Life is Different

I found myself back in the same rehab program nine months after my first stint, this time having been fired from my job. One morning the doctor awoke me on his rounds to inform me that the results of my blood tests were in, and that my liver enzymes were high, an early warning sign on the road to cirrhosis. "That doesn't seem right,", I protested, "I was just here last summer and you said my liver was fine!" The doctor patiently explained that alcoholism was a progressive illness and I would keep getting worse if I didn't stop. "I know, I know", I wanted to say. The thing is, self-knowledge of our condition alone is not sufficient to keep us from drinking again. I knew that, too. I knew all sorts of things, but couldn't seem to apply them to my life.

I was dry for about a year after that second visit to treatment. My relapse was ferocious, and I lost another job. I was beaten down pretty badly within a few weeks of picking up the bottle. I decided I'd have to suck it up and go back to treatment for the third time in less than eighteen months. I discovered, however, that the medical insurance I had at the time would only cover fifty per cent of in-patient treatment. It might as well have not covered any of it, considering my quite limited funds.

I decided to dry out on my own. Of course, by "on my own", I simply mean "without medical supervision". In reality, I had plenty of help from family, as well as friends in recovery. I moved back home with my parents and got involved in the AA fellowship in my hometown, taking it more seriously than at any time since my first attempt at recovery, years earlier. "This time it's for real," I decided. "It has gotten way too scary out there. I can't let myself get that way ever again."

It is unfortunate that we cannot be shocked into sobriety by the consequences of our actions. The pain we create for ourselves by drinking and drugging is only useful to the extent that it sparks a spiritual change within us. No amount of chaos and misery will scare us into permanent sobriety.

Nevertheless, I did pretty well for quite awhile, living with my parents, going to work (I always seemed to find another position in my field, no matter how many I lost), and attending meetings. I was even working diligently at the Twelve Steps, with the assistance of my AA sponsor. At one point, I became involved in an ill-advised relationship with another AA member, and when things turned sour with her I was able to bounce back quickly, having learned my lesson about making significant changes too early in the recovery process. I felt that I was finally getting the hang of sober living. Unfortunately, I became complacent. Lacking the proper spiritual grounding, it was only a matter of time before I slipped.

One of my biggest relapse triggers has always been the misguided belief that I can use other psychoactive substances (besides alcohol) with some degree of success. I've taught myself otherwise many times, but I always find a way to forget. If I am in a state of spiritual stagnation, my mind can justify all sorts of nonsense.

I was in such a state, resting on my laurels, when I accepted a co-worker's prescription pain medication for a headache. I knew before I took the pills that they contained codeine, but felt that I'd be okay since I was taking the medicine for what I felt was a legitimate purpose. I felt a familiar, pleasant buzz, mild though it was, and didn't think much about it afterward.

Several months passed before I did something similar again. After three or four instances of pill-popping with no (perceived) negative consequences, I had my mind made up that I was not a drug addict. Perhaps I could, despite my alcoholism, learn to use drugs in moderation.

You readers who've been following this story from the beginning must notice a pattern emerging by now. I wish I could have seen it as easily.

After a good deal of time living with my parents, I was getting antsy about moving into a place of my own again. Once I had some money saved, I started looking for an apartment. I didn't mind living with my parents, except that I felt I needed privacy for certain matters, such as entertaining members of the opposite sex. The longer I stayed with my mom and dad, the more this idea became important to me. I suppose another factor was pride, i.e., I viewed my living arrangements as a lack of progress. So, with my small savings, I moved into a place of my own, and spent most of the remainder on new furniture.

As "luck" would have it, one of the acquaintances who helped me move happened to have a massive supply of prescription drugs, and I was soon buying pills by the handful. Within a few weeks of moving into my bachelor pad, I was getting high every day on Xanax and Vicoden. For awhile I continued attending meetings, and was able to get to work. But after a short time I had progressed from pills to crack cocaine and heroin.

Things were completely out of control before I knew what hit me. I remember feeling that it was like careening down a mountain pass on a runaway freight train -- I couldn't bring myself to jump off, despite knowing that disaster loomed ahead. There was a certain sense of exhilaration despite the terror. One of the strangest aspects of my situation was that I felt I was relatively safe because I wasn't drinking.

But eventually I lost my job, and even the desire to avoid alcohol faded. My existence became an endless stream of crack and cheap vodka. I ate and slept little. The only time I left my apartment was to drive into the inner-city for drugs, or to walk to the corner store for liquor and cigarettes.

Prior to returning to drinking, there were times I would clean up for stretches of several days, or even a few weeks. But now that I had added alcohol to the mix, I felt I was a goner. I knew that death was a realistic possibility. Eventually, my cash and credit dried up completely. When the last bottle was emptied and the last cigarette smoked, I began the process of detoxification again. I moved into a recovery house with three other addicts. I lucked out on finding yet another decent job, but before I even started working, the powerful urge to smoke cocaine overtook me once again. On my thirtieth day clean, rather than picking up a "one month" token at a meeting, I got high again. Thus began my final (please God!) binge.

After several nights of drinking and drugging, I was arrested for possession of cocaine, and on an outstanding warrant for my second D.U.I. I don't think I've ever felt lower, or more broken, than I felt a couple days after my arrest. My body and mind were detoxifying from alcohol, cocaine, and nicotine, and the harsh reality of life was beginning to shine through. I was being transported, by a state trooper, from a Detroit Police precinct to Wayne County Jail, where I would await a preliminary hearing on felony drug charges. As I sat in the police cruiser, seatbelted in, my hands cuffed behind my back, I reflected on my circumstances. I thought about how I would be kicked out of the recovery house, and the fact that I wouldn't be able to start the job I had accepted. I wondered how long I'd be in county jail (my family wouldn't bail me out -- I'd already used my one "get out of jail free card" on my first D.U.I., six years earlier), and what the jail experience would be like.

I don't have the talent to express how truly defeated I felt at that point. I had hit my bottom, and things would continue to be rough for quite some time. I'm grateful to report, though, that it's been all uphill from there.

Two and a half years later, I feel I'm still in the early stages of putting together my new life. Quite a bit has happened in that span, which I'll certainly be writing about in the near future.

Continue to My Story: A New Life - Part I