My Story: The Downward Spiral - Part Two
Continued from Part One.
When I made the decision, at age twenty, that I would give up drugs and alcohol, I didn't have any idea how difficult it would be. I knew a little about addiction and recovery from witnessing my mother's struggles, but I considered myself to only be a potential alcoholic. I did, however, decide that it would be much easier to stay clean if I had a peer group of young people in recovery. I decided to check out AA meetings in the city where I attended school.
My first meeting was in a crowded, smokey room containing a fairly representative cross-section of the community. Young and old, students and townies, business people and farmers -- all discussed their experiences with a degree of candor I found both unusual and refreshing. I must have listened to twenty or more people share their stories that evening, and I could relate with every one of them.
What I found most appealing was that they offered a solution: by working a program comprised of twelve simple steps, and by meeting together for fellowship and support, they were experiencing dramatic improvements in their lives, and growing on more levels than they had expected when they stopped getting drunk and high. I resolved on that night to make a commitment to sobriety, and to attend AA meetings on a regular basis.
The reality was that I would end up drinking and drugging far more after that night than I had before. Although I would put in quite a bit of "clean time" before relapsing, there was much misery and despair on the road ahead.
But in those early days and weeks of meeting attendance, things were certainly looking up for me. After taking spring semester off school and attending meetings in my hometown, I returned to campus the following fall. Life was better for me without the hangovers and remorse of my former life, but after a short time I began to take it all for granted, and found other reasons to be dissatisfied. Although I continued to attend meetings regularly, avoiding alcohol and drugs, I was not making the proper changes in my attitude and behavior which are necessary for long-term sobriety. I continued to have periods of depression, which seemed deeper without the anaesthetic effects of alcohol to mask the symptoms.
I couldn't understand why life wasn't going my way, now that I was sober. I can see now that I was looking at my abstinance from drugs and alcohol as a sort of sacrifice. I felt that I should be rewarded for my asceticism by having circumstances always work in my favor. It didn't seem fair to me that life was still going to be difficult.
Despite having been told since my first meeting that our drinking was only a symptom of our problem -- that we had much deeper flaws in our character which needed correcting -- I just couldn't internalize the concept or find the power to change. It is plain to me now that I just wasn't ready to accept the solution which was being offered to me, because I wasn't truly convinced that I was in need of it. I could say I was an alcoholic, but deep down I was beginning to think there was something else the matter with me. Of course, this suspicion we have of being "different" is a classic feature of our malady. I've often heard it referred to as "terminal uniqueness". I was aware of this tendency in us alcoholics, but I couldn't recognize the pattern in myself as easily as I could see it in others.
I returned to therapy and began taking antidepressants, which alleviated my depressive symptoms and gave me a fresh (read: overconfident) outlook on life. I started questioning my decision to join AA, and wondered whether it had been an overreaction to a temporary rough patch in my life. Perhaps it had been my depression, not alcoholism, that had caused my difficulty in moderating my drinking. Or maybe it was the shyness and awkwardness I felt when I was younger. Or could it be that I had just needed a period of time to cool out? Another possibility was that alcohol was my real problem, while the occasional puff or two off a joint might be fine. "But weed is no good without a couple drinks first," I reasoned, "and now that I'm over twenty-one I can drink whenever I want, so I won't have to overdo it every time . . . yeah, maybe that was my issue -- I always binged so heavily because there was no guarantee of being able to get alcohol when I wanted it. Now I'll be able to just sip a few drinks every day, rather than trying to pack it all in on the weekends." This line of reasoning led me to my first relapse, and I immediately began a pattern of nightly drinking and drugging that would continue for years.
In a sense, my addiction picked back up worse than it had been when I initially joined AA. However, with my depression pharmaceutically lifted, I didn't feel the consequences of my imbibing in the same way. Rather than passing out frequently, I could drink more and more while remaining relatively coherent. (This could also be accounted for, at least partially, by my increased tolerance for booze, which is a standard symptom of alcoholism.) The memories of the previous night's exploits no longer brought about the degree of remorse or embarrassment that they once had; my medication helped me to put a positive spin on my interpretation of events.
Occasionally, the harsh reality of my relapse situation would shine through, but my rationalization was becoming more sophisticated, so I was able to make excuses to myself. "You're just making up for lost time," I'd tell myself, "you'll settle into a groove before long, and everything will be okay." And in some ways things were improving, it seemed. I became involved in my first serious, long-term romantic relationship, my grades were better than ever, and I had a more positive attitude. I simply felt better.
I managed to graduate from college and start a career while drinking nightly and continuing to use other drugs. When I was twenty-five I was arrested for drunk driving, and placed on probation. This only stopped my drinking for a few months, during which I attended an Intensive Outpatient treatment program. After the program was over, and my driver's license restriction was lifted, I returned to my usual ways. "I'll be careful not to drive when I drink." I told myself. "Well, I may be a lush," I reasoned, "but my type of alcoholism is relatively benign. I just have to stay away from driving and I'll be alright."
The continued daily boozing was taking its toll on my body. My stomach was nearly always upset and my nerves were frazzled. I didn't have much of an appetite. I would wake up in the morning shakey and often would vomit yellow bile. Employers began taking notice of my decline, warning me about excessive absences and expressing concern for my health. Each morning I would give myself a pep talk: "Tonight, you have to take a break. You can't drink every night. You must give your body a break now and then." But by the end of the workday, despite my exhaustion, I would revise my plans: "Well, you don't want to be awake all night with the shakes. Why not just have a few drinks before bed, then one or two tomorrow night. Wean yourself down, then take a few days off completely." I could always find an excuse for the first drink, and after that it was off to the races. We alcoholics can't predict what will happen after the first drink. Sometimes the first one would turn into a binge. Other times I truly would only have a few, but that would tend to increase my urge the following day.
As the years passed, cocaine and various pills were added to my usual assortment. I would blame my inability to control my use on my antidepressant, then would quit the medication and blame my depression for the same problem. Most of my paycheck went to bartenders and dope dealers. I felt that I was only working in order to pay for drugs and alcohol, and could barely hold a job even for that purpose. When I had girlfriends, they were either enablers or substance abusers themselves. I began thinking that I might die while I was still in my twenties.
Stay tuned for Part Three.