#Trigger warning – alcohol, addiction, grief, anxiety, shame, family and addiction treatment
To my sons – Matthew, Patrick, and Thomas
What you are about to read is a journal I wrote during my first stay in a rehab to treat my alcohol and drug abuse over 28 years ago. I was 35 years old, very unwell, scared shitless and naive. I had just walked through the doors of a psychiatric hospital, having finally admitted that alcohol was destroying my life. I was full of bravado, shame and denial, all swirling inside a man who looked like your Dad but barely recognized himself anymore.
I wrote this not as an ego driven reflection, but as a lifeline to the outside world. Each word was spewed forth from the edge of a breakdown. I didn’t write it for you then because I wasn’t strong or wise enough for that, but I share it with you now because I want you to see who your father was when everything began to fall apart. Not as a memorial to past drama, but to acknowledge the journey since.
I had vowed, during those first days, that I would never drink again and never enter another rehab in my life. I broke that vow more than once. There were more lies, overdoses, seizures, panic attacks. I shattered the trust of people I loved. I blew up a marriage with your amazing Mum that was already fragile. I crawled through shame I thought I’d never survive.
But I did survive. And I backed up. One day at a time. Again, and again. Some days I did not want to get up because it seemed too hard. The recovery hill seemed too high to scale, but my desire to leave you a legacy of courage and love was stronger than my many weaknesses.
And now, as I write this to you after 27 years without one drop of booze in my system, I look back at that young man with a fair amount of confusion but deep empathy. I see his naivety, his ego, his internal chaos but also his bravery, our bravery. That was the beginning of a long road that led me back to life. To you. To trust. To love.
This journal will shock you. It may make you angry. It could make you proud. Whatever it stirs in you, I offer it with open hands, not as a burden, but as a testimony. To emotional honesty. To the painful, beautiful, unrelenting process of becoming whole.
If these words do anything for you, let it remind you that no matter how far we fall, we can begin again. That love, once lost, can be found. That integrity, once broken, can be rebuilt.
I love you more than these words can hold.
Dad
THURSDAY 10.4.97.
12.30PM “Six drops of essence of terror, five drops of sinister sauce. Oops too much!”
Welcome to the nut house. It’s finally come down to this – hands out, handcuffs on. Meafuckingculpa. I’ve admitted defeat and I need help. I’m pretty much an emotional mess – had a headache that would’ve killed ten men and my nerves are dancing an interesting version of the Rumba. My mum (God luv her) and my youngest boy dropped me off and I just walked straight through the door: John Wayne striding into the sunset facing his nemesîs, his rifle on his shoulder and horse by his side. My beautiful little boy couldn’t understand why Daddy was going to hospital. Dad looked fine the day before.
However, during the intervening period Dad had spent ten fruitless hours drinking beer and snorting cocaine. Ten crazy hours of lies. deceit and waste.
I.30PM. Phoned my wife – the hardest call l’ve ever made. Finally had the guts to tell her I was using cocaine again, that my drinking was in destruction mode and my life was a lie. I could hear the pain, doubt and confusion in her silence. “What the hell have I done to deserve this?” “Why do I have to hold things together while you fall apart?” – She wanted to say all of that but had too much grace and compassion. “It’s not you, it’s my disease. Be proud of who you are. Do not see my actions as a reflection of your worth.” – I wanted to say, but my cowardice would have denied any such reply.
2.30PM. The parade of specialists begins. Nurses, doctors, psychiatrists, you name it . They file in to my room and stab me, prod me, test me and historical me. I emotionally open up to my past and admit to a group of health professionals that I have a problem that I cannot control.
I’m placed on Blue Alert, which basically means don’t leave the unit fella or you are outta here! I feel like a felon awaiting trial. Well, the comparison isn’t far from the truth. I’ve been abusing my body, soul and mind.
5.30PM. Meatballs, vegies and valium for dinner. I’ve had the meatballs and spuds before but never the latter and boy does it pack a punch. I sleep coma like for 13 hours and wake akin to a hibernating bear. It.s not a nice experience. I feel someone or something has stole a day from my life. A drug is a drug no matter the prescription, the package, the dealer, the legality. No more valium for this black duck and I tell the nurse accordingly!
FRIDAY 11.4.97.
7.30AM. Finally get out of bed; feeling nothing, hearing nothing, saying anything. I do the necessary things, unpack my kit, pack the wardrobe, tidy the room. make the bed and have a shave and shower. I try to gather some order into my immediate existence by leaving the room spotless. My wife would be shocked but my actions are not driven by cleanliness. I don’t want to forget why I’m here by making this hospital room a little piece of home. That would somehow be a lie !
8.00AM. I can’t get my mouth and stomach around breakfast thanks to the after effects of the valium.
8.50AM. I introduce myself to the group in the Unit common room and promptly breakdown. Good start Dave, welcome to the nightmare. I feel like an actor that’s fluffed his first line on Broadway, but I quickly realize that any pretenses are down. The people sharing this room and this program are here for a common purpose. Basically good people who somehow lost their way and are trying to regain a life that resembles normality, not chaos!
9.00AM. First group meeting aptly called Pathway to Recovery. “Long bloody road!” but let’s hop on the bike and see where it takes me. The group is evenly gendered and represents an open window to modern western society. Business executives, housewives, rock stars, dealers and street kids share the furniture. The group leader is an upbeat and unnervingly frank man. An ex addict, so he knows the ropes. Combining good natured banter with the truth his words strike the right chords. His main point is SOBRIETY at all costs. You don’t have a job, a family, a life if you are not sober. It’s a fact I’ve been avoiding for a number of years. Believe me boy, you are an alcoholic – don’t pick up that first drink. Oh well no more icy cold beers, let alone an earthy chardonnay. ONE DRINK means 5.00am, a runny nose and an angry wife. The comparison sounds dramatic but that’s how I must view my drinking!
I.30PM. Just lie on my bed and stare at a blank, sterile wall. I fall asleep and dream of peace – a NIRVANA that has eluded me all my adult life. I wake up and my dream becomes a nightmare. Reality is a monastic like cell in a psychiatric hospital. Too removed to get upset, I resign myself to rehabilitation that I know is a must.
6.00PM. I take the sterile, fire escape stairwell to the dining room. The quality and range of the food is excellent. There is a blackboard menu as you walk into the canteen. I load up a large meal on my tray and select a table where I can eat alone. Like a wild dog I devour my kill, not wishing to share my private space. Being a psychiatric hospital, the passing parade of diners is fascinatingly tragic. Addicts, alcoholics, bulimics, anorexics and manic depressants feed their disorders. Relatives and loved ones accompany some of the patients and their hollow, sad eyes burn at my hope.
7.40PM. Four of the inmates are driven to an AA Meeting at Chatswood. I’m one of the most reluctant travellers. I sit alone in silence, fear and childish despair. We drive past a well known North Shore watering hole. I can see the beer taps shining through the door and the urge to drink becomes frighteningly real. WOW, the feeling is all consuming and it nearly pulls me out of my seat – drive on bus driver, drive on.
8.00PM We arrive at the meeting. I can’t believe it – the pavilion at Chatswood Oval. I’ve played cricket here, got drunk in the very room the meeting’s being held. Driven from this place when I was a young bloke, full of beer, to continue the binge in some Eastern Suburb pub. The coincidence strikes a chord and I’m strangely amused and uplifted. The meeting proves to be both cathartic and enjoyable. The recovering alcoholics who stand to speak have swum in booze and drugs, have suffered loss, grief and shame and can live a life sober – ONE DAY AT A TIME!! Most of them look so bloody healthy it is sickening. They laugh, they smile, they cry, they commiserate, they sometimes even preach but most importantly they don’t live a lie. I walk out of my first AA Meeting knowing I suffer from the disease of alcoholism and somehow it is comforting. Admit you are powerless over alcohol and that your life has become unmanageable. OK – you’ve got me. We took a taxi back to the hospital and passed the same pub that serenaded me earlier. Three young men lurch out of the front door and attempt to traverse the Pacific Highway. Glowing cheeks, challenging eyes, needless laughter – pure pathos and I know how they feel.
SATURDAY 12.4.97.
6.30AM. Wake up tired having not slept well. The withdrawal from alcohol and cocaine is stamping its mark on my sleeping patterns. In military fashion, I have a shower, get dressed and tidy my room. The mundane things seem to keep the sane thoughts happening.
7.30AM. Go down to breakfast on my own. Not out of choice – everyone else in the unit is still asleep. The door to the dining room is closed awaiting the arrival of the anorexics and bulimics. Ironically, they get first bite at the cherry at mealtimes. Ten waifs march in single file past the aisle of food. Every move, bite and resigned grimace monitored by two nurses. Their meals finished, they trapse out in line, watched like hawks, so they don’t spew forth their life saving sustenance. Beautiful young women, their eating and thought patterns controlled by how society and glossy tabloids think they should look. Bring on the male anorexics; no, we’re too worried about swilling beer and beating our scrawny chests. Human spiritually replaced by cardboard cutouts and unattainable dreams. What have we come to? Where have we lost our way?
9.30AM. Reading group with Andy. This bloke is a wind up toy. A gem of a soul. A Beethoven in a sea of Sex Pistols watched by an audience of Bay City Rollers. He is an inspiration to a room of drunks and addicts and we hang off each syllable rifled from his rapid fire lips. The group reads an article on the Unhappiest Person In The World – the chronic alcoholic or addict unable to enjoy the simple living skills of eating, sleeping and earning a living. The thrust of the article is self respect and peace of mind, which can be obtained. Firstly, don’t pick up that initial drink or drug. Face your demons by accepting yourself and live day to day. Do not focus on the could haves in the past and could be in the future. My ears certainly pricked up.
11.00AM. GOAL SETTING. This is a potentially important meeting for the inmates, but not all attend and the rest of us appear flat. The idea of studying on a Saturday doesn’t sit easily but for me each hour spent in this place is crucial to my recovery. Skipping classes in a psychiatric hospital is like not wearing a. helmet on a motor bike – stupid! The information in the session proves critical; What do you want to achieve in life? Where, when, with who? How will I achieve lasting peace? Simple questions, but for a man who has masked his true feelings behind a fog of chemicals the answers loom daunting! It strikes me that a contract must be made deep within yourself. I, like any other human being need sustenance, shelter, love and companionship. I am also used to an income that provides far beyond my basic needs. However, that prosperity has also been a catalyst to my drinking and drugging. What I must change are my thinking patterns, that through repetition have become the norm. They are destructive and downright anti- social. I must set realistic goals that incorporate a lifestyle and a social support mechanism that will maintain my sobriety and sanity. What I have quickly learnt in this hospital is that sobriety cannot be maintained without outside help. Alcoholics Anonymous, psychiatrists, counselors, family (?), community. Looks like I’m joining the debating club – aren’t they all nerds?
0PM. Free time till dinner. I read the Saturday papers from front to back and then do it blindfolded. I’m climbing the walls, totally bored, mentally on edge and desperately missing my wife and children. I lapse again into self pity, disgusted with my actions, worried about my present situation and fearful of my future. It proves to be an unavoidable exercise in in mind games but the knowledge doesn’t ease the pain.
6.00PM. Dinner time – ravioli boscaiola and it tastes great. My taste buds and appetite are definitely on the improve.
8.00PM. All the inmates attend a Narcotics Anonymous meeting in the auditorium at the hospital. A few of the alcoholics think they are above this type of gathering but I figure that any news is good news. It is confronting that people at their lowest can still let misconceptions and prejudice cloud their judgement. The next two hours leave an indelible impression. The ravaged faces and bodies that fill this room are mind blowing. My own prejudices come to the fore. “These people must all be heroin addicts”, I mentally note to myself. “Only smack could inflict such damage!” But as the meeting proceeds, I find I’m way off base. Any drug imaginable with mostly alcohol as the gate opener to the harder substances. I have been bombarded by the press, advertising companies and my peers that alcohol is a normal part of adult life, its use of no harm, but this meeting shows me reality. Booze is a preamble to other drugs and those red face scholars; these henchmen of hypocrisy should wash the barley seeds from their eyes and smell the rose. Cliched pun, but my anger is sated.
The destruction, chaos and paranoia cling to the air but as the addicts wander head down to the stage and speak, I am serenaded by the focus. This is the human spirit at its best. I feel a profound sense of belonging and am cleansed by the experience. I am proud to be one among many.
10.00PM. I fall quickly into slumber considering the tatami-like mattress and 1970’s air conditioning unit chatting in my ears. My dreams are numerous and gut wrenching – dreams of loss and despair. Hope dangled in front of me then ripped from my grasp by demons ablaze with fury! Reality? Maybe! Science fiction7 Time will tell.
SUNDAY 13.4.97.
6.30AM. I woke up in a sweat of shock. I shower quickly, trying to wash away the nightmares but stray tendrils hang to my skull. Being a novice inmate I have to ask the nurse for a leave pass to purchase a newspaper. She checks my records, no sin bins. She grants my freedom requesting a hasty return. The walk to the news agency is around 2 kms, down into the affluent bowels of the North Shore. It’s a beautiful morning and I skip child like along the path. I pass a group of revelers returning from a night of success and excess. It only reminds me of pain. I stop at a set of lights, cross an empty road and walk by a house from a picture book. Lawns manicured, two European cars standing astride a child’s bike in the driveway. The windows are precisely dressed, and a round, rainbow ball sits nonchalantly in the garden. It is the quintessential family home from House and Garden, a mind’s eye existence that I am destroying through my drugging, and the feelings the image evoke brings me to tears. A grown man sobbing in the morning sun. Thank Christ it’s a Sunday – no pun intended my Lord! I finally reach the little group of shops, and the scene reminds me of my childhood. A news agency with cluttered shelves, biros sitting in cups, dust on the Playboys. Two old men talking under an awning, one leaning on a standard issue red letterbox, papers tucked diligently under their arms. My spirits lifted, I begin the walk back, deliberately stopping outside THAT house, soaking in the scene. Happiness is achievable whatever the outcome. Just stay clean! I re-enter the hospital feeling like a bit player in a B grade movie, but no matter the paycheck, the feeling is right.
7.30AM Breakfast. Bacon and eggs, then toast, cereal, juice, coffee, fruit, more coffee and toast. I’m going to have to be wheeled out of this joint.
IO.00AM. Off to another AA meeting at Royal North Shore Hospital. It’s a peaceful 10 minute walk in the morning sun. Three of us take a short cut through the decaying yet historically beautiful Gore Hill Cemetery – shame North Sydney Council, shame. The poignancy and tranquility of death lies abstract among the weeds, but the meeting and the grief of alcoholism makes death very real. The lies, the late nights, the guilt and anguish, the waste and near misses so quickly forgotten, return with a punch They have never left, they never will. However, as the members stand up and state their first name and their length of sobriety, the comfort of the room envelopes me. I’m here with kindred spirit, with my family and the higher power created among fellow believers is a resolution for our sobriety. That first drink is an unfaithful lover, an unfaithful lover in a skintight dress. Only alcoholics can understand another alcoholic, that is why we need each other – to remind us of our past and spotlight our hope.
12.30PM. Lunch and I opt for a salad and water. Must watch the waistline sweetheart!
2.30PM. A moment I have been both yearning and dreading for days. Mum and my little boy are arriving for a visit. I met them in the foyer. Mum looks good, both strong and positive. She has shopped for some clothes and a pair of runners that I desperately need and also hands over $50.00 for a bit of pocket money. I feel like an errant schoolboy that’s blown his allowance. During my final binge I wasted over $1,000.00. It’s a salient reminder of how out of control my life was becoming. My boy looks angelic. I held him not wanting to let go. I smell his hair, drink his eyes, touch his face, try to memorise him for the hours ahead. I shocked myself by not crying and then so quickly the visit’s over. We walk to the car and the little fella asks for a hug and kiss. At that moment I’m complete and I wave them farewell. I walk back to the ward alone, emotions awash. My wife and my 2 other boys are hundreds of kilometres away. I pray to God for the chance of atonement. Will I mend the shattered bridges? Will I be allowed? I chant to myself “One day at a time”, but the reality of my situation and the pathetic level I have descended to is all too much. I lay inert on the bed staring at my closed door. The 4+3 room of my life. As Doctor Smith would say – “The pain, the pain!”
8.O0PM. We all attend an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting at the clinic. I recognise a few faces. Businessmen, housewives, simple people, but again the common bond. I purchase a book on the 12 STEPS TO RECOVERY and I take it back to my room and commence to digest its wisdom. Step One is admitting that we were powerless over alcohol and that our lives had become unmanageable. I knew that 3 years ago so step one is accepted at face value – I can’t control my drinking/drugging and when intoxicated I lead an existence of deceit and lies. I admit defeat. Read on Aristotle, read on! This humbling admission can be a major hurdle for alcoholics/addicts but is the final bond between us and a failing erosion of trust for our loved ones. I welcome sleep, realizing that I’m sick seeping into my pain.
MONDAY 14.4.97.
7,30AM. I am awakened by a nurse from a deep sleep and I quickly shower and eat a light breakfast. My health has improved resulting in uninterrupted sleep, regular bowel movements and a clear set of lungs. Blood pressure is 125/79, liver, kidneys and heart are functioning normally; quite remarkable considering the regular pastings I gave myself.
9.30AM. We paint. The theme – LET IT OUT, LET IT BE, ROADS JOURNEY. Rembrandt I’m not but my feelings come out. I use a biblical slant. A version of Christ leaving the tainted temple, fasting for forty days and forty nights and finding NIRVANA through sacrifice, pain and awakening. Though the paintings differ among the group the themes are basically the same. PAIN, JOURNEY, PEACE. We walk out of the session in better spirits.
11.30AM An in depth session with the head psychiatrist. The inmates are tense as if we perceive a few home myths will emerge from the denial. We discuss the issues of responsibility and boundaries. OH OH! The addict must take charge of their actions to be responsible to those outside their personal sphere. One must be at peace and then set achievable goals, taking into account emotional and psychological limitations. Be realistic, be gentle with yourself. This is an important session for moi. Basically, I’ve never been comfortable with who I am, and I’ve hidden my low self esteem behind material achievement, lies and alcohol/drugs. “You are a shallow prick!” My true feelings have been masked behind bluster and so called personal success driven by family expectations. The behavior manifested by chemicals has created enormous guilt and secrecy, so my relationships have been compromised by me being consistently on the back foot.
Living in fear and self loathing have eaten at my soul, stripping my confidence and spirituality. However, if I can remove the substances I can confront my emotions with a clear head and negate the reasons for guilt. The steps to remedy are obvious but sheer will power is not enough. If history has shown me anything it is that! My cognitive behavior has to change so I stop self medicating. MY MIND IS A BLANK PAGE – write your masterpiece!
3.00pm. Welcome to the weekly individual assessment. I walk into Room 14 for the session and find myself surrounded by a team of doctors and nurses. A bit daunting but I swallow my nerves and the update begins. It proceeds somewhat like this. DOCTOR ONE – “All vital signs appear normal’ PATIENT – “That sounds encouraging.” DOCTOR TWO – “White blood cells are down and so is the iron” PATIENT – “That doesn’t sound too good.” DOCTOR ONE – “Can be the case for an alcoholic like you but we may have to test later if it doesn’t improve.’ PATIENT – “Oh yes, I am an alcoholic – ouch. What would we test for later?” DOCTOR ONE – “Leukemia.” PATIENT – “REALLY!” NURSE ONE – “How do you feel?” PATIENT – “Physically I feel well.” NURSE ONE – “No, how do you really feel?” PATIENT – “Oh! Anxious, guilty, sad, nervous, alone, in despair!” PSYCHATRIST – “Symptoms normal then. Do you miss the chemicals?” PATIENT – “At this point in time, like a hole in my head. However, I am worried that once I leave the safety of this fine establishment, I might fall prey to the temptations of the flesh!” NURSE TWO – “It will be up to you to take responsibility for your actions by resolving emotional issues while staying sober.” PATIENT – “Really! If it was that easy I wouldn’t be here talking to a bunch of over MEDICARED GURUS would I?” DOCTOR ONE – “Thank you, that will be all.” I left the room in more doubt than when I left, vowing not to be dismissive with another person again.
2,30PM. My mother and boy bring in some bare necessities. The feeling of well being and love is enormous. They look so good. We talk and give each other assurances of love and support. For me, it is a blessing, but they are gone before I can adjust to their presence and the anguish sets in – HARDI My wife, my sons, my parents, my sisters, my friends: all deceived, all hurt, all covering for the errant husband, father, son, brother. Not a friend, but a bar room acquaintance. I lie on my bed of remorse chanting a right of atonement “I will make amends, I will not make the same mistakes, and I will find the man I was created to be!” To be at peace and happy seems an empty bucket at the top of a well, me sitting on the stone bottomed pit, looking up at the unreachable.
4.00PM. The inmates are forced to watch a 1980’s American video on peer group pressure and the result is nigh on mutiny. The acting is pathetic, the plot absurdly politically correct and the dialogue a mixture of Sesame Street and Play School. In other words, it’s a hell of a laugh. I feel sorry for the young Irish nurse sitting in on the group, but she quietly chuckles behind her clipboard. We walk from the room, tears streaming from every working gland. The head nurse who we’ve nicknamed Nurse Ratchett thinks we’ve been profoundly moved by the experience and voices her approval of the fine documentary. She does not seem to understand the howls of laughter that greet her critique. I stroll to my room feeling like a naughty child Even these professionals treat the drunk as a juvenile offender. Most of the patients could lend half their I.Q. to the staff and still win a mental sprint. Now, now David, humility is something you have vowed to attain and you are the patient, drunk and addict
6.30PM. I stand in the shower relaxing under the hot shards of H2O. It often seems that my mind is only at rest when I’m in the water. Sleep only offers resentful splinters of calm. As I dry my cooling skin I can feel my scalp come alive under the towel. It somehow feels it is rediscovering itself after a period of dormancy and as I brush my hair something more powerful thuds into my sub-conscience. The force of the mental collision shakes me to my toes. My pupils widen in the mirror. I mouth the affirmation to the rejection of a man that has reached the age of 35 and has not lived a day of his adult life in recognition of his own needs. All the goals, success and aspirations have been formed around the beliefs and needs of parents, teachers, church and so called social norms. I am a sheep wandering aimlessly with the flock. Shear the fleece shepherd, I now want a staff of my own!
7.40PM. The addicts are driven in the clinic’s minibus to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting at Mosman. The meeting is held in a dingy hall attached to the side of a church – apt. Young people lurk in the shadows of the entrance taking furtive sips from cherished cigarettes. A majority of the participants are fighting the horrors of heroin addiction, gamely battling to stay clean. Their fight is inspiring even though the body count is high and once again I am struck by the purpose and commitment of these individuals. A drug is a drug is a drug, whether it be valium, booze, heroin or cocaine We are all addicts striving to beat our disease, to live a clean and happy life. I am proud to be among these people, humble to be their brother in arms.
9.30PM. We arrive back at the clinic and watch some TV without me falling asleep. It is a major step in my social recovery. I will now be alert enough to walk to the television and turn off the driveling crap they pass off for entertainment and information. Exposed breasts, sport and perfect teeth are not enough to keep the masses happy. Maybe there should be a clinic for television executives and tabloid editors. Part of the therapy would be a forced 10 hour viewing and reading of their own product, then a few jolts of electric shock, Perhaps, a few rehab viewers could then run an extended session on painting shells, potting geraniums and comparing home mortgages. Then a few hours of Lotto draws. Ah, the irony!
TUESDAY 15.4.97.
7.00AM. Awake! For about the 6th time that night. Slept in stops and starts worrying about finances and family and I can’t avoid the facts. Stuffed up BIG TIME! I dreamt about people who’ve annoyed the hell out of me or used my generosity to manipulate a situation. Not a pleasant night and the thought looms large that working is not a priority in my present state of mind. That will put the cat among the pigeons.
9.30AM. It’s time for a ward meeting. The head nurse talks on issues of ward maintenance and unit operations. An illegal substance has been found on the unit. WINK WINK! Some boof head hid a bag of coke in the clothes dryer and it inadvertently got baked before Nurse Ratcliett claimed the prize. She seemed quite happy with the news as she explained the legal, moral and emotional ramifications. “You’re preaching to the converted!” I mused to myself. The news of the find strikes a note of discord with the inmates, creating feelings of guilt and suspicion. Accusing eyes scan the room. I feel somehow cheated, as if a fellow druggie is beating the system while I’m striving for an honest recovery via abstinence. We all leave the meeting in downcast moods. I firmly believe the nurse erred in her delivery but she’s the boss, so I bite my lip and concentrate on my own program.
10.30AM Most discussion between the patients are about the drug find. I find it all so unnecessary and destructive. I quietly curse the budding lineage of the nurse and request an urine test to clear my name. as do a few others. A whole wave of paranoia, a tsunami of shame. The only people who will benefit is the pathology lab, which screens the wee at $40.00 a wazzle.
11.00AM. We are doing a session on ASSERTIVENESS! The ability to convey your feelings, emotions and needs to your loved ones without having an argument. The counselor stresses that a person should stop and think before talking. Easy to say in this clinical environment but I agree with his argument. He then goes on to talk about the timing and delivery of discussions. Nurse Ratchett, are you listening? When we talk to our significant others, we must exchange our ideas and feelings without role playing and slipping into patterns of behavior – I wonder how my wife will receive this information?
4.00PM. A relaxation and meditation session. Shit! Meditating sends me cold. I’d prefer to attend a three hour lecture on morals from Fred Nile. Imagining swimming with dolphins in crystal caves while listening to bird music just isn’t my bowl of pasta.
6.00PM. Dinner. I enter the dining room happily buoyant and leave shattered. Two young girls desperately crying, their anorexia staining their souls and bodies. Their mothers stand helpless, hands buy their sides, the fellow diners lost in their addictions and dependencies. A young man sits in a comer, his parents trying to fathom his habit of shoving dirty needles into his veins. Memories of birthday parties and Christmas trees lost in their child’s hollow eyes. So much pain, so much sadness – a clinic of wasted lives and distant dreams. I retreat to a hot shower to wash away the horror, my taste buds numb, my hands tingling with fear.
7.00PM. I caught a bus to an AA meeting. Cannot remember the last time I’ve ridden on a bus! New experiences greet each new day. I’ve also purchased a phone card to keep in touch with the outside world. It’s funny how the simplest possessions have become the greatest of treasures. I am experiencing humility. My Catholic faith that I so conveniently abandoned comes back to gently prod me – Lord Jesus, let thy will be done. “Not I’ll not carrion comfort, despair not feast on thee, untwist slack they may be, these last strands of man.” – G.M. Hopkins. I gaze from the city smudged bus window and realize I may have grown a little. I think of my wife, and I am still in love with the girl I first met in a rented boat in the national park at Audley. It seems so long ago but I can still see that pure smile, the sparkling eyes and the silly felt hat I wore. The eyes of my lover do not shine these days. They weld scars to my heart, they burn holes in my faith, they look at me and try to reinvent a man long lost to drugs and selfish bravado. She is humiliated. She is in shock, she is submerged with lies. Too many times, too many times! Yet we still hold on, moments of joy in our boys’ laughter, moments of kindness despite me. We are friends but she sits alone in a chair a thousand kilometres away, while I ride a bus to a meeting of drunks.
8.00PM. The AA meeting is a good one. Young crowd, equal mix of males and females. I’m asked to stand up and tell my story. My voice falters as I begin to speak. It is an emotional yet cleansing experience. I feel as if I’ve cleared a hurdle and I am on the track properly. Don’t forget why you are here, don’t forget where you have come from! I return to my room and my bed is a refuge.
WEDNESDAY 16.4.97.
6.40AM. My eyes open and it has been a good sleep. Get changed and go for a walk. Buy the paper and some greeting cards for my wife and boys. The feeling of failure is strong as I write to the boys. For God’s sake, stay sober and get it right.
8.30AM. We conduct our own self help meeting, loosely based on an AA program. It proves to be a spiritual experience. Eight people from different backgrounds, education and wealth. There is however a common thread – ADDICTION! Throw in pain, loss, guilt and despair, and it’s an hour of laughter, tears and a smidge of healing.
12.30PM. Four of us caught a train to an AA meeting in Chatswood. Another rewarding experience, coupled with a groovy $5.00 haircut. Never knew the TANGARA trains were so quiet and comfortable. The graffiti never changes though; all these Brian’s offering cut price head jobs in Hornsby.
3.30PM. My mum rings. A tangible reminder of’ what waits outside.
4.00PM. The group has a meeting on stress management during recovery. The nurse who leads the group seems downright crazy, so he fits comfortably into the group. I do not understand one thing he says but others appear to relate. Who am I to disagree?
6.00PM. Go to dinner and eat in silence. Feel pretty shitty and swallowing the food is a task I struggle with. When you are a drunk and feeling low, not many people give a damn. They either do not trust you or have been de-sensitized by your behavior. Shame that. Wallow, wallow, I descend into self-pity.
THURSDAY 17.4.97.
7.00AM. One week sober. Amazing! I walk via St. Leonards’ railway station on the way to buy a paper. The footpath and platform swarm with people and only a handful appear to be content. Most of them don’t seem to be nursing a hangover though – who was I kidding when I went to work looking like a reject from Thin Lizzy?
8.30AM. The self help unit meeting. Feel ambivalent, act ambivalent, but the group is upbeat and their infectious spirit lifts me. PRAISE THE LORD, REPENT SINNER YOUR DAY OF RECKONING WILL COME!
9.00AM. We do a group session on anger with the head nurse. Anger is an emotion I don’t cope with well. I’ve always seen it as a sign of personal weakness, a way of hiding your true feelings. The easy way out. I’m uncomfortable confronting people, have often given away my power to cater for the emotional needs of others. Being treated like a third wheel forces addicts to hide behind the decaying fog of self medication. Anger is O’K in the right context and the meeting gives me tools for life on the outside.
11.30AM. Time for the weekly session with the head psychiatrist. The Guru of Grog. The Dalai Lama of Dependency. The Pope of Dope! Actually, he’s a damn fine guy, and possesses a level of intelligence that is both enviable and perceptive. He is almost worth $480.00 a day alone – the food, we must not forget the food! A point learnt very quickly about alcoholism/addiction is that will power alone will not cure your disease. A program of this nature in a hospital of this ilk, is beneficial for the de-tox, the professional assistance and the adoption of new skills. But once you leave the sanctuary of the rehab, the individual will need to deal with the pressures, temptations and expectations of the outside world. The fact that such clinics exist testifies that will power alone will fail; again and again. Just ask any drunk or addict at Victoria Square. Therefore, support mechanisms need to be in place. In other words, a discharge plan to combat the circumstances and thought patterns that drive people to the brink of despair and helplessness. For myself the plan of action is;
– 2 to 3 AA meetings per week.
– a sponsor or mentor to guide me during my early recovery.
– rekindling my Catholic faith and attending Sunday Mass.
– monthly sessions with a psychiatrist who specializes in dependency disorders.
– handing my destiny over to a higher power.
– avoiding places, people and situations that may trigger a re-lapse.
– not setting unachievable goals in business, family and health. Easy does it.
– not being too hard on myself. Accepting who I am!
4.00PM. Relaxation session. The exercise shown by the nurse is simple, quick and effective. No incense, bean bags, aquatic mammals or rainforests. There is a God!
8.00PM. Two young men from Narcotics Anonymous come to the clinic and talk about their heroin addictions. Absolutely scared the shit out of me and then came back for the colon. Heroin claims its victims at pace. I could visualize the drug in the blood, a leech attached to the soul. These men displayed courage and fire in front of total strangers, their lives on the table. We were interns, probing and dissecting the cadaver of their addictions. Sheer fucking guts and I cried for their passion. My tears washed their pain and gave them succor for the days ahead Those men will stay with me. Their fading tattoos, a legacy of love and damnation. Never will I look down on an addict again. ADMIT WE WERE POWERLESS OVER OUR ADDICTIONS.
10.00PM. One of the inmates receives a bad phone call from home. His positive mood shattered into pain and remorse. What a sad and fragile place this can be. One day at a time, my friend.
FRIDAY 18.4.97.
6.30AM. A few of the boys go for a long walk down to the harbor baths. It’s a crisp, clear morning and I feel whole. The city skyscape of Sydney puts on a show for its temporary boarders and we show our appreciation.
9.00AM. We have two sessions on pathway to recovery. The group is strongly led by a visiting lecturer. The issues are confronting. I wish there was an easy way out because I sometimes feel my life is a constant battle. Your life, your choice. Easy to say, hard to put in place, but sobriety has its attractions;
– I never want to see the inside of this place again!
– I’ve had a gutful of self-inflicted pain and abuse.
– I want my life back.
– I want to prove to myself and my family that I can lead a responsible, rewarding and happy
life.
12 NOON. My wife hasn’t phoned since I’ve been here. It’s been 8 days. I know what she’s going through. I feel her pain and humiliation. Does she feel mine? The bridges haven’t been burnt, they’ve been nuked! She might not have the trust and energy to forgive one more time. I understand but it doesn’t make it any easier. It makes it bloody worse. I will try to make amends, but it all seems too late.
12.45 PM. My wife calls. Spooky! Did she feel my pain? She is tolerant, kind and supportive. We connect across the phone – our friendship and love of each other is tangible. She is not happy, not even close but I am honest with her questions. The waste, the lies, it pours from my mouth. I can only ask her to watch my future actions. I cannot make any promises, as they would only ring hollow. We have invested too much love and effort in this relationship to give up now. I have a disease. A mongrel without a collar, a cancer that may respond to treatment. Have I not the right to recovery? Am I different from the mother with breast cancer, the child with asthma? The righteous would say that I had a choice. Fuck the righteous! Their disease is tainted with the blood of the innocent, the blood of the unrepresented. Let them come to these halls and preach their wisdom. ET TU BRUTE!
1.30PM. A session on change with one of the psychiatrists. He lists the main areas the addict must address to achieve and maintain sobriety.
Thinking.
Environment.
Relationships
Physical health.
He talks about the motivations for change, the consequences of change and the commitment to change. It is a long hard road. I hope I’ve got enough spare tyres, a warm thermos and some yummy chicken sambos.
4.30PM. Friday afternoon. End of the working week. Reward night. Oh boy, I can taste that cold beer, see the gleaming line of woofta. The fantasy dominates my thought patterns for an hour. WOW! The power of the jilted lover, wooing me back, offering forgiveness if I just sample her fare. Begone foul temptress. Haunt me no more.
SATURDAY19.4.97.
7.00AM. Wake early and walk to the newsagent. I feel strange – no emotion, a blank. Return to the hospital and have a shave and shower. Eat a huge breakfast, but my hunger is only quelled. I get the feeling that today is going to be a watershed.
11.00AM. We do a reading class. The inmates take turns to read some prose, poetry; anything that appeals. I recite some of my written thoughts and quickly breakdown. Great sobs begin in my diaphragm and shake my body. Most of the group cries with me, as if my words and actions have triggered emotions we all have oppressed. A woman holds me as if I’m a wounded child. The minutes pass and eventually I look up, reddened and embarrassed. I receive weak smiles and a few chastened nods. Something has passed from within and I feel stronger. Not better, not more confident, just stronger.
12.00NOON. Free time for the brethren. There is a steady stream of visitors and relatives for the other patients. Laughter and tears fill the sterile rooms and corridors. Even the sunlight seems paler in this joint I have no visitors, but I don’t feel sorry for myself. I walk to a local gym, resolve my commitment to sobriety and throw some weights around. The effort is medicinal.
6.30PM. Narcotics Anonymous meeting at the clinic. I’m asked to be the opening speaker and almost enjoy the experience. I seem to strike a chord with some of the audience. Again, I am stuck by the spirituality and love in the room. All these people have been where I’ve been and we all know it isn’t a nice place to be.
SUNDAY 20.4.97.
9.00AM. I lead our support group. One of the inmates has had a substantial amount of money stolen. The news drives a stake into the heart of the group and all our old feelings of guilt, suspicion and paranoia rise to the surface. Some justification and soul searching transpires but the group holds together. MAY THB FORCE BE WITH YOU!!
10.30AM. AA meeting at Royal North Shore Hospital. It is a sunny, peaceful day and I enjoy the gathering. Some older members of the fellowship are amusing and though it is difficult to relate to their banter the result is poignant. Alcoholism is a progressive disease, if you continue to drink the condition will worsen and the ultimate result is usually DEATH! Don’t pick up that first drink.
NOON. My mother, younger sister and my youngest son pick me up and we drive to Chinatown for Yum Cha. The sights, sounds, colours and smells are brighter, louder, stronger. The crowds don’t bother me. I always thought that was just a little phobia of mine. It reminds me of the lost times with my family, largely due to a hangover. My son gets upset at the table and holds me. How innocent and impressionable – it strikes me to the core. Take responsibility, your disease is a barrier to all that is good. I will make amends!
9.00PM. I retire to my room early. Tired, alone and sober.
MONDAY 21.4.97.
9.30AM. Support group.
Species; Alcoholicus Addictus.
Description; Of any colour, creed, shape or sex. Colour and thickness of hair variable.
Habitat; Seen in bars, clubs, darkened rooms, garages, park benches, B.B.Q.’s and older ones often found in gutters.
Behaviour; Varies depending on usage. Some can be loud, raucous and aggressive, others are introspective, humorless and pathetic. The younger ones are often colorful and unpredictable.
Sexual activity; Frequency and potency curtailed, not equating to heightened desire.
Diet; Any form of alcoholic beverage, chemical powder, pill or liquid. Will often resort to consuming household cleaners and aviation fuel.
10.30AM. It’s another session with the head psychiatrist. The topic is on identity and behaviour. He allows the inmates to lead the discussion and then directs us to relevant lines of cognitive thinking. I’m feeling better. This program of de-tox and rehab is the wisest choice I’ve made in life since I walked the altar. However, I never want to see the inside of this hospital again, unless I’m visiting.
1.00PM. I have a ward meeting with the nurse and physician, and they feel I am making progress. My health is excellent apart from the low white blood cells. I still suffer from anxiety and occasional cravings, but hey there is no magic potion for my ailment.
4.30PM. I’ve organized a private session with the psychiatrist. Mum and dad also attend. It is a positive yet emotional hour, but we seem to arrive at a major trigger to my drinking. I hold myself in low esteem and have covered this perceived inadequacy through material success. The work ethic has been in grounded into my psyche. Achieve, achieve, achieve. Work hard, play hard. Reap the rewards of your labour. When I have not met targets, I binge. When I reach personal milestones, I binge. I must be me, be content with me and erase any programmed beliefs of what I see as success. A life of achievement is accepting who you are. Any material milestones, any emotional triumphs are mere bonuses. Strong relationships will form around the truly contented soul.
8.00PM. We are going to an AA meeting at North Sydney. The hall is full and the fellowships strength and endurance continues to amaze. The meeting proceeds like a church service – spiritual, structured, inspiring and tedious. We walk past an outdoor bistro as we leave. A large table of women cackle and chirp. Their discussion is a flow of gossip about an unfortunate who is not there to defend herself. The moment is ugly. The empty bottles of wine, a legacy of their conduct. A convoy of 4 wheel drives line up by the footpath, ready to ferry their rosy checked mistresses home.
TUESDAY 22.4.97.
6.30am. I take a vigorous walk with an inmate. It’s a beautiful morning, full of warmth, light and hope. We talk about our history, our failures, our dreams and our future. It fuels my ambition even though the recovery looms large.
8.30AM. Time for the group meeting. The enthusiasm and bond between the inmates appear to be waning. More money has gone missing on the ward. The paranoia rises to the surface and suspicion is evident in a stray glance, a barely concealed shake of the head. It’s a shame, but hey, this is a psychiatric hospital. The pattern is cast for the rest of the day and the ensuing sessions meander in fits and starts. Little is achieved.
4.00PM. A few of us get a game of cricket going in the back courtyard. The barriers are knocked aside and the humour returns. It’s amazing what a bat and ball can do!
8.00PM. We attend a 15° birthday celebration at a local Narcotics Anonymous fellowship. We procure some props from the art room and four of us assume the role of Mexican outlaws for the party. Quadrupo Amigos – A daring and dangerous group or bandidos. We all have a ball and get a natural high with our fellow addicts. No chemical assistance – a sobering experience.
WEDNESDAY 23.4.97.
6.30AM. I sleep well and embark on another long walk. Sydney is such a beautiful city. The harbour gleams in anticipation of another day. My soul crosses the water with an early morning ferry, the salty air cleanses my wounds. I pray to be free of this addiction, but it sleeps within, waiting for a chance to feed its desire. Easy does it – clean for a day!
9.30AM. Another session with another psychiatrist. I feel flat. I miss my wife and boys. I remind myself why I am here, and I strive to absorb what is said. The words rebound on a hard, cold surface my pores blocked with the sweat of self pity.
12.30PM. A lunch time AA meeting at Chatswood. It’s held in a drab, dusty hall in the bowels of a church. Time curled posters and books line the walls, smoke stained effigies of Christ look down on the sinners. Elderly alcoholics rise to speak and their words smooth the edges of my abstraction. It does some good. I leave the church with the forgotten moths out into the sunshine of a suburban, Sydney street. I cross a busy intersection, via a pub. Drinkers perched on fading stools, form a guard of honor.
4.00PNL Stress management session. I don’t feel stress! What do you mean calm down? I am not an animal; I am a human being. You’re all mad, mad I tell you! Liars, liars, pants on fire! HA!
6.00PM. Munch, munch. Chat, chat. Sip, sip. Bye, bye. Off to bed little fella. Santa only comes to good boys, and I do so want that cricket bat and Suzi Quatro record.
THURSDAY 24.4.97.
7.30AM. I sleep badly and don’t go for a walk. Instead, stumble to the shower, take half my face off with a blunt razor and execute a bloody smile at the mirror. Those Zulus were magnificent warriors. Pour two coffees down my gob and puff on a full strength Malboro, dubiously bludged from a fellow inmate. SMOKING KILLS. Yeah, yeah. What a great start to the day!
11.30AM. The Pope of Dope conducts a powerful group on feeling good. The trips, the perceptions, the reality. We all get involved. Some of my hardest, most horrific binges were when I felt good. A reward for a job well done, so I did a good job on myself. This is where my loved ones found it difficult to fathom my behavior. “Why does he hurt us, when he is supposed to be happy and in love?” How can you argue against that logic? I can’t! Get sober, stay sober, live your life within realistic goals. I must balance work, family, play and health. I have tried to achieve Nirvana in all I’ve done. I got there for a little while, least I thought I did. The view at the penthouse was damn fine but the fall was a long one and I hit a few protruding balconies on the way down.
3.30PM. Have a chat with my designated nurse. She says I’m doing just dandy and preparing well for discharge. That word always reminds me of the Billings method. Association by distance. Being male has its advantages. Being human has its disadvantages. Waste not, want not. The old cliches interrupt my thoughts. Am I going mad? Talking to myself cannot be good. Pardon? Ssshhh.
9.00PM. I go to bed early and try to read a book. Seem to traverse the same line a dozen times. I fall asleep and am awoken by music from an adjoining room. One of the younger inmates is playing a C.D. Some form of London house music. Bloody rubbish. In my day music had a purpose. Long live Steely Dan. The marvels of the generation gap carry me into a deeper slumber.
FRIDAY 25.4.97
5.00AM. Anzac Day. Six of us have decided to attend the Dawn Service. It’s pitch black as we hop into a couple of taxis. Hair standing to attention, goo sticking to our eyes, phobia this, phobia that. The Greek taxi driver seems apprehensive – he’s just picked up 3 men from a psychiatric hospital. Are they escaping, are they dangerous? We joke about electric shock treatment and eating goldfish. It’s a speedy trip across the Harbour Bridge, the white knuckles and nervous glances of the driver betraying his fear. We screech to a halt at Martin Place and are advised that the Dawn Service was held at 4. I5AM to coincide with the landing of the diggers at Gallipoli. Trust a bunch of druggies to stuff up a perfectly noble gesture. We walk to Chinatown for yum cha and apart from a near fit brought on by chilli sauce and an amusing mood swing from two of the inmates, most of us return to the sanctuary of the hospital unscathed. A moment that I will never forget is watching those proud and brave diggers marching down George Street. Something I would not have witnessed in my drinking days.
NOON. Sleep off the early morning excursion and do not wake up till 5.00PM.
8.00PM. The dirty dozen attends an AA meeting. A few of us (including me) are feeling a bit low but the meeting is beautiful. The speakers and the atmosphere are calming, and we depart in high spirits.
SATURDAY 26.4.97.
7.00AM. Go for a walk with a fellow coke head. We talk about similar chemical induced highs and have a good chuckle. We return and both devour enormous breakfasts.
11.00AM. One of the long termers leaves the nut house to renew his contact with life. We exchange addresses and numbers, somehow knowing that the promised contact will not eventuate. It’s a sad, poignant moment. All of us must leave eventually. This clinic is hell with private health cover. A leper colony with clean sheets and prescription drugs administered by strange folk in white coats and outdated ties. However, it is secure, it is safe, it is removed. I lapse into melancholy, skip lunch and sleep. I woke up at 4.00PM, anxious, nervous and scared. Will I be accepted once I leave? Can I maintain my sobriety? This is the last throw of the dice. I don’t want to be a bum. Unloved, discarded, alone. I try to shake the negativity, but it won’t go. I eat dinner in my room – silently. A small boy, locked away, awaiting punishment. It’s one of the lowest moments of my life, so I escape to the shower and drown my sorrows, dry myself sober and it feels a little better.
8.00PM. The theatre is full for the recovery meeting and the nominated speakers are inspiring. One of the members celebrates his second clean birthday. A cake with candles, cheers and hugs. His sponsor is like a father watching his young son take that first step. God appears that night, in a small, cold theatre, attached to a stairwell, in a psychiatric hospital, nestled amongst the trees, in a quiet Sydney suburb. And the motley crew sings, the cracked voices of a handful of addicts, courageously living with a vicious disease, at one with their faith.
SUNDAY 27.4.97.
7.30AM. I sleep deeply. 18 days sober. I miss my family. It is a cancerous ball in my gut, eating away at my resolve. They are spending the weekend at a farm. My disease has removed me from everyday pleasures again. It is totally my fault but I wonder if they are happy and safe. I am feeling sorry for myself and that is dangerous. Shed your ego, find your inner self and live day to day. I am here to get better. A fact I need to understand.
10.30AM. Attend an AA meeting. It’s a job for the boys, right wing Labor party, crony filled, and a pat on the back ego trip for the long termers. I become angry but I swallow my own pride. Some of the older AA members wear their sobriety like neon badges on their sunken chests. Jealousy? Maybe, but a few of them could do with a lesson in humility.
NOON. Mum picks me up and we sample the varied delights of yum cha in Chinatown. My two sisters joined us in the feast. Dad promised to join the family but pulled out at the last moment and flew interstate. I’m disappointed but he has his own issues to deal with. Like me, he tends to internalize his anxiety and seeks avoidance to quell the noise in his head. It is a rare chance to be vulnerable together. We don’t often get the chance to sit down, in peace, minus work and screaming kids. Mum senses the significance of Dad’s absence. Dad and I often isolate ourselves because of ego and selfish pride and our actions tend to reverse the intention. Oh well, the old man is a good friend and father, and I love him deeply. Dad would have enjoyed this singular moment with his wife and kids and it is a moment in time that has happened again and again. My dear God, this runs deep.
8.00PM. Second AA meeting for the day. Strong, honest and humble fellowship. A good change from this morning’s sham!
MONDAY 28.4.97.
7.30AM. I sleep in and have a light breakfast. While I have a shower, I realize that during the last few years of my binging I was going quietly insane. Some might argue my progression into madness wasn’t so silent. I am pretty sure I’ve done some damage to the frontal lobe of my brain. My short term memory is average. What did I just say? Just in time Dr. Jekyl. Oh no, I’m changing.
9.30AM. We do an art class with one of the nurses. A dedicated, friendly woman, doing a great job in difficult circumstances. I admire her resolve and calmness. Her eyes shine with contentment. One day, maybe?
2.00PM. The weekly ward rounds. I receive a good report from the experts and am issued with a little gold star on my discharge plans. Not long to go now.
4.00PM. Feel shit, think crap, eat too much. In these moods the hospital seems like a jail for the emotionally inept.
TUESDAY 29.4:97
7.00AM. Two days to go. Will my release be akin to a Hollywood script? A new pair of Levis, a bus ticket, $100.00 and a woman waiting outside the gates of the asylum.
9.00AM. The hospital is undertaking renovations. so we have the day to ourselves. Apart from a brief book review, the staff are mainly involved in a form of quality control. One of the marvels of modem business! I take stock of what I have learnt to date.
Why is the addict/alcoholic an addict/ alcoholic?
What are the discerning patterns of thinking that separate the booze hound from the ‘normal’ individual?
The addict/alcoholic appears to think in the following way – We are expected and expect ourselves to act in an appropriate manner to seek/achieve approval and this approval will make us feel good/wanted. When approval is not achieved, we self medicate. At times, when approval is achieved, we self medicate to maintain that feeling of worth. This is an adolescent model of the addict. he functional, mature individual thinks on a different plane. They are happy and content with their physical/mental/environmental situation. If changes are required to the individual will implement them and will act according to their ability within the accepted/moral/legal boundaries of society. They do not seek approval for their actions.
Therefore, substance abuse is sought by adolescents. It is used as a putty to fill the flaws. The adolescent/dependent must change that form of thinking in order to accept their individuality. If this is achieved, self medication is not required.
Look out Freud, I’m a coming to get you!
WEDNESDAY 30.4.97.
7.00AM. Mirror, mirror on the wall, hold my hand I’m a going to fall! Me no care, you no fair, you got dirty underwear. I retreat to the laundry to wash my smalls.
10.30AM. An AA speaker comes to the ward to speak. A few of the inmates arrive late and the elderly woman is not impressed. The height of rudeness. I’m in a light hearted mood and another coke head and I play a couple of pranks on the audience. Fart noises, poo jokes, the usual collection of private schoolboy laughs. Brilliant stuff, but not many appreciate our talent.
8.00PM. My last group session in the madhouse and ironically it is MEDITATION. I discard my boredom and try and become involved. It just does not work. One of the inmates lets rip with a sherry laced fart at a critical moment. Laughter soaks the dolphins. Victory, at last.
THURSDAY 1.5.97.
7.00AM. A new day, a new month, a new life. Today I left this charming psychiatric hospital. In three weeks, I’ve experienced the highs and lows of a disease and addiction that almost ruined my life. A three-week trek of emotional and spiritual awakening. An intensive slap to the face, toothpick in the eyes, snap of the suspenders plunge into honesty and reality. I have grown. I have changed. More humble, less egocentric and completely sober. I can almost see David walking towards me, arms open, a small smile on his face. At times I never thought this day would come. I will miss my co-dependents, and I wish them well. I am eager to start a new life and I will make amends, no matter the result. Let the parade begin. I’ve always enjoyed the clowns.
10.00AM. I share my final goodbye group. It is emotional and joyous. I am leaving! A soul buddy writes me a note. He sums up our experience in a few words. Those words will live with me for a lifetime.
An addict’s lifetime: “Your honesty, integrity and humble strength of character stands you as the echelon of my peers. Our problems are so similar, our friendship deeply accepted and love for you can never dissipate, for we shall never use again. For you, for me, for all of us. God’s speed. Good health. Long life. May we forever meet, but never here again. In parting there is sadness, in friendship there is love, In abstinence there is GOD.” ONE DAY AT A TIME my friend, ONE DAY AT A TIME.”
10.00AM. I settle my bill and just walk away. My mother is waiting outside for her only son, she smiles, kisses me and takes me home.
Author’s footnote – May 2025
Two weeks after my discharge I used cocaine again. The binges became bigger and more chaotic and destructive. Everything I learned in the clinic was quickly forgotten and dissolved instantly in that first sip of beer. My drinking escalated and for the 1st time I began to drink scotch straight from the bottle to sleep. It was if I knew there were no more excuses and I experienced overdoses, seizures and a heart attack. I removed any trust and faith my wife had remaining, and my family resigned to my messy but sudden demise. Two more rehab visits ensued before I finally stopped drinking. It has now been 27 years. There was no golden moment of realization. No burning bush intervention from a higher power. I just gave up – on myself.
Physically, I recovered quickly but my spiritual, emotional and professional recovery took many years. I am permanently damaged by the experience and the destruction I inflicted on my family will never be forgotten. Using addicts are human wrecking balls.
However, I am now a walking, talking, writing and loving victory – one day at a time. I would not wish my recovery from addiction on my worst enemy – it is too hard a hill to climb, but I have climbed that hill of refuse and am a better man for the experience. Alcoholism and addiction are vicious, nasty, dirty, filthy, rotten diseases. This is not a disease of the weak. It is a disease of the strong and the stubborn. Yes, we addicts have high egos and low self esteem but my God, we are fucking hard core! Travel well my fellow brothers and sisters – there is an easier and softer way.
And to my God.
The one who listened when no one else would or could.
Who still sits with me in the darkness of the alcoholic dawn.
The God who showed His face and His grace when I was broken and alone.
The God of Christ, whose suffering held a mirror to mine.
The God of the Buddha, whose stillness became a light in my chaos.
The goddess Mae Thorani, who wrung the waters of truth from her golden mane of hair and washed away the lies I’d told myself and others.
You found me in the crevices of my shame and guilt and held me when I was unholdable.
Wash me clean still, with your eternal oceans, forests and stars.
Let me walk the rest of my days in your mercy,
A man who is not important but finally becoming whole. You tell me all will be well and I believe you even when I do not believe in myself.
