread when I stood at the door wondering which personality would be waiting on the other side.
For some strange cosmic reason people who grow up around substance abuse, or over use, are attracted to friends and lovers who suffer from the same conditions. You would think that we would run away from people like me. Before I became an active alcoholic and addict I knew that I was drawn to troubled people. I felt as though I could save them. I felt helpless around my loved ones who "relaxed" too much. So I made it my personal goal to find someone I could "fix." I wanted to save every man, woman, child, dog and a few cats from having to deal with people like the one I became. I inevitably found myself with people who were emotionally unavailable and treated me like crap. Feeling like crap was normal to me and somewhere along the line I concluded that this is what I deserved.
I was also drawn to the seemingly healthy minded so that I could seek out their flaws and exploit them through criticism and hurtful words. The thought of someone living in a well-adjusted, healthy world was impossible for me to grasp. They had to be faking it. I took the time to find something wrong and point out where the defects were. It made me feel somehow vindicated to tear down people to my level of pain. Even if I had to manufacture it. I sought out healthy people because I was jealous of their well adjusted behavior and felt the need to show them what "real life" was like, that dysfunction was the norm and the apparently well-adjusted were hiding something.
Yesterday Squeaky and I went to a recovery meeting that focuses on relationships. The people who attend are couples that have one person with addiction issues and their significant other. There are also husbands and wives of alcoholics and addicts who were enablers or caught in the cross hairs of the wrath an addict spews at the innocent while they're under the influence. It is the bringing together of the perpetrators and the victims to discuss recovery. Those who love us addicts and alcoholics need and have their own place to heal and vent and get well. I am glad they have these places.
I was a blackout drinker and don't remember many of the things I said or did under the influence. My wife has it worse because she remembers it all. The unreachability, indifference, anguish, helplessness and insecurity of living with an active user creates severe damage to the spectators who have to sit and watch their loved one self-destruct and possibly take them down with them. My wife and some other spouses of alcoholic addicts spoke up about their feelings and accounts of life with an addict. It really opened my eyes. Later in the evening my eyes were opened even more.
I had never considered many of the daily experiences and work that goes into living with an active addict. As a proud Italian, my wife was standing by her man. While I was unraveling she was following behind me rolling up the string of damage I was creating. She was the actor, not me. She had to put her game face on when I didn't show up for family functions or concoct stories to cover for the fact that I was home in bed with yet another brutal hangover. Anger and the discomfort of wondering"What would the the neighbors think?" or "What am I gonna tell Ma this week?" were always facing her. There was the reassurance to the kids that everything would be alright. It was a grand charade that required constant attention, planning, lies, stories and cover-ups on a colossal stage.
She made the comment of feeling like "damaged goods." Her remark hit me like a right hook. While I was going crazy the dedication to our marriage was a constant burden and made her begin to feel as if she was going crazy too. She felt like something was wrong with her, realizing she found herself in a second relationship where alcohol issues were prominent. When I stopped drinking a whole new set of emotional landmines went off around her.
How could a bunch of drunks and junkies keep me sober and she couldn't? There was resentment that I spent so much time with people in recovery after leaving her feeling abandoned for so long. What had she done wrong? The answer is nothing. Addicted people need the help of those who are recovering from addiction. The spouses of the addict need to spend their time with other spouses of addicts. They are both vital to the recovery of the family. If you are an addict and you say you're not hurting anyone but yourself, you're not fooling anybody but yourself. My sickness made everyone sick. My recovery is helping every one recover.
I have recounted times when I wet the bed after drinking too much. My wife endured every painful moment of those disturbing incidents. Trapped in my addiction I was able to justify it and just fixed it by scrubbing the bed. I never realized that our bed wasn't covered with fancy pillows and comforters for a reason. There was. My wife didn't want me to ruin such beautiful things with my late night loss of bladder control.
On the anniversary of my 6th month of sobriety my wife was going to let me buy a drum set, a passion I had in high school. She was glad to have her husband back and eager for me to find new habits to replace the old ones. On the way to the drum store we passed a mattress shop. My selfish side left me at just the right moment and God steered me to the mattresses, not the drums. She picked out the bed she wanted. I could see the happiness in her eyes and relief that the old mattress could be erased from our lives forever. We got our new mattress and today it has pretty pillows and comforters. It is amazing that since I have stopped drinking my bladder control problems have disappeared. It must be the new bed.
A few weeks ago we got our fourth dog. Her name is Fiona Apple Schmutzy Connolly. She is a puppy and full of life. That is a nice way of saying she is a typical puppy and out of her mind. We have been allowing her to sleep on the bed with us and Gracie, our other Pekingese-Chin dog. We enjoy having them up there with us and it keeps "The Schmutz" out of trouble while we sleep. We had settled into bed with our canine companions and I went down stairs for something to drink.
My wife gets mad but usually not loud. As I sipped some Kool-Aid I heard some very bad words coming from upstairs and a teeth gritted command for Fiona to flee the area for her own safety and well being. I flew up the stairs and found Fiona, head down, knowing she had done something wrong and my wife bundling up the pretty bedding. Right between our two pillows was a wet spot. Schmutzy had peed the bed. I yelled at the puppy and took her outside. We do not believe in corporal punishment for our kids or animals. My tone let Fiona know she had made the pack leaders very unhappy. I am the Irish "Dog Whisperer."
At that instant I felt what my wife had felt so many times after dealing with me when I was doing the Fiona-act. She felt angry, violated, inconvenienced and pissed that her beautiful bed had been soiled. I quietly helped unmake and remake our bed and comforted my wife. I expressed to her that I now knew what it must have felt like dealing with that from a grown man. I told her I would do the laundry in the morning and relax. She put her head back down on her pillow and I stroked her hair. She really likes that. Today the sheets are clean and Fiona seems to have learned a lesson, but then again she is a puppy.
What I learned is that all the lying, manipulating, controlling and covering that I did when using, planning on using, or recovering from using is not exclusive to the drunk or addict. Our loved ones have their own hell to face and games to play. I am grateful that my wife didn't leave me. I see her strength and it makes me love her more. I know the I'm sorry's I spit out like sunflower seed shells while drunk won't cut it anymore. I show my sorrow by being a good husband, friend and father daily to the best of my ability. I won't do it perfectly but I will try my best. I drank for 20 years. I won't fix everything I broke in 2 years. It is a daily repair job, like staying sober a day at a time.
For those of you who suffer with an addict or alcoholic, thanks for all you do and endure. We don't mean to hurt you and the sickness of addiction doesn't afford us the ability to see the destruction we leave in our wake. There are lots of support groups out there. Find one for yourself and your sanity. I am not telling you to stay with or leave a person who is in the grips of addiction. That is a difficult decision each person must face. The one thing I want all spouses, loved ones and friends to know about addiction is that it's NOT YOUR FAULT WE ARE DRUNKS OR ADDICTS! Understanding that is your first step to recovering you.
I spent my tender years with 3 heavy drinkers. Whether they were alcoholic is not for me to determine. That condition has to be determined by the user themselves. I do remember that I felt like I was always dealing with multiple personalities. I was never sure what "mood" the drinkers in my life would be in and had to be ready to morph into whatever character would upset them the least. I spent my time walking on egg shells and felt deep dread when I stood at the door wondering which personality would be waiting on the other side.
For some strange cosmic reason people who grow up around substance abuse, or over use, are attracted to friends and lovers who suffer from the same conditions. You would think that we would run away from people like me. Before I became an active alcoholic and addict I knew that I was drawn to troubled people. I felt as though I could save them. I felt helpless around my loved ones who "relaxed" too much. So I made it my personal goal to find someone I could "fix." I wanted to save every man, woman, child, dog and a few cats from having to deal with people like the one I became. I inevitably found myself with people who were emotionally unavailable and treated me like crap. Feeling like crap was normal to me and somewhere along the line I concluded that this is what I deserved.
I was also drawn to the seemingly healthy minded so that I could seek out their flaws and exploit them through criticism and hurtful words. The thought of someone living in a well-adjusted, healthy world was impossible for me to grasp. They had to be faking it. I took the time to find something wrong and point out where the defects were. It made me feel somehow vindicated to tear down people to my level of pain. Even if I had to manufacture it. I sought out healthy people because I was jealous of their well adjusted behavior and felt the need to show them what "real life" was like, that dysfunction was the norm and the apparently well-adjusted were hiding something.
Yesterday Squeaky and I went to a recovery meeting that focuses on relationships. The people who attend are couples that have one person with addiction issues and their significant other. There are also husbands and wives of alcoholics and addicts who were enablers or caught in the cross hairs of the wrath an addict spews at the innocent while they're under the influence. It is the bringing together of the perpetrators and the victims to discuss recovery. Those who love us addicts and alcoholics need and have their own place to heal and vent and get well. I am glad they have these places.
I was a blackout drinker and don't remember many of the things I said or did under the influence. My wife has it worse because she remembers it all. The unreachability, indifference, anguish, helplessness and insecurity of living with an active user creates severe damage to the spectators who have to sit and watch their loved one self-destruct and possibly take them down with them. My wife and some other spouses of alcoholic addicts spoke up about their feelings and accounts of life with an addict. It really opened my eyes. Later in the evening my eyes were opened even more.
I had never considered many of the daily experiences and work that goes into living with an active addict. As a proud Italian, my wife was standing by her man. While I was unraveling she was following behind me rolling up the string of damage I was creating. She was the actor, not me. She had to put her game face on when I didn't show up for family functions or concoct stories to cover for the fact that I was home in bed with yet another brutal hangover. Anger and the discomfort of wondering"What would the the neighbors think?" or "What am I gonna tell Ma this week?" were always facing her. There was the reassurance to the kids that everything would be alright. It was a grand charade that required constant attention, planning, lies, stories and cover-ups on a colossal stage.
She made the comment of feeling like "damaged goods." Her remark hit me like a right hook. While I was going crazy the dedication to our marriage was a constant burden and made her begin to feel as if she was going crazy too. She felt like something was wrong with her, realizing she found herself in a second relationship where alcohol issues were prominent. When I stopped drinking a whole new set of emotional landmines went off around her.
How could a bunch of drunks and junkies keep me sober and she couldn't? There was resentment that I spent so much time with people in recovery after leaving her feeling abandoned for so long. What had she done wrong? The answer is nothing. Addicted people need the help of those who are recovering from addiction. The spouses of the addict need to spend their time with other spouses of addicts. They are both vital to the recovery of the family. If you are an addict and you say you're not hurting anyone but yourself, you're not fooling anybody but yourself. My sickness made everyone sick. My recovery is helping every one recover.
I have recounted times when I wet the bed after drinking too much. My wife endured every painful moment of those disturbing incidents. Trapped in my addiction I was able to justify it and just fixed it by scrubbing the bed. I never realized that our bed wasn't covered with fancy pillows and comforters for a reason. There was. My wife didn't want me to ruin such beautiful things with my late night loss of bladder control.
On the anniversary of my 6th month of sobriety my wife was going to let me buy a drum set, a passion I had in high school. She was glad to have her husband back and eager for me to find new habits to replace the old ones. On the way to the drum store we passed a mattress shop. My selfish side left me at just the right moment and God steered me to the mattresses, not the drums. She picked out the bed she wanted. I could see the happiness in her eyes and relief that the old mattress could be erased from our lives forever. We got our new mattress and today it has pretty pillows and comforters. It is amazing that since I have stopped drinking my bladder control problems have disappeared. It must be the new bed.
A few weeks ago we got our fourth dog. Her name is Fiona Apple Schmutzy Connolly. She is a puppy and full of life. That is a nice way of saying she is a typical puppy and out of her mind. We have been allowing her to sleep on the bed with us and Gracie, our other Pekingese-Chin dog. We enjoy having them up there with us and it keeps "The Schmutz" out of trouble while we sleep. We had settled into bed with our canine companions and I went down stairs for something to drink.
My wife gets mad but usually not loud. As I sipped some Kool-Aid I heard some very bad words coming from upstairs and a teeth gritted command for Fiona to flee the area for her own safety and well being. I flew up the stairs and found Fiona, head down, knowing she had done something wrong and my wife bundling up the pretty bedding. Right between our two pillows was a wet spot. Schmutzy had peed the bed. I yelled at the puppy and took her outside. We do not believe in corporal punishment for our kids or animals. My tone let Fiona know she had made the pack leaders very unhappy. I am the Irish "Dog Whisperer."
At that instant I felt what my wife had felt so many times after dealing with me when I was doing the Fiona-act. She felt angry, violated, inconvenienced and pissed that her beautiful bed had been soiled. I quietly helped unmake and remake our bed and comforted my wife. I expressed to her that I now knew what it must have felt like dealing with that from a grown man. I told her I would do the laundry in the morning and relax. She put her head back down on her pillow and I stroked her hair. She really likes that. Today the sheets are clean and Fiona seems to have learned a lesson, but then again she is a puppy.
What I learned is that all the lying, manipulating, controlling and covering that I did when using, planning on using, or recovering from using is not exclusive to the drunk or addict. Our loved ones have their own hell to face and games to play. I am grateful that my wife didn't leave me. I see her strength and it makes me love her more. I know the I'm sorry's I spit out like sunflower seed shells while drunk won't cut it anymore. I show my sorrow by being a good husband, friend and father daily to the best of my ability. I won't do it perfectly but I will try my best. I drank for 20 years. I won't fix everything I broke in 2 years. It is a daily repair job, like staying sober a day at a time.
For those of you who suffer with an addict or alcoholic, thanks for all you do and endure. We don't mean to hurt you and the sickness of addiction doesn't afford us the ability to see the destruction we leave in our wake. There are lots of support groups out there. Find one for yourself and your sanity. I am not telling you to stay with or leave a person who is in the grips of addiction. That is a difficult decision each person must face. The one thing I want all spouses, loved ones and friends to know about addiction is that it's NOT YOUR FAULT WE ARE DRUNKS OR ADDICTS! Understanding that is your first step to recovering you.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Addicts are Blessed and Cursed!
While I was growing up, long before I took my first drug or drink, I reacted with one of two emotions during confrontation or crisis or when I didn't get my way. The first was anger and the second was tears. During my tender years, anger and tears were the answer to every emotional situation I couldn't process. You could easily have labelled me a "cry baby" when I was a young man, up until the age of about 18. Tears spilled out easily when I was hurt or didn't know how to handle a situation correctly. When I sought sympathy or was trying to divert attention from a mistake I had committed, or was overwhelmed with a moment, I would cry my way through and out of it. I had not developed enough coping mechanisms to react in a healthy way to the challenges of every day healthy thinking.
When an adult sees a man sobbing after about the age of 14, they are instantly put into a consoling or uncomfortable state of mind. I couldn't control my emotions and the tears would just come. I now see that I suffered from depression issues from a very young age. The tears could be used as a form of manipulation and I used them often to get my demands met. If I got a bad grade on a report card, or a girlfriend wanted to dump me, my weeping and sobs could turn the situation around in an instant. My parents would comfort me with a "try harder next time" and the unhappy girlfriend would say "let's give it another try." I would escape the pain through my tearful drama and get my way.
Anger is rarely a part of my emotional skill set now, but it occasionally rears its ugly head. I have written in other chapters that my angry outbursts were based in fear, not actual anger at the situation. My father and mother both had combustible tempers and when I coupled that with the fact that I was "Irish", the angry outbursts were easily rationalized. Anger was my weapon and shield. My insecurities and low self-esteem made this emotional response necessary and convenient. I am normally witty and light hearted, but when I am angered, I have the roar of a lion and the look of a madman.
An addict wants the world to judge us by our motives and intentions, not our actions. Please re-read that sentence because there is a lot there. Even when I shouted rage filled diatribes at my children when my fear was of them being hurt or into trouble, they didn't see the motive of protection. They just saw the old man going off and most likely tuned me out. Anger is normal and we are human. It's going to happen but how we project that anger is the deal breaker. Once angry I spewed hurtful, cutting remarks that went way beyond the incident or infraction. The verbal punishment didn't fit the crime. When angered every hurtful thing I could think of seemed to line up behind my tongue just waiting to burst out on my victim.
There are times when I am angered, but the distance between that anger and my mouth has grown farther apart. I can think rationally while I am mad and stay on point. I can express my anger through constructive conversation, not just bursts of rage filled emotion. As for the tears, I have a hard time crying now and I miss it. There is a cleansing release after a good cry. I always feel relief after I have wept over the death of a loved one or seeing my kids in pain. That is the irony of my tears. They used to pop out effortlessly. Now I sometimes have to consciously try to make myself cry to relieve some of my anger and frustrations like a tea kettle whistling out steam. A viewing of one of my favorite films, "The Notebook," sits ready on my shelf when I must relieve my pain through tears and can't do it through recall alone.
The reference of addiction being a blessing and a curse is only allowable if they are coupled together. The escape into using at the moment of pain may seem like a blessing, but it is a curse in that it is temporary. Addicts seek
escape from the pain. The things we do while high creates more pain, new pain and the original excuse for getting high in the first place is still there in the morning, accompanied by a new pile of remorse, bewilderment, shame and self hate. When we have lost our ability to choose, using even when we don't want to, it is definitely a curse. The fact that I don't remember a decade is quite sad because I missed out on some beautiful life experiences. I would call that a curse.
The blessing of being an addict comes fully into the light when you realize you truly are one and you seek help. I know what it means to be a "grateful recovering addict" now. I have faced my demons, made peace with my past, and no longer fear the uncertainty of the future. Through working with other people in recovery, and the help of my God, I have discovered who I am. The question of "who am I?" is the one us addicts ask ourselves the most. I am blessed that I see that there are others who think a little off, just like me. I am blessed knowing I have a choice to not use today. When I thought my active use was a blessing I had no choice. Getting high was on my everyday agenda. Armed with the information I have learned in recovery, many of the questions and reasons for why I used have been answered and are gone. That is a blessing.
Realizing that it's the first high that gets me, not the 100th, is a blessing. If I pick up a drug today I am guaranteed one absolute truth: there will be lots more booze and drugs to follow. The fact that I can get through life with a clear mind and conscience is a blessing. Remembering that I am an addict at the start of everyday, knowing if I use drugs today and that the insanity will return quickly, is a blessing. The fact that I will always be an alcoholic and addict that has been given another chance at life is a blessing. Respecting these simple truths allow me to control the curse of addiction a day at a time.
When an adult sees a man sobbing after about the age of 14, they are instantly put into a consoling or uncomfortable state of mind. I couldn't control my emotions and the tears would just come. I now see that I suffered from depression issues from a very young age. The tears could be used as a form of manipulation and I used them often to get my demands met. If I got a bad grade on a report card, or a girlfriend wanted to dump me, my weeping and sobs could turn the situation around in an instant. My parents would comfort me with a "try harder next time" and the unhappy girlfriend would say "let's give it another try." I would escape the pain through my tearful drama and get my way.
Anger is rarely a part of my emotional skill set now, but it occasionally rears its ugly head. I have written in other chapters that my angry outbursts were based in fear, not actual anger at the situation. My father and mother both had combustible tempers and when I coupled that with the fact that I was "Irish", the angry outbursts were easily rationalized. Anger was my weapon and shield. My insecurities and low self-esteem made this emotional response necessary and convenient. I am normally witty and light hearted, but when I am angered, I have the roar of a lion and the look of a madman.
An addict wants the world to judge us by our motives and intentions, not our actions. Please re-read that sentence because there is a lot there. Even when I shouted rage filled diatribes at my children when my fear was of them being hurt or into trouble, they didn't see the motive of protection. They just saw the old man going off and most likely tuned me out. Anger is normal and we are human. It's going to happen but how we project that anger is the deal breaker. Once angry I spewed hurtful, cutting remarks that went way beyond the incident or infraction. The verbal punishment didn't fit the crime. When angered every hurtful thing I could think of seemed to line up behind my tongue just waiting to burst out on my victim.
There are times when I am angered, but the distance between that anger and my mouth has grown farther apart. I can think rationally while I am mad and stay on point. I can express my anger through constructive conversation, not just bursts of rage filled emotion. As for the tears, I have a hard time crying now and I miss it. There is a cleansing release after a good cry. I always feel relief after I have wept over the death of a loved one or seeing my kids in pain. That is the irony of my tears. They used to pop out effortlessly. Now I sometimes have to consciously try to make myself cry to relieve some of my anger and frustrations like a tea kettle whistling out steam. A viewing of one of my favorite films, "The Notebook," sits ready on my shelf when I must relieve my pain through tears and can't do it through recall alone.
The reference of addiction being a blessing and a curse is only allowable if they are coupled together. The escape into using at the moment of pain may seem like a blessing, but it is a curse in that it is temporary. Addicts seek
escape from the pain. The things we do while high creates more pain, new pain and the original excuse for getting high in the first place is still there in the morning, accompanied by a new pile of remorse, bewilderment, shame and self hate. When we have lost our ability to choose, using even when we don't want to, it is definitely a curse. The fact that I don't remember a decade is quite sad because I missed out on some beautiful life experiences. I would call that a curse.
The blessing of being an addict comes fully into the light when you realize you truly are one and you seek help. I know what it means to be a "grateful recovering addict" now. I have faced my demons, made peace with my past, and no longer fear the uncertainty of the future. Through working with other people in recovery, and the help of my God, I have discovered who I am. The question of "who am I?" is the one us addicts ask ourselves the most. I am blessed that I see that there are others who think a little off, just like me. I am blessed knowing I have a choice to not use today. When I thought my active use was a blessing I had no choice. Getting high was on my everyday agenda. Armed with the information I have learned in recovery, many of the questions and reasons for why I used have been answered and are gone. That is a blessing.
Realizing that it's the first high that gets me, not the 100th, is a blessing. If I pick up a drug today I am guaranteed one absolute truth: there will be lots more booze and drugs to follow. The fact that I can get through life with a clear mind and conscience is a blessing. Remembering that I am an addict at the start of everyday, knowing if I use drugs today and that the insanity will return quickly, is a blessing. The fact that I will always be an alcoholic and addict that has been given another chance at life is a blessing. Respecting these simple truths allow me to control the curse of addiction a day at a time.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Excuse Me? Is There an ENABLER In The House?
I've told you bits and pieces of my family life in previous chapters. There are happy stories and tragic ones, but all of them have a message. That message is don't give up hope! Keep the faith! If you haven't found God, not to worry, he isn't lost. Start out with a simple hello. He already knows who you are. Then pray and talk to him with the deepest of sincerity and you will find the more you turn to him, the more you will feel his guidance and presence. I know I would not be sober or writing this blog if it wasn't for the relationship I have with the Lord. The comedy and acting skills he blessed me with are to be used to glorify his touching my life. He is, "I am."
I skipped from the beginning of my father's life with my mom, sister and me to the end of his life. Now we take a stop in the middle.
I was the only boy and baby of the family with a combined sister count of four. Being the only son had its advantages with my father. I went to my first Bear game at age 5 or 6. I vividly recall Dick Butkus hitting a guy so hard you could hear the crunch from our seats in the north end zone. As a youngster I saw Joe Namath and O.J. Simpson at the end of their careers and all of Walter Payton's. I was with my dad for the 1985 Superbowl season and 1988's loss to the Niners. I truly don't know how many Bear games we saw together but it was quite a few and it was a place I could tell my dad was truly happy. There was the snow falling from heaven during the NFC championship against the Giants and the "Fog Bowl" against the Eagles. The first game after 9/11 was the heaviest. We both cried like babies as they unfurled a field sized American flag across the stadium while F-15's roared overhead. When the new stadium was built our run ended with the personal seat licensing and my dad passed the tickets on to my Uncle Bob.
I missed a few seasons in between. I couldn't pay for the licensing seats because I was too busy spending my money on booze, dope and whoever wanted to do booze and dope with me. I have spoken about the lengths an addict will go to to keep the run going. Please remember when I say the addict I am the "THE." It doesn't mean we don't love people or care about their feelings. It's just that the power of addiction over our minds, bodies and souls is so domineering we often turn off our morality button to reach our goal of getting high.
The key player in the perpetuation of alcoholic or addiction insanity is the enabler. The word enable implies the weak and timid, easily manipulated and a complete pushover. It means in brief "to supply the means," as listed in the American Heritage Dictionary. Enablers are usually the ones who love the addict the most and is filled with the most hope that someday things will be different. They are moms and dads, sisters and brothers, husbands and wives, friends and neighbors. They are sometimes obvious in their efforts and sometimes stealthy, dealing under the table.
Their intentions are pure but can be destructive in the end, not to just the user but the one who enables them. The pain of letting someone they love down, hurts them so they give in knowing it is wrong. The anger of withdrawal is frightening so they pacify. The hateful words or disinterest of the user makes them try to buy their approval and love. They hand out money, food or shelter not knowing if that hand out is going to be the one that kills or saves the user. Ultimately it is just another time in a merry-go-round of negative encouragement.
My dad was my enabler. He was there when I needed him. Whether it was for some cash or a car, he was the guy who saved my ass over and over. I took it for granted that he would always be there to clean up the shit I left behind. I worked for him on and off while crawling through 9 years of college. I didn't go 9 years straight. That was impossible for my addictive nature. I went for a year and a half to ISU. When the heat was ready to come down on me from the law or Academic Probation I skated back to Daddy. I transferred to Columbia College Chicago and attended, on and off, until graduating in 1992. I paid my ticket through student loans. I thought it was free money. I have paid the government back the $18,000 dollars I borrowed for my education. The $26,000 I owe them in interest, for all my years of neglect, won't be forgiven. Student loans come with no deal making. The government does not enable, at least where student loans are concerned.
If I was short of cash I would hit Dad up for a "loan." Those loans were rarely, if ever, paid back. He helped me move when a marriage or 3 failed. He did whatever he could to help me because of his love for me. I didn't see it that way. The addict thinks family and society owe them the money for injustices real or perceived from our earliest recollections. We had it coming! Suckers! That seems crass but when we need to use our hearts and minds focus on getting high. The kindness of the enabler is overlooked instantly by the obsession of the score.
By 1996 I was a fall down drunk and my father's good spirited giving ended. He arrived at my apartment after a girlfriend couldn't rouse me from a stupor. He slapped me awake, crumpled up a $100 dollar bill and dropped it in my lap saying, "That's it! The end of the line. You are no longer my son!" The words hurt long enough for me to realize I had a Ben Franklin and could get more vodka. We didn't speak for quite awhile after that. Messages were past from family or employees to check on each others well being.
In March of 1999 I called him begging that he take me to rehab. Initially he refused. I don't blame him. I was a drunken liar and thief. He did call back an hour later saying he was on the way and his charity got me to the hospital I so desperately needed. He didn't visit me in detox or for my loony bin stay, but Mom #2 stopped by every few days to bring me smokes, magazines, socks and undies. She was amazing. On family night none of my family came. I had used and abused them to the point of disconnect. Funny thing is that my dealers and bartenders didn't show up either. They had always said we were family.
My father and I built our relationship back up again, but he no longer enabled me. He helped where he could, but if I slipped off track he let me fall right on my face. It was tough love until I got the picture and started to fly right. There were ups and downs like any family dynamic, but I was able to make reparations toward the end of his life for the damage and manipulation I had laid on him. We spoke of my specific wrongs and I cleared away the damage of my past behaviors.
Toward the end, during one of his stays at a home, he made the comment that he had saved my ass now I was cleaning his. We both laughed but I was grateful that I had the chance to right my wrongs. If you enable, the choices are tough and there is not a one size fits all explanation on how to handle it. I was lucky. I had a chance to make peace and be useful to my father at the end of his life. If you are a user your time may be running out to make things right. Think about it. I was one of the lucky ones who got a chance at redemption. You can have it too starting one day at a time. Today looks good!
I skipped from the beginning of my father's life with my mom, sister and me to the end of his life. Now we take a stop in the middle.
I was the only boy and baby of the family with a combined sister count of four. Being the only son had its advantages with my father. I went to my first Bear game at age 5 or 6. I vividly recall Dick Butkus hitting a guy so hard you could hear the crunch from our seats in the north end zone. As a youngster I saw Joe Namath and O.J. Simpson at the end of their careers and all of Walter Payton's. I was with my dad for the 1985 Superbowl season and 1988's loss to the Niners. I truly don't know how many Bear games we saw together but it was quite a few and it was a place I could tell my dad was truly happy. There was the snow falling from heaven during the NFC championship against the Giants and the "Fog Bowl" against the Eagles. The first game after 9/11 was the heaviest. We both cried like babies as they unfurled a field sized American flag across the stadium while F-15's roared overhead. When the new stadium was built our run ended with the personal seat licensing and my dad passed the tickets on to my Uncle Bob.
I missed a few seasons in between. I couldn't pay for the licensing seats because I was too busy spending my money on booze, dope and whoever wanted to do booze and dope with me. I have spoken about the lengths an addict will go to to keep the run going. Please remember when I say the addict I am the "THE." It doesn't mean we don't love people or care about their feelings. It's just that the power of addiction over our minds, bodies and souls is so domineering we often turn off our morality button to reach our goal of getting high.
The key player in the perpetuation of alcoholic or addiction insanity is the enabler. The word enable implies the weak and timid, easily manipulated and a complete pushover. It means in brief "to supply the means," as listed in the American Heritage Dictionary. Enablers are usually the ones who love the addict the most and is filled with the most hope that someday things will be different. They are moms and dads, sisters and brothers, husbands and wives, friends and neighbors. They are sometimes obvious in their efforts and sometimes stealthy, dealing under the table.
Their intentions are pure but can be destructive in the end, not to just the user but the one who enables them. The pain of letting someone they love down, hurts them so they give in knowing it is wrong. The anger of withdrawal is frightening so they pacify. The hateful words or disinterest of the user makes them try to buy their approval and love. They hand out money, food or shelter not knowing if that hand out is going to be the one that kills or saves the user. Ultimately it is just another time in a merry-go-round of negative encouragement.
My dad was my enabler. He was there when I needed him. Whether it was for some cash or a car, he was the guy who saved my ass over and over. I took it for granted that he would always be there to clean up the shit I left behind. I worked for him on and off while crawling through 9 years of college. I didn't go 9 years straight. That was impossible for my addictive nature. I went for a year and a half to ISU. When the heat was ready to come down on me from the law or Academic Probation I skated back to Daddy. I transferred to Columbia College Chicago and attended, on and off, until graduating in 1992. I paid my ticket through student loans. I thought it was free money. I have paid the government back the $18,000 dollars I borrowed for my education. The $26,000 I owe them in interest, for all my years of neglect, won't be forgiven. Student loans come with no deal making. The government does not enable, at least where student loans are concerned.
If I was short of cash I would hit Dad up for a "loan." Those loans were rarely, if ever, paid back. He helped me move when a marriage or 3 failed. He did whatever he could to help me because of his love for me. I didn't see it that way. The addict thinks family and society owe them the money for injustices real or perceived from our earliest recollections. We had it coming! Suckers! That seems crass but when we need to use our hearts and minds focus on getting high. The kindness of the enabler is overlooked instantly by the obsession of the score.
By 1996 I was a fall down drunk and my father's good spirited giving ended. He arrived at my apartment after a girlfriend couldn't rouse me from a stupor. He slapped me awake, crumpled up a $100 dollar bill and dropped it in my lap saying, "That's it! The end of the line. You are no longer my son!" The words hurt long enough for me to realize I had a Ben Franklin and could get more vodka. We didn't speak for quite awhile after that. Messages were past from family or employees to check on each others well being.
In March of 1999 I called him begging that he take me to rehab. Initially he refused. I don't blame him. I was a drunken liar and thief. He did call back an hour later saying he was on the way and his charity got me to the hospital I so desperately needed. He didn't visit me in detox or for my loony bin stay, but Mom #2 stopped by every few days to bring me smokes, magazines, socks and undies. She was amazing. On family night none of my family came. I had used and abused them to the point of disconnect. Funny thing is that my dealers and bartenders didn't show up either. They had always said we were family.
My father and I built our relationship back up again, but he no longer enabled me. He helped where he could, but if I slipped off track he let me fall right on my face. It was tough love until I got the picture and started to fly right. There were ups and downs like any family dynamic, but I was able to make reparations toward the end of his life for the damage and manipulation I had laid on him. We spoke of my specific wrongs and I cleared away the damage of my past behaviors.
Toward the end, during one of his stays at a home, he made the comment that he had saved my ass now I was cleaning his. We both laughed but I was grateful that I had the chance to right my wrongs. If you enable, the choices are tough and there is not a one size fits all explanation on how to handle it. I was lucky. I had a chance to make peace and be useful to my father at the end of his life. If you are a user your time may be running out to make things right. Think about it. I was one of the lucky ones who got a chance at redemption. You can have it too starting one day at a time. Today looks good!
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Vegas! It's My Honeymoon and I Want To Get High!
The wedding was beautiful and the trip exciting for both Squeaky and I. There is another side of the story though. It is the story of my addictive side. Please note that I did not drink alcohol for 5 years from 1999 to 2004. As an addict we switch drugs, control amounts and fool ourselves into thinking we don't really have a problem. I knew I was an alcoholic and wasn't drinking. That equals no problem. Anyone who has been to Vegas knows you can find any drug or experience you fancy. You can enjoy the "sinniest" of sins, if you find the right people. As an addict I can pick these "go to guys" out in a room of a thousand faces.
Before we left Chicago I finished up the rest of my weed. When I felt like there wasn't enough I would crawl around the carpet looking for a bud that had fallen to the floor during a previous party session. Smoking dog hair, bugs, food and dust bits was just collateral damage in finding that wonder bud under the bed and reaching the high I craved.
We woke from our late night nuptials about 1:00 pm. We made love and showered, ready for a night on the town as Mr. Tom and Mrs. Kris Connolly. I was jonesing. Whoever said you can't get addicted to weed didn't interview me. I was hooked, but since I wasn't drinking, I was cool with it. I thought it didn't count. My wife wasn't supportive but was happy I wasn't drinking. She didn't understand addiction and the addict then, and had seen a lot of alcohol damage in past relationships. She accepted what I was doing, but secretly hated it and knew she was enabling me.
Below our hotel was a strip mall with souvenir shops and liquor stores. I only had to walk a hundred yards from the front door before the street rats and hustlers surrounded me. Ice, Tic, Smack and Blow was hawked under muffled breath. The dealer also has an eye for the user and they were locked in on me. I said I was looking for weed and 3 entrepreneurs jumped to attention like valets excited to park my BMW. I made arrangements for a small amount with the guy who could score the quickest. There was no consideration for leaving my wife uncomfortable or the risk that I was talking to a cop. I was trained to look at shoes and haircuts, eyes and sunglasses. I could pick a cop out like a hippo in a chicken coop.
30 minutes went by and my connection returned. The nonchalant brutha handshake dope pass was followed by an equally unassuming cash pass hand slap. I had my weed and was dying to get flying. For me the excitement of the deal and risk mixed with the relief of the score and anxious waiting was intoxicating. I bought some papers from the liquor store and headed back up to our room, dragging my wife behind me like a frustrated parent tugging their unruly toddler through the supermarket.
In the room the next ritual was initiated. The smelling, cleaning, breaking and de-seeding was vital to the roll. I twisted a J and opened the window to vent the smoke. A pothead also rolls up a towel and places it along the crack at the bottom of the door for extra odor prevention. It really is a lot of work to get high. All the while my new bride sat impatiently prodding me to hurry up. She didn't want me high but knew I would be irritable and no fun if I didn't get my way. She was as much at mercy to my habit as I was.
I finished the doob and was now ready to go. We headed down the strip and she was excited that we were husband and wife. I kissed her and was trying to determine the quality of my high while she shattered her sweet nothings. I told her I needed to see where Tupac was killed. That was the extent of my sightseeing. We reached the spot and I screamed at the ridiculous notion that no one saw anyone shoot him that night. If I made a sudden reach for my wallet four people would look at me. How could there be no witnesses on hand the night of a Tyson fight in Vegas? We were there in May and the street was packed. I ranted on and my wife dragged me on pleading for our honeymoon dinner.
Food was near the top in my botanically induced euphoria and a buffet at Treasure Island was just what the doctor ordered. We ate a lot. I ate a lot more than I should have. We lost a few bucks gambling and I wanted to return to the room. I told her I was tired but just wanted to return for another hit or two or 10. She wanted to see more of the strip and I acted like a spoiled child being martyred every step of the way. After my drama and whining became too much, Squeaky relented.
Our walking pace back to the hotel was double what it was when we left earlier in the evening. I was tired, remember, and I needed to get back quick and relax. I bought my wife a Starbucks, her favorite, as a token apology for cutting the evening short. I said all the right things to let her know how much I loved her. I meant every word. I loved her with every fiber of my being, but I love getting high one fiber more. Once the scale tipped toward getting high I was on auto pilot.
We made it to our room, my rituals were repeated. The towel was neatly rolled sealing the outside world out of my private party and I smoked until I fell passed out. My wife watched TV, feared a bust and wondered what the rest of the honeymoon and our life had in store for her.
Before we left Chicago I finished up the rest of my weed. When I felt like there wasn't enough I would crawl around the carpet looking for a bud that had fallen to the floor during a previous party session. Smoking dog hair, bugs, food and dust bits was just collateral damage in finding that wonder bud under the bed and reaching the high I craved.
We woke from our late night nuptials about 1:00 pm. We made love and showered, ready for a night on the town as Mr. Tom and Mrs. Kris Connolly. I was jonesing. Whoever said you can't get addicted to weed didn't interview me. I was hooked, but since I wasn't drinking, I was cool with it. I thought it didn't count. My wife wasn't supportive but was happy I wasn't drinking. She didn't understand addiction and the addict then, and had seen a lot of alcohol damage in past relationships. She accepted what I was doing, but secretly hated it and knew she was enabling me.
Below our hotel was a strip mall with souvenir shops and liquor stores. I only had to walk a hundred yards from the front door before the street rats and hustlers surrounded me. Ice, Tic, Smack and Blow was hawked under muffled breath. The dealer also has an eye for the user and they were locked in on me. I said I was looking for weed and 3 entrepreneurs jumped to attention like valets excited to park my BMW. I made arrangements for a small amount with the guy who could score the quickest. There was no consideration for leaving my wife uncomfortable or the risk that I was talking to a cop. I was trained to look at shoes and haircuts, eyes and sunglasses. I could pick a cop out like a hippo in a chicken coop.
30 minutes went by and my connection returned. The nonchalant brutha handshake dope pass was followed by an equally unassuming cash pass hand slap. I had my weed and was dying to get flying. For me the excitement of the deal and risk mixed with the relief of the score and anxious waiting was intoxicating. I bought some papers from the liquor store and headed back up to our room, dragging my wife behind me like a frustrated parent tugging their unruly toddler through the supermarket.
In the room the next ritual was initiated. The smelling, cleaning, breaking and de-seeding was vital to the roll. I twisted a J and opened the window to vent the smoke. A pothead also rolls up a towel and places it along the crack at the bottom of the door for extra odor prevention. It really is a lot of work to get high. All the while my new bride sat impatiently prodding me to hurry up. She didn't want me high but knew I would be irritable and no fun if I didn't get my way. She was as much at mercy to my habit as I was.
I finished the doob and was now ready to go. We headed down the strip and she was excited that we were husband and wife. I kissed her and was trying to determine the quality of my high while she shattered her sweet nothings. I told her I needed to see where Tupac was killed. That was the extent of my sightseeing. We reached the spot and I screamed at the ridiculous notion that no one saw anyone shoot him that night. If I made a sudden reach for my wallet four people would look at me. How could there be no witnesses on hand the night of a Tyson fight in Vegas? We were there in May and the street was packed. I ranted on and my wife dragged me on pleading for our honeymoon dinner.
Food was near the top in my botanically induced euphoria and a buffet at Treasure Island was just what the doctor ordered. We ate a lot. I ate a lot more than I should have. We lost a few bucks gambling and I wanted to return to the room. I told her I was tired but just wanted to return for another hit or two or 10. She wanted to see more of the strip and I acted like a spoiled child being martyred every step of the way. After my drama and whining became too much, Squeaky relented.
Our walking pace back to the hotel was double what it was when we left earlier in the evening. I was tired, remember, and I needed to get back quick and relax. I bought my wife a Starbucks, her favorite, as a token apology for cutting the evening short. I said all the right things to let her know how much I loved her. I meant every word. I loved her with every fiber of my being, but I love getting high one fiber more. Once the scale tipped toward getting high I was on auto pilot.
We made it to our room, my rituals were repeated. The towel was neatly rolled sealing the outside world out of my private party and I smoked until I fell passed out. My wife watched TV, feared a bust and wondered what the rest of the honeymoon and our life had in store for her.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
My Addiction Laundry List or Man, I'm Glad They Didn't Have Meth in the 80's!
I need to point out ,once again, that I am NOT A DOCTOR or PSYCHOLOGIST. I am a person who has struggled with alcoholism and a variety of other addictions for 28 years. That doesn't qualify me as an expert but if I was listing my addiction history on a resume I would say I have "extensive and diverse experience in a variety of chemical and non-chemical dependency issues and recovery."
My sister, and only sibling, Chris Brown is a medical professional. She reminded me that I should always stress those two points. I do list those facts on my blog page in 3 different areas. People, this is my story. There are a lot of similarities between addictive behaviors. However, it is not like a burst appendix where there is a specific symptom, cause, prognosis, procedure and recovery. The only constant in addiction is the obsession and inability to control a behavior once it is begun. I am telling my story to the reader who identifies themselves as an addict or the ones who question some of their behaviors and the earthlings that live with them.
Mentioning my sister illustrates this point perfectly. We grew up in the same house, under the same conditions, share the same DNA and she is not an addict. She is well adjusted and responsible, hardworking and attentive to details and she can pour a bad margarita down the drain. I, on the other hand, would walk over to said sink and lap the margarita up, horrified at the waste of perfectly good alcohol. Insert laugh here.
My addiction to alcohol started around the age of 17. When I try to pin point the exact times in my life it is difficult because I just simply don't remember. The excessive damage that I did to my mind and body mixed with an unhealthy dose of convenient denial has blotted out large chunks of specifics in my history. I started smoking weed when I was 16 or so. I began using speed, hallucinogens, downers and other any other stuff that was handed to me, and guaranteed instant check out, at about 18 as well.
I have also been addicted to people, love, sex, pornography, work, things, gambling, food (to some extent) and cartoons. I added the cartoon part because after seeing my list I needed a little levity to lighten the tone. Man I really am F#*!ed up! Alcohol is my go to drug! It is the one that my recovery revolves around. As long as I do the things that long term recovery REQUIRE, the other ones have less of a chance to join the party.
My addictive mind knew how to work me. When I felt like my drinking was getting out of hand I would stop and switch to weed. Weed was created by God after all! It grew like tomatoes in the warm, sweet earth. Indians put it in their peace pipes. The U.S. government used to subsidize hemp farmers for growing the stuff in war time! Surely, there was nothing wrong with that. By switching to weed I could prove to myself that I wasn't an alcoholic because "they drink everyday." "I haven't drank in 3 days. Never mind that I've smoked an ounce of skunk in that same time period." I didn't just wake and bake. I did AWAKE and BAKE. As long as I was awake I was baked.
By switching from booze to weed, drug to drug, addiction to addiction, I created a false sense of control in my mind. I couldn't possibly have a problem because I could morph from one fiend to the next without being creeped out by staying on any one of them for too long of a period of time. My disease knows me better than I know myself. It is always looking for an "in". It participates in my recovery. It pays attention to what I learn about preventing relapse. It is always waiting, ever so patiently, for me to let my guard down. If I do, God only knows what would happen.
I don't ever want anyone to think that I take this stuff lightly. I am a comedian and get great pleasure, almost addictive pleasure, out of making people laugh. This is no game. Addiction is no joke. Recovery is no party. I just like to put a smile on the face of a subject that destroys the lives of users, their family, friends and innocent bystanders every minute of every day.
My sister, and only sibling, Chris Brown is a medical professional. She reminded me that I should always stress those two points. I do list those facts on my blog page in 3 different areas. People, this is my story. There are a lot of similarities between addictive behaviors. However, it is not like a burst appendix where there is a specific symptom, cause, prognosis, procedure and recovery. The only constant in addiction is the obsession and inability to control a behavior once it is begun. I am telling my story to the reader who identifies themselves as an addict or the ones who question some of their behaviors and the earthlings that live with them.
Mentioning my sister illustrates this point perfectly. We grew up in the same house, under the same conditions, share the same DNA and she is not an addict. She is well adjusted and responsible, hardworking and attentive to details and she can pour a bad margarita down the drain. I, on the other hand, would walk over to said sink and lap the margarita up, horrified at the waste of perfectly good alcohol. Insert laugh here.
My addiction to alcohol started around the age of 17. When I try to pin point the exact times in my life it is difficult because I just simply don't remember. The excessive damage that I did to my mind and body mixed with an unhealthy dose of convenient denial has blotted out large chunks of specifics in my history. I started smoking weed when I was 16 or so. I began using speed, hallucinogens, downers and other any other stuff that was handed to me, and guaranteed instant check out, at about 18 as well.
I have also been addicted to people, love, sex, pornography, work, things, gambling, food (to some extent) and cartoons. I added the cartoon part because after seeing my list I needed a little levity to lighten the tone. Man I really am F#*!ed up! Alcohol is my go to drug! It is the one that my recovery revolves around. As long as I do the things that long term recovery REQUIRE, the other ones have less of a chance to join the party.
My addictive mind knew how to work me. When I felt like my drinking was getting out of hand I would stop and switch to weed. Weed was created by God after all! It grew like tomatoes in the warm, sweet earth. Indians put it in their peace pipes. The U.S. government used to subsidize hemp farmers for growing the stuff in war time! Surely, there was nothing wrong with that. By switching to weed I could prove to myself that I wasn't an alcoholic because "they drink everyday." "I haven't drank in 3 days. Never mind that I've smoked an ounce of skunk in that same time period." I didn't just wake and bake. I did AWAKE and BAKE. As long as I was awake I was baked.
By switching from booze to weed, drug to drug, addiction to addiction, I created a false sense of control in my mind. I couldn't possibly have a problem because I could morph from one fiend to the next without being creeped out by staying on any one of them for too long of a period of time. My disease knows me better than I know myself. It is always looking for an "in". It participates in my recovery. It pays attention to what I learn about preventing relapse. It is always waiting, ever so patiently, for me to let my guard down. If I do, God only knows what would happen.
I don't ever want anyone to think that I take this stuff lightly. I am a comedian and get great pleasure, almost addictive pleasure, out of making people laugh. This is no game. Addiction is no joke. Recovery is no party. I just like to put a smile on the face of a subject that destroys the lives of users, their family, friends and innocent bystanders every minute of every day.
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